Chapter One On the afternoon of August 17, 2003, Phil Christopher was seated in a common area of the Cuyahoga County Jail in his hometown of Cleveland, Ohio. He had been transported there from Loretto Federal Correctional Institution in Pennsylvania, where he was serving his fourth year of a ten-year sentence for conspiracy to traffic in drugs.
Phil was no stranger to courtrooms. But this appearance would be different. This time he wasnt a defendant; he had been subpoenaed as a witness in a murder investigationa murder that had taken place in 1968.
This wasnt the first time that the 1968 murder of pimp Andrew "Arnie" Prunella had come back to haunt Phil Christopher. Late in 1982, Phil, along with Owen and Martin Kilbane, had been indicted for the murder. But in early 1983, Phil had his case severed from the Kilbanes, and accepted a plea bargain in which he pled guilty to a reduced charge of voluntary manslaughter. Part of the agreement was that Phil would not be required to testify against the Kilbanes at their trial.
But twenty-one years later, the case was reopened, and the Kilbanes were under investigation by a grand jury. Phil's obligations were now uncertain. While his 1983 plea agreement stated that he could not be compelled to testify against the Kilbanes in that trial, it did not address the possibility of a future grand jury investigation. Refusing to answer questions could very well bring a contempt of court chargeand more prison time.
Phil waited for the case to move forward. And in the meantime, his wife, Mary Ann, could visit him in the Cuyahoga County Jail without making the four-hour drive to Loretto. When Mary Ann wasnt there, Phil passed the time by exercising, reading, and playing cards. On that particular afternoon of August 17, 2003, Phil was sitting at a white steel bench and table, studying the five cards in his right hand, when his concentration was broken.
PHIL: I heard a corrections officer call out my name. I told the inmate I was playing cards with that Id be back soon. I laid my cards face down, got up, and walked over to the door separating the lounge from the main corridor. The guard on the other side motioned in a circle with his finger. I turned my back to the door, clasped my hands together, and put them through the opening. He handcuffed me, opened the door, and escorted me down the corridor.
I asked where we were going, and the guard reminded me that I had asked to go to confession. My heart started pounding. He brought me to an eight-foot by ten-foot visiting room, took the handcuffs off, and left. The heavy metal door thundered shut, and I sank down on one of two benches that were bolted to the wall. My mind was racing with images of sins I had committed, flashing through my head like an out-of-control movie projector. My hand on the steering wheel of the boat, then the stars. The steering wheel. The stars.
I wondered if Id made a stupid mistake. There were some things I wanted to confess that Id never got caught for. I checked under the benches, then stepped up and inspected the vents. I heard the lock clank open, and Father Dismas walked in. We shook hands as the guard closed the door. Father Dismas gestured toward the benches, and we sat down facing each other. I told him I was very nervous about this, and I asked if the room was bugged. He laughed and said it wasnt. I told him I wanted to do the right thing by going to confession. It had been many years, and I said I didnt know where to start. He suggested I simply start from the beginning.
I told Father Dismas about the first time I got in trouble stealing. I was nine years old. The milkman came once a week to collect payments. On the hottest days of summer, I used to sneak into his truck and take a piece of ice. But one day I saw the door to the front of the truck unlocked. I opened it and found a big leather pouch with lots of change in it.
Before the milkman returned, I took the pouch, ran from the truck, and hid under my front porch to make sure nobody saw me. I buried the bag of coins there. Two days later when I brought it out, my mother caught me. She asked me where I got it, and I told her I found it by the street. She figured it out, though. I thought Id be in big trouble, but my mother never told my father. She just gave the money back, telling the milkman that my little brother, who was only five years old, had found it on the street.
Once I started talking to Father Dismas, I was more at ease. But I had a feeling he knew there were more serious things on my mind. He listened patiently as I told him about a childhood friend of mine who was an altar boy. My friend used to help count the money from Sunday mass collection. But he would also help himself to one hundred or two hundred dollars a week. He was scared to keep the money at home, so I hid it for him and he gave me an equal share. At one point I had almost one thousand dollars in my bedroom closet, but my parents never caught me. I was ashamed to tell Father Dismas that one, but he just nodded every few seconds.
Finally I got to Arnie Prunella. I wondered how Id get through that.
