a short: based on a true story

There is one thing I know and I have almost always been sure of; there is no honor amongst thieves . . .

Richie was an average sized teenager with basic looks. He lived in an average suburban town, approximately 45 minutes east of New York City. His mother and father came from average incomes. They earned average, lived average, and to their son Richie, average was uninteresting at best.

Richie lived in a modest home. His father, Richard Sr., rarely gave Richie money without asking Richie to work for it. He was rarely home and usually working long hours and weekends. However, Richie did not understand this. He never understood the concern on his father’s brow. He never understood the pain in his father’s hands after a long day of swinging tools. He never understood the stress of a mortgage, or the worries of bills, insurance, and the basic cost of living

To him, he saw his father’s countless hours as wasteful.
Richie would complain to his mother, “All he does is work.”
“He puts a roof over our head,” explained Richie’s mother.
“Yeah, but look at him. He works all those hours and he barely has anything to show for it.”
“Not me,” Richie swore. “No way that will ever be me!”

Josephine was the daughter of an Italian bricklayer. She had dark hair and dark eyes. She was short in height, and sweet in posture. She seldom argued with her husband in front of their son, and she never disobeyed her husband’s wishes.

“He’s your father,” she would tell Richie.
“He works long hours so he can keep a roof over our head, food on the table, clothes on our backs, and money in our pockets”
“Well then how come there’s never any money in my pocket,” complained Richie.
Josephine explained, “I’ll tell you why. It’s because you’re too young to understand the value of a dollar. If you need something, don’t we buy it for you?”
“Yes,” answered Richie.
“Whenever you’re hungry, isn’t there food in the fridge?”
“Yes,” said Richie.
However, Richie failed to understand this lesson. He resented his average life and average house. He wanted more. He resented his average clothes and average reputation. He wanted to be more. He wanted to be recognized and regarded.

During the course of Richie’s early teens, he found himself in the wrong crowds and doing the wrong things. Feeling no better than average, he began to create an image for himself.
Richie began small with basic scams. He was mostly filled with talk and lies. Only a few of Richie’s illegal adventures ever paid much. Instead, they brought on a sense of importance to him. Richie began to inflate his own story. He spoke loud and he spoke quickly. To someone who would never knew; Richie would seem as if he were the person he pretended to be.

He wanted more—always more. He hated the average and despised his humbled upbringing.
“In order to get more, you have to do more,” Richie would say.
This became his mantra. But words came easy to him. When it came time for action, Richie was mostly excuses. He was nothing more than a system of lies, which never added to more than trouble in school and trouble at home. His loud version of street fights was nothing more than inaccurate stories. His behavior at school led to nothing more than angry punishments, which were handed down from his father, Richard Sr.

In an effort to gain the glitz and fame, Richie began dealing small amounts of marijuana. He started with small bags, which then became larger. Then he saw better opportunities with harder drugs. True, there was more risk. But with greater risks came greater reward.

Life at home grew worse for Richie. He did not respect his father’s discipline. He often shouted at his mother and the two would argue in voices loud enough to wake the neighbors.
Josephine, however, came from a long string of tough Italian mothers. She was no stranger to the threat of a wooden spoon.  But as Richie grew, the threat of being hit by his mother with a spoon became less and less intimidating.

Inevitably, Richie found a real connection. His ability to speak well earned him the trust of an older and influential name in his neighborhood. Johnny T was well known in his Long Island town. He was far from average. He was tall and women loved him. He was strong and charismatic. Johnny was also heavily involved in the drug trade.
He had a steady flow of shipments that came from his connection in Arizona. It began with shipments of marijuana. Then his shipments branched into different pharmaceuticals and various brands of steroids. However, his largest paying shipments were always cocaine.

Richie talked his way into a deal with Johnny T. He bragged, but those that knew Richie tried to warn him.
“Be careful,” they said. “Don’t go too far with him,” they told him.
“Guys like Johnny are the wrong ones to piss off.”

Richie ignored the warnings. He saw the money. He saw the glory and he saw his average life vanish into something electric and bright. He bragged about his deals and he bragged often. He flashed his money, and he walked as though he was untouchable. But when his mother found a stash of cocaine hidden in Richie’s closet—he was warned with more than the swing of a wooden spoon. This time, the warning came from his father.

Richard Sr. swung an opened hand across Richie’s face. “How dare you bring this shit into my house!”
“It’s not mine,” Richie screamed. But his father did not listen.
Richard Sr. swung again and he swung several times after until his son was down on the hardwood floor of his own bedroom with a stream of blood leaking from his nose. Each shot landed across his son’s face. And when the beating was over, Richard Sr. pled with his only child.

“What are you doing to yourself,” he asked.
“Do you know what this stuff does to you?”
Richie answered with apologies; however, his reasons for apologizing were far from heartfelt. In truth, there was a much larger package hidden beneath his mattress. In fact, it was hidden beneath the same part of the mattress his father was sitting on while delivering his plea.

Richie was punished. He was nearing the age of 17, and in the eyes of New York State law; he was old enough to be tried for any crimes as an adult. This was not a deterrent. His father’s warnings or his mother’s shouting did nothing but fuel Richie’s fire to escape the average and become more.

During the early part of summer in 1992, Johnny T received a large shipment from his connection in Arizona. Richie still owed Johnny money from his last deal. But this did not stop Johnny from sending Richie another package.
This time, Richie found a new buyer. His buyer was new to the town and mostly unknown. Richie saw him as a good guy. They sat together and laughed. “You’re a good man, Rich,” said the unknown buyer. “We have to get together more.”

Richie sold to the unknown man on several previous occasions. The amounts Richie sold were never too large, so there was no need to be curious. There was no need to be curious because the unknown man often smelled from beer. However, there can be no actual distinction in the smell between alcoholic, and non-alcoholic beer. It was an old trick. But Richie fell for it.

Richie was arrested for the distribution and possession of cocaine. As quick as Richie blinked, he was quietly taken into custody. There was no scene or sirens. Even the detectives who searched Richie’s house appeared to be no different than a regular visitor.
The reason for this was to avoid any attention. After all, Richie was too small in their world. He was less than average. He earned less than average, lived less than average, and to the detectives, Richie’s less than average deal was uninteresting at best.

They wanted Johnny T . . .

Johnny had been under surveillance for several months. There were a few minor arrests in connection with Johnny’s shipments. Yet, each arrest was only an attempt to chip away at Johnny’s business. Each arrest was nothing more than a way to gain information, or in Richie’s case, the arrest was nothing more than a way to gain an informant.

Richard Sr. arrived at the precinct where they held his only boy. He saw his own son behind a cage with handcuffs linking him to a steel rod that ran beneath the wooden bench. Richie sat on that bench, alone, and teary eyed.
“I never thought I would see my son in a place like this,” he told Josephine.
“The reason why I work so hard is so that he would never have to do anything like this.”

A single tear leaked from Richard’s eye. Then he wiped the tear from his face. He stood up and approached the desk to speak with the desk sergeant.
“I want to speak to my son.”

In an agreement worked out by Richie’s father and his family’s attorney, Richie leaked important information in exchange for his freedom. He was rushed out the back of the precinct as if the arrest never happened.  And months later, Johnny T was taken into custody.

This is only part of the story . . .

Richie went back to his average life in his average house. He went back to his average friends who no longer trusted him because of the lies he told. He went back to feeling uninteresting.
In accordance with the agreement made by the court, Richie behaved for a short while. He behaved until his contempt for the average became overwhelming.
Unwelcome in his old circle of friends, Richie began to spend time in the next town over. He made new friends and spent time in new places. It was a new beginning—or so it seemed. The only thing old was Richie’s need and desire.

Again, Richie relied on his ability to talk about himself. He spoke fast and he spoke well. After gaining the trust of three accomplices, Richie and his crew of three broke in and burglarized one of the local restaurants.
Somehow, Richie learned there was money supposedly hidden in the basement. As far as the others were concerned, this was only a rumor. But there was no way to be sure.

Nevertheless, Richie and his crew of three decided to break in and find out. After several minutes of rummaging through the dark basement, Richie stumbled onto an old desk. He opened the bottom drawer and found a tan colored pouch. He unzipped the pouch and shined his small flashlight upon its contents. There it was. It was cash.
This was Richie’s biggest score. He had arrived. He no longer felt average or uninteresting. In his mind; Richie masterminded his first true heist.

Two days later, Richie was introduced to a girl. She was pretty. Her hair was blonde and her body was fit. She knew Richie’s crew of three—but she did not know Richie. He began to speak fast and speak well. His pockets were filled with cash from his heist and his ego was filled with the hot air of his perfect lies.

To impress the girl, Richie began to brag about his recent score. He described his plan and how he crept through a window without being seen.
The girl listened as if she were interested. She took Richie’s number after he offered it to her, and then she kissed him on the mouth and proceeded to go home.
Upon entering her house, the girl went into the living room. She sat down on the couch in the family room. Her father was sitting across in his favorite recliner. His feet were up and the television maintain his attention.

The girl reached out with a piece of paper in her hand.
She handed the paper over to her father and said, “I know who broke into Uncle Jack’s restaurant. And just like that . . . . it was over.

The police picked up Richie at his house. He was brought to the precinct in a way that was less quiet than before. With this being his second time; Richie was less nervous than his first. He decided to play ball. Same as before, Richie leaked important information regarding the others that accompanied him during the break in
He named them. He gave their addresses and phone numbers. After a long conversation with the detectives, Richie sighed his sigh of relief.

He exhaled and asked, “Can I call my parents so they can pick me up now?”
“Call your parents,” asked the detective. “You’re not going home. You’re going in front of a judge tomorrow morning.”
The detective laughed, “What did you think, just because you ratted on your friends, you thought you were going to get away with this? No, no, buddy. Not this time.”

Richie was taken to the holding facility and placed in a holding cell to await his moment before the judge. Some hours later, one by one, each of his three accomplices passed Richie as he sat in his cell. Each time, the guard on duty made sure to stop in front of Richie’s spot and say, “Hey, don’t you guys know each other?”

There is one thing I know and I have almost always been sure of; there is no honor amongst thieves.