"Politics As Usual"

The ability to size people up on a moment’s notice, pinpointing their needs and vulnerabilities is the basic skill of any con man. In a movie titled: The House Of Games the lead character, a seasoned street hustler, always looked for what he called people's 'tells,' the ever so subtle mannerisms of his prey, that told him where their weakness lay. Understanding people’s basic motivations was also the foundation for Joe's actions.

During the summer of 1984 Joe fantasized about influencing the jury in his lawsuit against the bank. He talked about how he was going to parade his very Italian looking mother into the courtroom. He said “I’ll have her dress all in black and not have her speak a word of English. Joe knew his victory depended not only on his lawyers, but his own powers of persuasion, that were well honed, even at DARTEC more than fifteen years earlier. He didn’t want to wait for his testimony at the trial. He wanted advance publicity, and depended upon me to get it.

He began calling me twice, sometimes three times a day at the track, when he wasn’t there himself. If I was out doing radio or TV production, I’d be located by a secretary, and told Joe was on the line for me. On a number of occasions production came to a sudden halt, camera crew sitting idly by while Joe, paying the tab for it all, tied me up on the phone, relating the details of a late breaking deposition. I began getting calls at night, less than an hour after arriving in the door from work. He’d start each conversation saying that he was "sorry to bother me but..."

Looking back on it now, constant contact is an effective brainwashing technique, and it might have worked because I didn’t walk away until things were out of control nearly two years later. I thought about quitting, but economic circumstance wouldn’t permit it, and I’d just gotten a $5,000 bonus plus a contract. Joe had apparently determined from some ‘tell’ that my motivation was money.

By the end of August the Maine Times, a statewide weekly newspaper, had agreed to do an extensive cover story not only on Joe’s case against the bank, but the bank’s shoddy, perhaps illegal practices, that precipitated the internal investigation at the bank in the first place. Phyllis Austin, a sharp seasoned staffer, conducted two interviews that I attended. One was a personal one with Joe at his house and another with Joe’s lawyers Richard Poulos and John Campbell at their offices in Portland. Phyllis, a petite, earthy sportswoman who had a no-nonsense style seemed nevertheless impressed by Joe’s humor and his self deprecating attitude. She thought Joe smoked and drank too much, that the anguish from the lawsuit ordeal might be killing him. Phyllis arrived for her second interview carrying a list of outward bound type expeditions that she thought would help him get in shape, help him maintain perspective. She was also excited, telling us that the paper was going to feature not one, but two articles concerning Joe. One story would cover the bank, and what they did to him. The second story, would detail the investigations Elan had undergone at the mercy of the attorney general’s office and be written by another reporter, Scott Allen.

Sitting in on an interview with Allen a week later I was struck by Joe’s portrayal of the state’s tactics against him. Having not been privy to any objective information about Elan, I accepted everything Joe told Allen at face value. ”I never filed a lawsuit, or sued anyone before they started in on me,” Joe claimed that day pacing around his dining room table, dragging on his Merit cigarette, stopping occasionally to observe the view outside the picture window near the pool. “I just went about my business and wanted to be left alone, a good citizen, not bother anybody or be bothered," he declared, his voice calm and thoughtful. He talked about his unhappy childhood in Port Chester, and his Horatio Alger like success that the bank had destroyed. “I’m a decent human being...” he said. “I help people for a living.”

Having been successful in orchestrating the publicity Joe desired (These articles painted a picture of a man who was exploited first by a bank, then by the state ) I breathed a sigh of relief, and concentrated on advertising and promotion for the major race of the season, The President’s Pace, named after Joe, the President of Scarborough Downs. Ironically this race was always on Labor day, and a time when many Downs' employees were often fired. It was during the previous year’s President’s Pace that Joe fired all the mutuel line bosses without warning, because he felt they weren’t selling tickets fast enough.

During the past four President’s Paces Joe had hoped to break the record handle at the track, have it go over $300,000, but it never happened. It came close to that amount one year, but dipped the next. Without a clubhouse it was virtually impossible, but still a coveted dream of his that he constantly verbalized.

High rollers and horse owners from throughout the country always arrived for this event that featured major league pacers from the Meadowlands, and other tracks in New York and New Jersey. Previously these people had been wined and dined as guests in the clubhouse, so there was panic about how they could be hosted that year. It was finally agreed that we’d erect a bright red tent where the clubhouse once sat.

Everything was left up to me to make it a special event. Embossed invitations were sent to owners who had horses entered in the race, press, administrators from other tracks, and special friends of Joe and Linda. A caterer was hired, and a magnificent buffet featuring whole turkeys and hams, smoked salmon, chilled lobster, shrimp, canapŽs and assorted salads was designed, along with a special ‘sulky cake’ dessert. A Dixieland jazz band was booked to play between the races, and a tropical garden of exotic plants, imported to line the sides of the tent, and the walkway leading to the big top. I even designed a commemorative program for every table, arranged for the ‘call to post’ to be heralded on an authentic post horn, and produced an exciting TV and radio ad, and full page print promotion for the Sunday paper. I worked round the clock pulling it all together, and felt optimistic--until Joe called a meeting on a Friday afternoon, two days before the race.

He was seething and sweating, eyes flashing, as he paced around the small conference room. He was angry at the race secretary because some of the horses weren’t fast enough. He was unhappy with security procedures, and admissions and parking attendants. He said service in the restaurant was terrible, and the bars were chaotic. Bookkeeping was behind. Everybody was incompetent.

Then he turned to me and asked to see the special cover for the race program which I thought was a dramatic improvement over the previous year’s program. It had taken hours to do and I was proud of it. He glanced at it, almost sneering. “It’ll do.” he said sharply, and then turned away. “But you still haven’t got it!” he screamed. “We’re gonna die this weekend probably because we don’t have a clubhouse, and your ads, they're just not crude enough!” His face was contorted as he continued “You don’t understand...fans don’t want music, and a professional voice in their ads...they want Lyod!,” he said, gesturing wildly. “Until you came I always used Lyod in the ads, because it worked. I know what works!." He was referring to Lyod Johnson, the announcer who used to do ‘voice over,' a practice I stopped simply because his nasal, rapid speed delivery was unintelligible.

I was shocked at this lashing out that came from nowhere, especially since I had been putting in seventy hour weeks for the past month in order to help him with his lawsuit publicity and do my job at Scarborough Downs. Yet I suffered in silence.

On Sunday I was at the track by noon when the gates opened, and by post time it was obvious that history was in the making. The crowd was enormous. Later in the afternoon I saw mutuel manager, Bobby Leighton grinning from ear to ear. “If we handle what I think we should on the next race, “ he beamed, “we’re going to go over the top, hit $300,000!” Two races later Joe approached me in the tent. “This is wonderful,” he said, regarding the festive atmosphere with the band, the ice sculptures, flowers, etc. “Everyone I’ve been talking to is really impressed, and I think we’re gonna break a mutuel record too.” Still smarting from the treatment I received on Friday, I just nodded. “You’ve done a great job,” he added. “How about it if over this winter I teach you all about racing, and you teach me about sophistication?...I think we have stuff to learn from one another...”

Later Joe’s lawyer, John Campbell, and Joe returned to the tent where I was speaking with someone from the press. “Can we talk to you?” Joe interrupted. It was obvious that both of them had been drinking a lot. We walked over to a corner. “I told John,” Joe continued, “that I want to set up a meeting with you and him and Dick ( Poulos) to plan my campaign for governor.” John was smiling broadly. “Really?” I said, not taking the moment too seriously, although he had been talking about running in October 1986 to “expose the corruption in this state.” John interrupted. “Did you tell Maura we’re gonna break a record today?” “ Yeah.” Joe answered, “She did it all.”.... “Despite my uncrude ads.” I added with a hint of sarcasm. “Yeah. Sorry about that...I apologize,” he announced dramatically, then fell to his knees, and kissed the hem of my ankle length print skirt.

Three weeks later the track closed for the season. There was the traditional employee party after the races concluded with a bombastic fireworks display. My husband arrived during the last race, and we spent some time socializing with a few others before we left early, ten minutes after Joe and Linda departed. During the course of the night Joe uncharacteristically ignored me. Keeping his distance, he purposefully made no move to meet my husband. But on the way to our car in the parking lot, directly in front of our path were Joe and Linda heading back toward the grandstand. We all stopped. Joe seemed pleased to meet Dan, and the two talked briefly. There in the chilly darkness of a September night the four of us stood facing each other. Little did I realize then how we would all be thrust together during the politics of the coming months.

***

Any seasonal business is merely a shell of itself, an abandoned set during the off season. A vacated grandstand is particularly eerie, like a play ground devoid of children. During the dank days of October 1984 it was almost impossible to remember the summertime dynamic that drove our lives. All the seasonal employees were gone, and just four cars dotted the track parking area each morning. Eric, the general manager, his assistant Dan Gearan, the controller Steve Leclair, and I were the only full time off-season staffers, with the exception of security and maintenance personnel. The winter flea market began that month, and it was expected that I would promote it via print and broadcast ads. But I hadn’t bargained on running it, which meant scheduling booth space for all the vendors, money collection and on-site coordination each weekend. After rising at 5am to arrive in time for 6:30 am set up, I’d had enough. I ruminated about it and finally devised a proposal for Joe that had me paid only part-time off season as long as I didn’t have to do the flea market. ( I had still been working an average of 50 hours a week) I was at his house for a meeting with his lawyers when I brought it up. “ I understand what you’re saying,“ he said. “That is a cretin’s job, forget it. You can still work full -time. I have plenty for you to do. “

When I arrived back at the track less than a half hour later, Steve LeClair was incredulous. “Andrea‘s on her way over...,” he announced, referring to Andrea Beam, a tough sometimes vulgar woman who had been the track’s bar manager the previous season. “Joe just called me, and said she should handle the flea market from now on. He says you’re going to be too busy handling his campaign for governor."

"We’re gonna expose the corruption in this state. Tell the people of Maine what’s really happening...” The phone conversation had been going on for over forty- five minutes with Joe doing most of the talking. He would stop only occasionally to listen for sounds of diminished enthusiasm in my voice which would have been a sign of defection. Despite the other calls blinking on my phone, I kept listening. There were two, sometimes three calls like that every day, and each one always contained some mention of the lawsuit against Key Bank. He always asked whether I had gotten through to the national media, observing that there were far less shocking things on the national news. His lawsuit was two years old and he still didn’t have a court date. He claimed that his story was one of the great injustices in the world, and I’d heard it enough to begin believing it. The plight of the poor and sick, begin to pale by comparison. Everything became just a shadow of Joe’s drama, a small act, whereas Joe's stage was the entire state of Maine. He said his battle was a noble one, and a victory for him, would be a victory for all individuals. He maintained his campaign for governor would extend the leadership role he had assumed in standing up to the bank.

The fall was a busy time for me. Construction of the new clubhouse after many delays was finally scheduled to begin in November. After numerous meetings with the architects, and builders, a gala ground breaking for press and friends of the track was arranged. Joe, John Campbell, Eric, and a representative from the construction company all donned their hard hats. Tom Sheehan, a fixture in the harness racing community in Maine and Massachusetts and also a former general manager of Scarborough Downs before Joe bought it, lifted the first shovel full of dirt with a gold painted shovel.

The mood was upbeat. Joe was charming that day, very much overweight at the time, but a magnet to some of the female sales representatives from TV and radio stations who attended the brunch afterwards. I noted that he always gravitated to the women, and sometimes was the lone male in a social group. Women were attracted to him, would buzz around, listening to his tales of personal woe. He seemed to have trouble relating to men. Those in his inner circle had to constantly stroke his ego, and with the exception of Eric most were shorter than he, and had none of his male swagger.

Carl Webster, Joe’s personal accountant, blond, in his fifties, was a somewhat docile soul who had been with Joe for nearly ten years, the record for any employee. Carl started out in 1975 as controller for Elan, but became Joe’s personal accountant in 1983 when Martha arrived on the scene and took responsibility for the corporate finances. Carl drove Joe places, paid his charge cards, looked after his horses and cars and ate out for free in the clubhouse every night the track was open. He was on call, in service to Joe 24 hours a day, the American version of a royal footman. He often flitted in and out of the Downs with a handful of checks for Joe to sign.

Bobby Leighton was fat and fiftyish with silver hair. He always acted very deferential to Joe, and kept to his narrow perimeter that included mutuel management at the track, and administration at Elan’s Pinehenge School. The Bobby that I saw in Joe’s presence was always more subdued, tense and businesslike than the jovial, quick to smile Bobby I sometimes saw at other times.

Lyod Johnson did not like Joe and Joe had disdain for Lyod whom he regarded as a bum who couldn’t hold on to his money. Lyod was controversial because of his impromptu sometimes sarcastic comments about horsemen woven into his race calls, but that controversy appealed to Joe. Lyod’s daughter was married to Bobby Leighton’s son, and Joe regarded both Bobby and Lyod, who had been in the racing business long before he came on the scene, as ‘old school,' but convenient to keep around.

The only two men whom Joe seemed to socialize with were Eric and his lawyer John Campbell, both in their early 30's. After work in the off season they would head to Horsefeathers, Joe’s favorite watering hole, at the tip of Portland’s trendy Old Port, just a block from John’s law office. John was a Bowdoin graduate, whose father had been a lawyer. One of his father’s friends was Richard Poulos, a short swarthy man with silver hair in his late 50's. An ex federal bankruptcy judge, Poulos opened his own firm on Portland’s boutique laden Exchange Street, and hired John as an associate. After Joe fired his Massachusetts lawyer Popeo in 1983, he hired Poulos for his familiarity with Depositors' bank practices.

Poulos was a no nonsense person, more concerned with facts than hyperbole, and after just a few experiences with Joe it became apparent to him that Joe was in need of constant attention, much more than the customary client. Poulos didn’t have the time or temperament to deal with Joe on an almost daily basis, but John did. John consequently became the replacement for Joe’s then severed relationship with Greg Tselikis who was regarded as a traitor for his role in the Key Bank affair.

John and Joe became drinking buddies and began going to parties together. John was very collegiate looking, not terribly articulate especially in presenting public argument, but he had a good legal mind, a keen sense of humor, and was a little in awe of Joe. Having a big name client like Joe Ricci was also prestigious. John’s Bowdoin roommate Ebo, who managed a Portland eatery, was asked about John one winter evening in 1984 to which he replied with a tinge of resentment: “ I never see him anymore...he never comes in...Too busy playing with the big boys now.”

The duo of Joe and John became well known around Portland bars and clubs like Horsefeathers, Three Dollar Deweys, Hu Shang, and The Max. Their presence was not lost on others, and a story on night spots in an issue of Maine Times made mention of Joe Ricci and his lawyer, ties removed, out one night looking for a "toot."

Eric’s addition to the duo came during the winter of 1984. He was somewhat seduced by Joe with all his money, and John with his legal expertise. The life-style was much different from what he’d been used to teaching at Elan. Being the general manager at Scarborough Downs, and having succeeded that first season also did a lot for Eric’s self esteem, and he felt flushed with success. His close relationship with Joe and John became a symbol of his new found fortune. But being married with three children and a wife he loved placed Eric in another realm for Joe. It created a vacuum between them. Joe’s aversion to family life made him particularly demanding of Eric, who ironically did everything he could do — including after hour socializing- to stay in Joe’s favor and keep food on the family table

During the fall and winter of 1984 John worked on many legal matters for Joe, a major one being the annual race date hearings held in the capital of Augusta each October. These public proceedings before the commission involved precisely planned presentations by Scarborough Downs and rival Lewiston Raceway. Each summarized its strengths in an effort to get awarded the most favorable racing dates. During previous years Lewiston raced October through mid-December, and then February through the first Saturday of May. Scarborough Downs opened the first Sunday in May and raced through late September. The location of the Downs was in the heart of Maine’s seacoast tourism so summers belonged to Scarborough. But Lewiston had its sights set on the month of May, and had been trying for the past two years to win those dates.

According to commission rules some of the criteria for the awarding of race dates is the success (or lack of it) of the track’s previous year. Hence the date hearings had become a study in finding flaws in the opposition’s operation.

On October 1984 the auditorium of the Augusta Civic Center, site of the 1985 date hearings, was filled with supporters of Scarborough and Lewiston Raceway, each ready to cheer when its track made a provocative point. On the elevated stage behind a long table sat the commissioners, looking stoic, and becoming somewhat cynical from the shenanigans displayed during the all day hearing.

The stakes were high during that hearing as Joe felt Lewiston would take advantage of the fact that he hadn’t yet rebuilt the clubhouse. He was also concerned because that was the first date hearing since the commission had been expanded from three to five members and he didn’t trust the two new commissioners.

In March of that year, a few weeks before my arrival on the scene, Edgar Erwin, a Democratic state senator from Rumford Maine had submitted a bill to the state legislature calling for this expansion, as well as geographic representation on the commission. (commissioners should represent northern, southern and central Maine) Joe had been enraged by this act of Erwin’s and testified before the agricultural committee that governs harness racing. He began the testimony announcing: “This is a sham and a special interest bill brought by Lewiston Raceway.” He told the committee it was being used by corrupt politicians, and that the bill “...challenges the integrity of the three existing men on the commission.” He also stated: "Scarborough Downs brought harness racing out of the dark ages where that bill would return it...The commission was riddled with corruption for twenty years, and it appears to be headed back that way.”

He continued to tell his ethanol story about Ival Cianchette wanting his land at Scarborough Downs, and proclaimed that contrary to what has been said, his Washington attorney had information from the Department of Energy that Scarborough was where they wanted the ethanol plant. (According to numerous reports Scarborough was never a proposed site for the ethanol plant) Joe then made mention that the fire at Scarborough Downs was no accident. He said his insurance company believed arson was involved, implying that there was a conspiracy involving Lewiston Raceway, the bank and others to put him out of business. “ We have been persecuted,” he proclaimed, adding: “It’s not a coincidence that my credit has been cut off...It’s not an accident that my racetrack burned down...It's not an accident that this thing called a bill is here today.”

Senator Erwin, angered by the attack upon him, defended himself, stating that as chairman of the agricultural committee the bill had been his idea, and that he had not been a pawn of any special interest group. The idea of increasing the commission came after he reviewed previous commission business and learned that of the three commissions sometimes only one or two were in attendance, and that the idea of regional representation emerged from a desire to see that the state’s three tracks (Bangor ‘s Bass Park to the north, Lewiston midstate, and Scarborough on the southern shore) were each represented by people from those areas.

Nevertheless, Joe’s attack continued: “Before I’m through a lot of Republicans and Democrats are going to jail, ” he threatened. “This bill is a disgrace to the legislative process.” With the advent of two more commissioners Joe was also convinced that his dream of having concurrent racing would be impossible, since he had been working on the other three for so long with no results.

All this partially explained the tension in the room at the Civic Center in October of 1984. The morning and afternoon lumbered along, and in the end Scarborough won its May racing dates. Three of the four Commissioners present voted for Scarborough while the dissenting vote came from Thomas Kerrigan, one of the newly appointed commissioners. The other commissioner who had been recently appointed due to the expanded commission membership was Joan Susi, and she voted in favor of awarding the May dates again to Scarborough Downs.

After the decision the mood was triumphant. John, Joe, Linda, Eric, Dan Gearan, Bobby Leighton, Martha, and I all had dinner at the nearby Howard Johnson's. Sitting across from Linda and beside Joe, I received accolades for the fine visuals I produced which were in stark contrast to Lewiston’s presentation, done crudely in illegible colored pencils. “ Our presentation was top flight!” exclaimed Joe. "...just the way my gubernatorial campaign is going to be. Those imbeciles don’t have a clue to what I’m gonna do.”

During the ensuing weeks I received the usual battery of phone calls from Joe. We had moved our desks from the unwinterized red hut, and once again I had a crude-closet like office in the grandstand. It was heated by a electric heater with a blower that would randomly go on and off, making a loud whooshing sound. Sometimes I had trouble hearing Joe on the phone, and it was very annoying for him to have me ask him to speak up. He liked to talk softly, sipping sake while pacing around his kitchen on Blackstrap Road. Such requests disturbed his mood, and whenever this happened he always terminated the conversation.

One day, not too long after I stopped doing the flea market coordination, Joe called to tell me about Ed Morgan, an associate of his who was running for state representative. He was on the board of the Maine Harness Horsemen's Association, and Joe had agreed to help him out in his political campaign. In addition to pledging money, Joe had also pledged my expertise. I was informed that he would be calling on me to create some print newspaper ads and a flyer for him. Two weeks later I received a similar call concerning Ed Marcello who was running for the legislature in a different district.

Ed Marcello was a small man who talked fast and often peppered his phrases with obscenities. He also liked to tell dirty jokes or make remarks with sexual overtones that only he found amusing. Often he’d make a totally unintelligible comment, and then smile smugly. He was a fixture at the track and considered himself Joe's good friend. He seemed to be unemployed as he identified himself by a job in government that he previously held.

On one occasion at the track he drank too much and got belligerent with a security guard. Another time (according to Eric) he ordered $200 worth of lobsters at a nearby restaurant and had them charged to Scarborough Downs where he said he was the vice president and general manager. Yet Joe kept him around for a purpose nobody knew. Joe even provided him with a rental car that he ended up keeping for many months.

That this fellow was running for state legislature was difficult to swallow. That I had to help him win was worse. It turned out, however, that the voters chose his opponent, a woman who Marcello said was a ‘big mouth’ and ‘too liberal.’

Ed Morgan fared better than Marcello, and Joe’s involvement was kept quiet in both instances. Joe told me privately that helping on these campaigns was "an investment" for him.

****

I will never forget the afternoon of that Christmas eve in my office in the nearly empty grandstand. The clubhouse construction crew had been given the afternoon off by their company. Yet Eric, Dan, Steve, and I remained working since Joe had not instructed otherwise. I attempted a few telephone calls, but nobody anywhere was conducting business, if they even were at the office at 3pm on December 24th. I was hoping that Joe might tell everyone to go home. It was after all Christmas eve, and images of Dickens' Christmas Carol haunted me.

Then just before 4pm Joe called, and talked to Steve about something, before he asked to be put through to my office. “Hello...” his voice was slow. “How ya doing?” Before I could answer he began talking about his feelings, how some relatives might be visiting him and Linda on Blackstrap Road. He complained that he had to go out shopping with his secretary and get some gifts, but said he’d be back soon. “I’ll call you later when I get home,” he promised. “I have something important to discuss with you.”

A short while later Eric came into my office and slumped down in a chair. “This is awful,” he said. "I want to go home.” His wife and three kids were waiting for him. He had had thought he ‘d be home by noon, but Joe had just called and asked him about some business. He had also told Eric he’d call him right back, so he had to wait. Eric lamented that he was general manager. How could he go home while Steve, Dan and I were still working? Even the maintenance guy and security guard were working, or at least present.

“This is crazy!” I blurted. “Here we are at 4 pm on Christmas eve sitting here wasting time because we don’t want to leave early without authorization from Joe... I can’t help think about those times in the summer when we got home late at night after putting in 14 hour days. Something is out of balance." "I think its holidays..," Eric observed . "...It's a family time and he’s uncomfortable about that, probably doesn’t want us to be home with our kids.”

Eric and I chatted for a while until the phone rang. "It’s Joe, " announced Steve in a deadpan voice."Hi..." Joe began, "...the mall was really crazy. I got a few things for Linda...what I wanted to talk to you about can wait, go home, it's Christmas Eve, " he urged with a tone of great benevolence. "Tell Eric and everybody else to do the same. I’ll see you the day after tomorrow." I hung up the receiver. "We’re allowed to go home now," I announced. " Joe says everything can wait till the day after Christmas. I hope you’re coming in then., and not planning to take two days off." I got on my coat and looked at the clock. It was 5:05pm.

It was apparent to me during that first Christmas working for Joe that he really hated the holidays. They represented a distraction for his hired hands and it was annoying. He had to surrender center stage, and didn't have the undivided attention that he demanded most days of the year.

December dragged on for him, and he was impatient with the "charades of the season." By the first week in January 1985 he was ready to move full steam ahead. Foremost in his mind was more publicity about "the travesty the bank has perpetuated."

In late January 1985 he filed a lawsuit in Cumberland County Superior Court in Portland, Maine against his former law firm of Bernstein, Shur, Sawyer and Nelson and three of the firm's major partners Sumner Bernstein, Leonard Nelson, and his old friend Gregory Tselikis, charging them with professional misconduct. Seeking $25 million in damages as well as $500,000 in legal fees paid them for handling his business and personal affairs since 1974, he charged that these lawyers simultaneously represented both him and the bank when his credit was cut off. He claimed they injured him by acting in the bank’s favor, even after it became apparent that the firm’s two clients had opposing interests.

From experience Joe knew that this suit, like his other one against Key Bank could take years to resolve. To assuage some of his impatience he then concentrated on matters that would provide more immediate gratification...In early February he set his sights on an old enemy, Lewiston Raceway owner Charlie Day.

Chapter Thirteen

Appropriated Virtue

The stores in Portland’s trendy Old Port were full of messages of love. Colored hearts in every size and texture peeked through the panes of glass in boutique windows, beckoning passersby to embrace the month of sweet sentiment. Joe Ricci spent time in the Old Port in February, but not shopping for loving mementos. He was pacing around the office of his lawyers at 44 Exchange Street trying to pin the goods on Charlie Day, the governor of Maine Joe Brennan, and the racing commission. He was planning to unleash a virulent attack at the next commission meeting scheduled for February 14th in Augusta. He said it was to be "a St. Valentine’s Day Massacre." (referring to a bloody attack by mobster Al Capone in the 1920's) and his legal gun was loaded.

Just a day earlier he had learned from his hired private investigator that Thomas Kerrigan (one of the new gubernatorial appointees to the racing commission) had once been a neighbor of Charlie Day, and that Kerrigan’s golf cart business was located in a building partly owned by Day. Furthermore, he had heard speculation that both Kerrigan, Day, and their wives may be vacationing in Florida.

He attempted to dispatch the investigator to Florida to check out the whereabouts of Kerrigan, Day, and their respective spouses. But he was initially stymied, learning that an investigator licensed in Maine cannot conduct investigations in other states without a license from that state. Undeterred he called 'P.I.’s' in Florida, but grew impatient with delays.

Soon Ed Marcello was flaunting his new found status as ‘ southern spy.’ Armed with cash, notebook, pen and a micro cassette recorder, Marcello was sent to Pompano Park Racetrack near, where Charlie Day had a winter residence. Marcello had money from Joe for a Florida investigator who had been contracted by phone. This licensed individual was going to undertake surveillance of the Day property, and hopefully prove that Thomas Kerrigan was not a clean commissioner.

Two days later Marcello was back in New England, full of accounts of intrigue. His portion of the mission was complete, and the guy in Florida was continuing documentation.

Marcello had posed as an official at Scarborough Downs to racing officials at Pompano, (According to one report he proclaimed that he was vice- president of operations and public relations ) and consequently received the red carpet treatment designed for visiting dignitaries from other tracks. In the course of accepting the hospitality of track officials, he pumped them for information concerning his ‘ old friends’ Kerrigan and Day, who had left shortly before Marcello arrived.

A week before the February 14th commission meeting in Augusta some information arrived from the Florida investigator, but it wasn’t really conclusive or juicy enough for Joe. Consequently Ed Marcello was whisked off to the offices of Richard Poulos, where John Campbell had prepared an affidavit for him to sign. This detailed his conversations with Pompano Park officials, and confirmed for the record that both Day and Kerrigan had indeed been in Florida vacationing together.

The day before the commission meeting, a gathering took place late one afternoon at Joe’s house. I was among those seated in high back chairs around the long dining room table with Martha, Eric, Linda, Joe, John, and another lawyer, Stephen Devine, an associate of Daniel Lilley, then the trial lawyer for Joe’s suit against Key Bank. Joe was intense, sipping sake, scowling because there was dissension in the ranks. Stephen Devine, a proper looking attorney who sported a bow tie hadn’t had enough dealings with Joe to know better than to forcefully speak his mind. He was arguing that a guerilla attack the next day was the wrong strategy to employ. “You’ve got the goods on this guy Kerrigan...,” Devine observed “...Let’s use it as a bargaining chip with the governor who after all appointed him. We can let Brennan know that we know the truth, get Kerrigan axed, and get someone in that’s better for us. If you go in there hollering and screaming tomorrow and reveal all this conflict of interest stuff, you’ll embarrass the governor, and probably in the end, get nowhere because they’ll be forced to cover their butts.” Joe stared, “I’d like to embarrass that ——“ he responded, but nevertheless authorized Devine to call one of his acquaintances at the statehouse, tell him what he had for dirty laundry, and see what kind of deal might be offered.

Devine was on the phone with a Brennan aide, talked for a while, and then hung up, and got some return calls. He used Joe’s phone in the kitchen adjacent the dining room and reported back to the table with updates.

Meanwhile, everyone had about three or four glasses of wine, and the talk was getting careless. I noted that Joe was losing patience with Devine, and decided I’d stick to sparkling water at the risk of being anti social. Apparently the governor's office wanted to set up a meeting to discuss Kerrigan, rather than have Joe go public. According to Devine there was the strong implication that the governor would ask Kerrigan to resign. “ Take this opportunity....,” Devine urged Joe. “You’ve got them squirming where you want them.”

By that time it was after 6pm, and Joe abruptly changed the subject, and said with a deadpan look, garnered from too much sake: “I’ll think about it. Let’s go out to dinner.” He then pulled back his chair and exited the room, his help left to argue among themselves until he returned to bring them back into his focus. Devine kept talking, and a noisy pitch of varied opinion punctuated the room. Soon, Linda who had left the room briefly, returned. “ Joe wants to see you upstairs.” she announced to me raising her eyebrows to indicate that she didn’t know why. Then she went around the table refilling everyone’s wine glass.

I climbed the tall darkened front hall staircase, not knowing where it would lead. I had never been anywhere in his house other than the dining room, kitchen, downstairs bathroom, and library. I had also been to the basement family room once with other Scarborough Downs employees to watch a videotape of Joe at the October date hearings in Augusta. He had hired a crew to tape the six hour session, and we were invited to watch it (mostly him) and critique (really compliment) the presentation.

As I reached the top of the stairs Joe’s voice called out. “I’m in here...the bathroom through the bedroom. Take a left.” I sauntered in through his and Linda’s bedroom, careful not to appear nosey, though nobody was watching. The bathroom was directly off the bedroom, about ten feet from the bed. He was standing in front of one of two gold plated sinks facing the mirror. His shirt was off revealing his torso trimmed by daily weight training which he had begun in the fall to prepare for his gubernatorial campaign. His face was lathered with shaving cream. I approached, feeling somewhat uncomfortable, but determined to act like watching my employer shave in his bathroom, without his shirt was just part of the territory, an added element to my ever expanding job description.

“ Whatta ya think about what’s going on down there?” he queried as he passed the blade across his cheek. Without waiting for my reply he continued. “I think its a load of, excuse the expression, horse shit. This pandering to the likes of Joe Brennan is not my style. So I just wanted you to know I was flushing Devine out, just seeing where he was coming from. Nothing is gonna be decided tonight...We’re gonna just go there tomorrow as planned and blow their heads off. So why don’t you go home, and rest.... Get back here tomorrow morning and we’ll all drive to Augusta together and then we can talk, without interference from that jerk...“.

The next dy John, Joe, Linda, and I shared the ride to Augusta in Linda’s Mercedes. She and I were in the front, while John and Joe in the back, were hung over from the ’dinner‘ the previous night. Linda seemed chipper that morning as she sped down the driveway from the house, and followed Joe’s instructions to stop at a little market, where he ran in briefly and returned with a packet of cigarettes, and a can of beer. Despite his physical state, he too seemed in a good mood, adrenaline pumping as he headed toward what liked best--a public confrontation.

“Let’s take bets...,” he urged, as he leaned forward toward the front seat. ”Who says Kerrigan is not gonna show? Who says both Kerrigan and Day won’t show? Who Says Kerrigan and Day both show ? Who says’s one shows but the other doesn’t?” John and Linda were thoughtful. “I say Kerrigan will be there, but Charlie Day won’t be ," I volunteered. “OK..,” Joe answered, taking mental note. “If you’re right what do you want.? “ “A bottle of Pouilly Fuisse,” I replied, saying the first thing that came to mind. “ You got it... “ Joe stated, directing his attention then to his lawyer, with the enthusiasm of a game show host. ”I don't know,“ John ventured. "I’ll bet neither will show, buy them some time. They still don’t know what we’re gonna do.”

“ Well, John if you’re right...," Joe laughed. "... the little weasels are more stupid than I thought...If you’re right I’ll buy you dinner,” he added dryly, as it was understood Joe always picked up the tab. “But if you’re wrong you can work out a deal with your slavemaster Poulos to do something to reduce my already astronomical legal fees...What about you kiko?" Joe inquired, using his pet name for Linda who had been silent. “I think they’ll probably both be there,” she responded, thoughfully. ”I love you babe,” Joe chuckled. "I want them both to be there, face the music. Good old Charlie will probably slink in again, wearing one of his Sears polyester suits, and a gold chain or two, so we know he’s mod. Did you know...," he asked directing the question at me, "...that sleazebag made his fortune from Value House?” "It’s worse than JC Penny’s and Sears, he continued. ”It’s a place that caters to the green stamp crowd.” John roared in the seat beside Joe, as his employer continued his spell of good humor all the way to the Augusta Civic Center.

Nobody in the car that morning mentioned the altercation between Joe and Stephen Devine that had taken place the previous evening during dinner at a restaurant. Joe had continued to drink and became abusive towards Devine, who finally got angry enough to get up from the table before the entrees arrived, throw a twenty dollar bill on the table at Joe for his meal, and leave. That morning Joe’s secretary had been instructed to take a bottle containing the pieces of that bill which Joe had torn into tiny bits to Devine’s law office and personally place it on his desk, along with a caustic comment.

The commission meeting was explosive. The third item on the day’s agenda was a reconsideration of the commission’s allotment of the 1985 racing dates. Scarborough Downs having already won May, had petitioned for the long sought after authorization to get additional dates and race concurrently with Lewiston. It was a request that had been made and turned down many times, but it was a concept Joe kept pushing.

Just before the discussion of this item opened, John approached the microphone on the floor beneath the stage where four commissioners sat, the accused Kerrigan among them. He proceeded to tell the commission that on behalf of Scarborough Downs he was requesting that Commissioner Kerrigan be disqualified from this hearing concerning dates because of obvious bias. Another commissioner, Charles Moreshed, also an attorney suggested that the hearing not proceed that afternoon until written charges were presented and a separate hearing held on this new accusation.

Joe came down the aisle from the back of the auditorium where he’d been standing. “ Thomas Kerrigan should resign as commissioner,” he shouted, "and Charlie Day (who was not present) should be forced to cut all his connections with Lewiston Raceway.” John managed to interject the basis of the charges, namely that Kerrigan was a former neighbor and close friend of Day, and that Kerrigan and his wife had recently been in Florida for a week’s vacation at Day’s Pompano Beach home. Moreshed restated his position that these charges should be presented in writing and a hearing held to discuss them.

Other commissioners concurred, and the meeting was about to adjourn, but Joe continued. “ This is serious stuff,” he asserted. “We have reports here from a private investigator in Florida. Some of this stuff just came to our attention this morning. These charges should be aired in public.” Moreshed assured everyone present that the next meeting to discuss these charges would indeed be public, and attempted to explain the legal procedure.

Lewiston Raceway attorney George Isaacson then got into the act, shouting that Joe’s behavior was entirely inappropriate. “We’ve observed Mr. Ricci’s charges here before,” he shouted." Mr. Day isn’t even here to defend himself." Isaacson wanted to proceed with the agenda, yet the commissioners concurred that they must first set a special hearing to review the Ricci charge of bias, before discussing the race dates.

Seeking to seize the moment Joe (who had returned to the back of the room) again made his entrance down the aisle, removing his silk scarf as he walked.

“ You people should all be ashamed of yourselves,“ he bellowed staring down the commissioners on the stage. Then as an afterthought added smugly: “ I’m a gambler...You can tell the attorney general that I’m hedging my bets. I’m not giving you all the information I’ve collected. I’m saving part of it.”

I don’t remember the ride home, except that someone mentioned to ‘the gambler’ that I had won the morning’s bet, Kerrigan was there, but not Day. Joe just grunted, and I never got my bottle of Pouilly Fuisse.

The Kerrigan saga raged on for almost two months, with more attacks and counter attacks. After reading Marcello’s affidavit concerning his conversations with racing officials at Pompano, Lewiston hired its own legitimate investigators to go down and speak to the same people. This resulted in signed affidavits denying they ever said what Marcello had attributed to them. “These affidavits from the Florida people show that the bulk of Marcello’s affidavit is pure fabrication. The conversations either did not take place, or he put words in their mouths,“ asserted Robert Dow, general manager of Lewiston Raceway.

Lewiston then filed a formal complaint with the commission concerning the lies contained within Marcello’s affidavit. “The Marcello affidavit contains material so false, so scandalous, and scurrilous that Lewiston Raceway had no choice but to do its own investigation...” stated Dow. Then John Campbell filed a response noting that: “all the important allegations regarding Mr. Kerrigan’s conflict of interest have been admitted by Charlie Day since Lewiston Raceway filed no affidavit by Mr. Day contesting any of these facts.”

Then in early March Lewiston wrote the Department of Public Safety asking it to investigate Marcello’s behavior regarding his engaging in private investigative services without a license. It also wrote to the racing commission, charging that Marcello has promised a female trainer at Pompano Park that he would fix races for her at Scarborough Downs if she brought her horses to Maine. “We request that the commission take action to bar Edward Marcello from any affiliation with any racetrack in the state of Maine...“ wrote George Isaacson on behalf of Lewiston Raceway.

Edward Marcello had egg on his face, and he became indignant. He spoke with his friend Bruce Glasier, who happened also to be sports director for a local TV station. It was arranged that Bruce would conduct an on camera interview with Joe about the whole Kerrigan deal. A camera crew from the station came out to the empty grandstand, and set up in my dingy office. Bruce went over his questions with Joe who positioned himself behind my desk, and then the camera began to roll. I stood behind the cameraman with Ed Marcello, ecstatic in his moment of retribution as Joe staunchly defended him on camera, and charged that the commissioners and the governor were corrupt. He stated that he would continue to work to “...get these sleazebags out of the racing industry.”

In mid -March the racing commission met again, having determined that they did not have any legal authority to censor, or remove a fellow commissioner. Only Kerrigan himself, and the governor had that authority. Reportedly Governor Brennan met with Kerrigan regarding the charges and left the matter in Kerrigan’s own hands, instructing him to decide how to resolve the problem.

At this March meeting chairman George McHale stated “The intention of this commission is to proceed with great haste to those areas that need our attention. We have no intention to be bogged down and delayed in this constant infighting between Scarborough Downs and Lewiston Raceway. You can catch up with us at these meetings, or in the courts, but we’re moving forward.”

Consequently the commission announced also that it had no authority to reconsider the 1985 date allotment. It said it would stand by its October ruling, unless that was challenged by the court since Scarborough Downs and Lewiston Raceway each had filed court actions challenging the awarding of dates.

Finally, Kerrigan spoke, declaring his intention to remain on the commission and vote on matters of interest to both Lewiston and Scarborough: “As I understand the law..." the white haired Kerrigan spoke in slow statements, “...the decision as to whether I am to participate is solely mine...Maine is a small state,” he continued, “...the pool of public spirited citizens willing and able to serve on the commission is therefore extremely limited. To impose on this limited pool a further restriction against any acquaintance with any harness racing enthusiast is to legislate away the very existence of the commission.“ Kerrigan stated that he had exercised good faith judgement in past proceedings and would exercise the same kind of judgement in future proceedings, and not be influenced by his acquaintance with Charlie Day.

Joe wasn’t going to go away sulking in a corner. He was outraged that Kerrigan was left to be the judge of his own bias, and called for the governor to force him to resign. He also said he was going to file a lawsuit to remove Kerrigan from the commission.

In addition to Bruce Glasier’s station, local media was supportive of Joe’s position. The Portland Press Herald ran an editorial urging Kerrigan to resign, stating the appearance of conflict is something that of itself must not happen. (Ironically this is the same publishing enterprise that Joe sued less than a year later for being excessively negative towards him)

Maine Times began preparing a major article about the issue , complete with an extensive sidebar piece focusing on how Joe Ricci had brought harness racing in Maine out of the smoke filled rooms. A few days before these two articles entitled “Tom Kerrigan could not see where the conflict lies. Joe Ricci Could" and “ The Flamboyant Joe Ricci challenged the status quo” hit the newsstands, Kerrigan resigned.

Kerrigan’s reluctant letter of resignation to the governor during the first week of April stated that he had carried out his duties fairly: “The racing industry needs clear decisions on many important matters and apparently my continuing on the commission would result in unending court battles and make it impossible for the commission to act decisively.”

Brennan responded by praising Kerrigan, saying he accepted his resignation with the recognition that state harness racing officials “need to avoid even the appearance of any conflict.”

Joe had won, and the image he coveted as an avenger of injustice was strengthened.

I agreed that Kerrigan, given his conflict, should not have been a commissioner, and marveled at Joe’s tenacity in getting his way. At that time, however, I began questioning some of his methods. They were dominating, often spiteful, and unkind. I had heard him say that he prescribed to the Machiavellian philosophy that “the end justifies the means.” But I began wondering about his actual objectives. Where they really for the public good, or merely his own?

March and April were busy months even without the continuing drama of the Kerrigan affair. Clubhouse construction was proceeding at a frenzied pace. There had been a change of construction companies and actual work on the building didn’t begin until January.

Six weeks before the track was scheduled to open on the first Sunday of May, we were all still wearing hard hats and climbing up ladders to the third floor dining room. Joe’s uncle Tom ( Bamboo’s brother ) a retired builder had been called in to act as foreman, after the screw-up with the initial construction company. He and Joe had a difference of opinion the previous spring, and Joe had excluded him from being involved in the clubhouse project to prove that he didn’t need his advice. But desperate to get the job done, uncle Tom was called back to help pick up the pieces. I noticed how deferential he was to Joe. To employees he always spoke of Joe as “my nephew," who it appeared was an enigma to him.

Tom Ricci seemed to marvel at his nephew’s success, and was pleased to be part of his life in whatever small way. His daughter Jane had done advertising for the track when Joe first bought it. Though she didn’t know anything about advertising, Joe took her by the hand and taught her everything. Jane eventually married, and was replaced by my predecessor who also had no prior professional background in advertising . ”You’re the only one who knows what you're doin',” Tom observed to me during one of his breaks in which he good naturedly plopped himself into a chair in my office. “It’s really good that Joe gives you space," he remarked. "He seems to like you, which with him is really important. If my nephew doesn’t like you, forget it,” he observed with a smile.

The new clubhouse (with its 500 seat restaurant, two bars and deli) meant an increase in my responsibilities. In addition to writing and producing all the advertising for the track, and managing that six figure advertising budget, Joe wanted me to supervise special sales as well. He wanted a group sales division, and a person who could sell and coordinate functions during the racing season, and book off season parties too. He also wanted to sell billboard space in the grandstand and clubhouse to advertisers, and envisioned an electronic toteboard on the infield that could also be used for selling messages. Making these desires operational was left up to me. I hired a sales director, and developed a series of fun at the races corporate, bus tour and family packages for that season and created a concept called “Trackads,” that were mounted poster style photographs that could be produced and hung by advertisers all season.

In one short year I had become part of the infra structure at the track, and helped not only bring fans to the races, but thought of ways to get them to spend more money when they arrived.

It was apparent that I was on Joe’s favored list, and people noticed how often he consulted with me. But realizing the ephemeral nature of Joe’s actions ( I had seen many employees rise and fall) I hardly rested on my laurels. Working twelve to fourteen hour days I was always trying to improve my performance.

Eventually I signed another one year employment contract that guaranteed $10,000 more than I had made the previous year, and a leased Honda Accord for my use. It was a hefty increase, and I marveled at Joe’s generosity during my negotiations with him. “I don’t call it being generous, ’ he observed cooly. ".You're an investment, and this is business.”

***

During the spring of 1985, there was an occurrence that gave me cause to pause. It shed a different perspective on the man whom I had been trying to figure out. I thought this instance was about love and discipline. But looking back now with many of the missing pieces in place. It was about power, the ultimate control needed by a narcissist.

I was sitting at Joe's dining room table, and I believe Martha or Linda was there as well. Joe had been talking about the suit against Key Bank, and expressing his torment. Pacing around the room sipping sake` and smoking, he mentioned (at first matter of factly) that he’d had a ‘falling out’ with his sons, Jason and Noah, who were then nine and eleven, just a year or two younger than the ages of the children he treated at Elan. It seems they had visited him the previous weekend and had used swear words. ”They don’t respect me, ” Joe confided looking serious, then righteous. ”I told them they weren’t welcome here until they could come back and act respectful to Linda and me in our home. I mean I can’t let those kids ride roughshod over me. I deserve respect.”

Weeks later his comments took on a different dimension when he angrily shared a letter he had just received from a caseworker at Maine’s Department of Human Services. The letter informed him that the department had received a complaint from a psychiatrist who had been treating his sons . This psychiatrist (not mentioned by name) had filed an abuse charge with the department based upon sessions he had with Joe’s sons directly after their last visit to his house. The letter indicated that one of Joe’s children had apparently been traumatized by Joe, and repeatedly had his head pushed against a wall. The letter said that it was the department’s responsibility to notify parties involved in a charge of abuse, though no further investigation was planned. The last line said something to the affect that if the complaint was true, the abuser should realize that such action was not acceptable.

Joe was livid. He had not seen his children or communicated with them in anyway since the weekend he said he had a ‘falling out.’ Now he heard they had told their psychiatrist about the incident. Rather than wonder how his sons were doing, he was angry at them for discussing it with their psychiatrist, their mother for “putting them up to it,” and at the psychiatrist who was probably part of “a conspiracy to discredit him.” John Campbell was called in, and directed to call the Department of Human Services to get to the bottom of the matter. But before John made the call though, Joe told John and me his version of what happened the last time he saw his sons

“It was really nothing at all, “ he began, explaining in confusing fashion how his sons and a friend of theirs had apparently gotten hold of Playboy magazines and were looking at them. He had heard them laughing and using swear words so he told them it was unacceptable. He said he had taken the magazines away, and asked Jason to stand in a corner to think about his actions, but he said “...he had a real nasty attitude...” Joe said he then held him in the corner for a short time, and later suggested they go home until they could return and be respectful guests in his house. "That was it...they were absolutely outrageous..,” exclaimed Joe. ”All weekend they were running around wildly, no respect for the house or for Linda, or me. And now I’m being victimized. “

Hearing of this abuse charge against Joe, I was shocked by and wondered what could have prompted it. It was particularly disturbing because Joe was in the business of rehabilitating adolescents, and his own sons were saying he abused them.

Could the Department of Human Services have been teaming up with the attorney general’s office, Joe’s ex-wife, and his two young sons in a concerted effort to discredit him as Joe had indicated? I wondered...I had been conditioned to believe Joe. The scenarios he created were usually believable, but something rang untrue in his depiction of events during their ‘falling out.’ And then, there was the fact that there was no concern for his kids. Had his relationship with them been so fragile, that they would ‘betray’ their father as he insisted?

Joe said he wanted to know the name of the psychiatrist. He made calls to a few area doctors, and left threatening messages with receptionists saying that he was paying his son’s medical bills, and if X,Y or Z doctor was treating the Ricci boys he was entitled to know all the details. He told each receptionist that they should call his lawyer.

Finally, a meeting was arranged with the person from the Department of Human Services who had written him the letter. The meeting occurred a short time later at Richard Poulos’s office, and Joe never mentioned the incident to me again.

Another person knowledgeable of Joe’s last meeting with his sons in 1985 has since given this account “ The kids were downstairs playing, and I guess he thought Jason (his older son) had said a bad word so he just started slamming his head against the wall, and Jason said 'I didn’t say it' and then Noah (younger son age 9) said 'Daddy I’m the one that said It' and he (Joe) said 'Noah, you would never do that' and went back to hurting Jason. Then he ran upstairs and got some Playboy magazines and said ' Have you kids been looking at these?' They said they had and he started laughing, and said 'That’s okay I would have done the same thing when I was your age.' Then he took the magazines, put them in the kitchen sink, and set them on fire. The flames were shooting up to the ceiling, and then Noah started crying and said 'Daddy you’re scaring me.'

With fire burning in his own eyes, Joe then said 'I’m going upstairs and I’m going to burn your beds so you never, ever come back here. I’ve adopted two little Korean boys and they’re my children now."

According to this source he then reportedly threw them in a van, and had his security guard take the boys home to their mother.

After learning of the abuse charges against him Joe went over to his children’s house, and pounded on the door demanding that his ex-wife Sherry tell him who had reported him, which she refused to do. Later he called her on the phone and told her he was going to sue her for custody of the children, was going to make sure she lost all stocks and bonds and anything she had saved, force her to lose her house, and fix it so she’d never get a job anywhere in the state.

Two weeks later he had one of his secretaries type a letter to his sons on children’s stationary covered with unicorns.

Dear Jason,

I have never written you a letter before, but I am writing you now to tell you that if you wish to come to my house then you must respect me and act appropriately . If you want to come, and if you want to love me, check the box YES. I love you. If you’re not going to respect me and you’re not going to come, check the box NO.

Sincerely Yours,

Joe and Dad.

Except for the hand written signature “Joe and Dad’, the entire letter was typed along with little carefully crafted square boxes for a YES or NO response. A typed P.S. followed:

Your birthday is in two weeks Noah , and I am not going to come see you or give you a gift because you don’t know how to give to me. And until you can learn to give to me then I don’t want anything to do with you.

Reportedly the boys checked the 'No' Boxes on the letter covered with unicorns, mailed it back to their father, and never heard from him again.

Joe talked about his children after that though, to employees, to Ed Bradley on 60 MINUTES and numerous other members of the media, and to the jury in a court room that was deciding the fate of his $41 million lawsuit against Key Bank. The subject matter was always the same: how the bank destroyed his relationship with his sons.

Chapter Fourteen

Who’s Zoomin' Who?

Oscar, the new chef for the clubhouse dining room was a big man, almost seven feet tall, with a friendly smile that revealed he had only one front tooth. He was hired after two others had turned down the position because the kitchen was not yet complete. Menus had to be created and food ordered, all in less than a month. “You’d have to be a stark raving lunatic, or a masochist to attempt to serve 500 people from that kitchen anytime before July,” remarked one prospect who took a job elsewhere. After Joe met Oscar briefly, shook his hand and welcomed him into the fold, he took Martha aside and ordered her to tell him to call a dentist and get another front tooth. “Tell him we’re a progressive company, and offer dental insurance," he stated. " Have him do it soon. I don’t want him coming near the dining room, or talking to our customers looking like that."

On May 1st, the Friday before opening Joe decided there should be a ‘dry-run’ of the kitchen operation, and a sampling of the season’s fare. About thirty people, department heads and their spouses were assembled in the new dining room for dinner and sat at spanking new chairs and tables, on a claret carpeted floor that only a week earlier had been covered with nails, and debris. Tiered tables were dressed in white linen with salmon runners. Vases of flowers adorned the room which glowed in the early evening. The transformation had been remarkable, and an air of excited anticipation engulfed everyone that night as the sun set over the quiet green infield. Six tables of employees chatted quietly as darkness descended. Those of us who had already spent a season at the track knew the room would never again be as quiet on a Friday evening, for at least 120 more nights...

On opening day the fans swarmed in, marveling at the new clubhouse. A decidely upscale crowd arrived at the canopied entrance. The women were adorned in floral silk prints dresses and flowing skirts, some in wide brimmed hats. The men wore blazers, neatly pressed pants and bucks or striped sports shirts emblazoned with Izod alligators.

I arrived early that Sunday, tending to the details of the second annual opening day extravaganza complete with stunt air show, elephant and camels. I was informed that Joe was on site, an unusual occurrence since Sundays he usually slept late, assuming he got any sleep at all the previous night.

.At ten minutes before noon, he summoned all department heads to a meeting in the conference room on the second floor of the clubhouse. Within minutes all the managers were arriving, some out of breath from the trek over from the grandstand. When everyone was assembled, Joe closed the door, and buzzed the receptionist, notifying her that he didn’t want to be disturbed. Dressed in jeans, and a sweatshirt, his face looked puffy, and his eyes darker than usual. Pacing to the window he peered out at the arriving fans as a general would watch the approaching enemy troops. There was not a sound in the room and the tension was high. Nobody knew what Joe was going to say or do next, and the fans were inside the gates, and each person in the room had a very important function that demanded immediate attention. Joe seemed oblivious to the fact that managers had keys to cash registers that needed to be open, that banks had to be counted etc. before sales could even occur during one of the busiest days of the season.

It seemed like an eternity that he stood staring out the window, dragging on his cigarette, back turned to the faces anxiously focused up at him. Finally, he spun around and spoke. ” OK guys...” he began, his voice low and ominous. “...This is it. Before the day is out a lot of people in this room might be unemployed. And a lot of other people out there, " he continued, gesturing with his hand beyond the closed door, "might also be out of a job because you screw up. This isn’t fun and games, for those of you who think it is,” he sneered. "Just wait, and see who’s going to end up working at MacDonalds next week. I just want to let you know..." he began, turning his back on the managers at the table, and walking to the window. Without finishing the thought, he then whirled around and said "Forget it....Just get outta here, " he declared with disgust. He then opened the door and walked away, leaving his employees to scurry back to their respective posts. “Quite a pep talk,” one manager muttered to himself as everyone filed out of the conference room.

An hour later I was summoned to the clubhouse diningroom, where Joe was seated in a corner near the bar sipping coffee. “Sit down,” he gestured as I approached. “ What did you think about the meeting this morning? “ "I figured you knew something I didn’t," I responded. “What happened ?” I added naively thinking there might have been some justification for such nastiness... “It's too long a story...I’ve been exploited..., “ he announced. All the managers are just waiting to steal from me. I didn’t get any sleep last night. I think I’d betta go home. Now there’s a problem with the TV sets, and it's looks like it's gonna take a graduate of MIT to figure it out...”

At that moment I was paged to call the receptionist on the second floor and learned that a reporter from a local TV station had arrived, and wanted to talk to Mr. Ricci about his new clubhouse and new season. I relayed this message to Joe who usually loved publicity... “ I'm not talking to anyone today, ” he scowled. "...You handle it." During the rest of the day I answered questions from all three local TV stations and one print reporter who came to cover the historic new season at Scarborough Downs. I smiled on camera and stated how smoothly everything was running, what great expectations Joe Ricci had for Scarborough Downs that year and during the years ahead. “The new clubhouse signals a new era for harness racing in Maine, " I said. “ There will be new fans exposed to this exciting sport, and it can only get better and better.”

There were many casualties following opening day, and one of them was the new chef who was fired even before he kept his dentist appointment to get his new tooth. But the hectic pace continued for me, and working twelve hour days, I had no time to reflect on the fates of my co-workers. I was simply surviving, trying to be as professional as possible.

In addition to my duties at the track I had also been asked to create some ad copy and do media buying for Elan. Dr. Davidson contacted me and asked me to begin retail advertising in some upscale big city magazines to recruit kids from wealthy families. It seems the state of Maine had been revising their rules and regulations, and had not renewed Elan’s license as a residential child care facility. This meant Elan was no longer getting state referrals, and the enrollment was decreasing. That summer I placed advertisements for Elan in magazines in Boston, New York, and Philadelphia . They were headlined :What Do You Do When A Good Kid Goes Bad?, and touted what I had been lead to believe was Elan's 93% success rate.

The new Downs clubhouse housed a private apartment for Joe situated directly across from the receptionist’s desk on the floor of administrative offices. It contained one large living room, with a galley kitchen and a small bedroom and bath. Linda Smeaton’s brother Annurag (whose real name was Donald before he adopted an eastern religion) personally shopped for the furnishings.

The apartment was Joe’s haven away from Blackstrap Road. Many nights after racing and parties with the bar personnel he would go there, not always alone, and never with Linda. Many times during the season I was surprised to see him emerge just before noon in various stages of dress, instructing the receptionist to call security to give him a ride home. Though he still had his Mercedes, he stopped driving himself, preferring to have various employees act as chauffeurs.

Sometimes he would suddenly appear, ashen, and demand the keys to the upstairs bar so he could pour himself a drink. He would sit by himself in the empty clubhouse dining room drinking all afternoon and playing cassettes of his favorite music over the public address system. He’d become reflective and invite an employee or two to sit with him as he talked about the weaknesses of others.

Occasionally he would become pugnacious and summon various employees to his table where he would hold court. When they arrived they’d be subject to ridicule, warned, and sent on their way. They could be even fired outright, though he mostly delegated the task of termination to Martha whom he affectionately called ‘the piranha.’

Joe's use of cocaine continued that summer, yet I was still unaware of it. One former manager relates how Joe would always approach him after he emerged from the men’s room snorting it and ask how his face looked. “It was often a sight, ” he remembers. “He must have used the stuff wildly. There was always a high water mark on his cheeks.“

This same manager mentions how Joe would actually flaunt his drug use as it increased during the course of the night, and cites one instance where he had been sitting at a table in the clubhouse with Joe, John Campbell, and John’s very preppy date. "Joe was bragging about the cocaine, and offering it to them. John’s date was extremely uncomfortable, and they left the clubhouse dining room early that night, ” he recalls.

There were rumors during the summer of 1985 about dalliances Joe had with a variety of cocktail waitresses occurring after hours in his apartment. I gave little thought to how much was fact or fiction, though I did suspect that there might be a different dimension to Joe other than the beleaguered champion of justice that he most often presented to me.

One cocktail waitress had looked extremely skeptical after reading a narrative style ad titled All Excesses Are Awful I had written in response to an article in a local paper which portrayed gambling as a vice. My ad copy stated: Scarborough Downs despises compulsive gambling as well as compulsive drinking, eating, dieting, and anything done to excess because, quite simply, all excesses lead to trouble... "Did Ricci authorize this?” she asked in disbelief: “...Talk about the cat calling the kettle black!”

It was much later that I learned the extent of these excesses.

A close associate recalls being approached by Joe and one of his lawyers (not John Campbell) one evening at the track and shown a bag of cocaine that he says was “...enough for a good size party.” Joe and his lawyer subsequently retired to Joe’s apartment during the racing, and emerged a few hours later totally 'whacked out'. Joe later reached in his pocket to offer him some of the ‘white stuff’ only to discover that the bag was empty“ I couldn’t believe two people could’ve consumed that much stuff in two hours and still have been standing,“ he exclaims.

Despite Joe’s avowals of concern for the status of women there are numerous indications that he repeatedly exploited the females in his life, regarding them as nothing more than horses in his stable.

Some like Linda were viewed as expensive show horses. “Linda was definitely an Arabian...owning her dignified him,” remarks one observer.

An employee in the clubhouse diningroom remembers Joe and John sitting at the bar late at night after the track closed. “They would be sitting there drinking watching about twenty food and cocktail waitresses counting up the night’s receipts, cashing out...,” he explains. “Joe would smile in their direction and say to John ”Let’s go over and cull a couple out of the herd.”

Some females, formerly employed at Scarborough Downs clubhouse, testify that they ‘succumbed to Joe’s charms,’ but his 'seduction’ usually consisted of a one night stand, and after he ‘conquered’ them it was no longer sexual. He would, however, give raises, make bountiful promises, and then fire them. "He paid for his sex...," claims one former associate. "...maybe not there on the spot like a John, but Joe’s approach was the same...use them and then dispose of them. I think he was incapable of having a meaningful relationship with any woman.”

Joe gambled heavily at Scarborough Downs despite a 1983 letter to horsemen and women in which he specifically promised not to bet on the races or race his own horses at the track. According to informed sources Joe spent many thousands of dollars buying pari-mutuel tickets. Sometimes he would buy them outright. Other times, he’d place bets via a phone call from his apartment to the mutuel line, a highly unorthodox and possibly illegal practice.

In 1985 I noted to the bookkeeping department at the track that expenditures from my six figure advertising budget (comprised of three separate components) were unusually high in the promotions account. I was told not to worry about it because it wasn’t a realistic indication of my actual expenses. Joe’s gambling money (it was whispered to me) had been written off to that account. It was later intimated that this ‘slush fund’ also underwrote his cocaine habit.

In the June 2, 1985 edition of Maine Sunday Telegram, a harness racing columnist Hank Burns, wrote a profile of Joe titled: Getting A Handle on Scarborough ‘s Joe. Hank was a high school English teacher who like others fell in and out of favor. He had observed Joe for many years, but like those who hadn’t dealt with him on a daily basis, took much that he said as Gospel.

Hank described how Joe’s gold necklace contrasted with his tanned face, how he smoked Merit Lights and sipped red burgundy wine laced with liqueur, how he took off his Faberge sunglasses while checking the time on his gold (Rolex) watch.

Burns wrote that he finally asked Joe: “Who are You Anyway?” To this question Joe rose from his chair and said to Hank: “Look... you want to know ..? I’ll tell you...Just listen to the music I’m going to play for you.” Hank then described the clubhouse being filled with the strains of Bruce Cockburn’s “Rocket Launcher” with some lyrics that state: “If I had a rocket launcher I’d make someone pay...I don’t believe in generals and their stinking torture states...I don't believe in hate... but if I had a rocket launcher I’d retaliate...If I had a rocket launcher some son of a bitch would die...

Hank admitted in his column that he was rattled by the revolutionary music, but Joe said that the song just reflected “his outrage at the exploitation of people.” He told Hank I’m a capitalist who believes in humanity."

During the rest of the interview Joe erroneously declared that he spent the ages 13-19 institutionalized in reform schools and drug rehabilitation centers. (Actually he spent about a year and a half at Lincoln Hall, a reform school when he was 17, and ran away from Daytop when he was 22 after less than a two year stint ) and proclaimed“I have a built in will to survive.”

He quoted Ralph Waldo Emerson: “Foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.” and Voltaire : “When law no longer acts like the law there is no law.” He said he admired Gandhi, and alluding to his problem with Key Bank, confided: “Gandhi got me through the past four years...” With moral outrage he announced: “They have awakened a man who is full of righteous indignation. I don’t care who I offend. I get outraged at the injustices taking place and I don’t think I should tolerate it.”

Citing a litany of things that have tortured him he declared “They cut my credit line off. They accused me of crime, murder, prostitution, child abuse. They investigated my adolescent treatment center. Then they burned my track to the ground and that was clear cut arson and they know it..”

He told Hank that he had written a 600 page manuscript but didn’t want to be known as a sex and violence novelist so he was currently writing another book titled: America : Reflection of a Broken Dream which he said “...addresses the injustices in our country. Stuff like old people eating dog food, not enough hospital beds, and banks that charge too much interest."

He admonished Burns saying “You people (the press) should defend freedom...you should be militant.”

Hank Burns’ portrayal of Joe was that of a man who has launched many crusades, a person who had disdain for the rigid establishment, a man who fought back when he encountered injustice. His choice of the term ‘crusade’ conjured up a zealous fight for a principle, a movement of reform for the betterment of people...Yet all of Joe’s ‘ crusades’ have had one central theme, one central purpose... his own empowerment. Every battle has been based solely upon his own desire to wrestle control of a situation, and exploit it for his benefit.

When I read Hank’s article on a sunny Sunday morning in June of 1985 as I got ready to spend my day working at Scarborough Downs, the irony within the article escaped me. Though I noted some disparity then between what he said and did, I still didn’t have a clue to Joe Ricci’s true persona. I wasn’t yet privy to my research that revealed his earlier life, his knack as Dr. Pet observed: “...for getting others to do his bidding.” I knew little about Elan then, and certainly nothing about the events that would engulf me during the next twelve months.

Looking back, knowing Joe was like dealing with an alien being who operated outside perimeters I knew. His espoused code of justice, sense of fairplay, and feelings for others were just what the oppressed, or those who have compassion for the oppressed wanted to hear. His concern for the poor, women, people with disabilities, and the elderly looked good in print. It sounded even better when delivered by him in his sincere voice, punctuated by soulful stares, or affirmations of righteous indignation. But it was mere mimicry...

He could, as one former Elan staffer observed: “.sure as hell talk the talk" But walk the walk? That was another matter.

Chapter Fifteen

An Elite Hit Squad?

That summer of 1985 was when my seduction began, or else it was when I was more aware of the designs Joe had upon me. It wasn’t a seduction in a sexual sense, more insidious than that. He was out to seduce my soul.

I was one of a handful of key employees, and on that hand I became an index finger. Joe called me constantly at work and at home, and everyone knew I was ‘favored.' I had a nice desk, a VCR, and a television in a carpeted office at the end of the hall with a window overlooking the front entrance. From that window I could see my leased Honda Accord LX, a company perk reserved for a chosen few. Linda’s office was the first door on the right after the receptionist’s desk, followed by the conference room and Eric’s office. My door was after Eric’s and just before the double doors to the clubhouse kitchen. Often Eric would go to the kitchen for a snack, and drop off a cup of chowder at my desk enroute back to his office. Sometimes he would plop himself down in a chair and boom the familiar question “What’s happening?”

Eric was a competent general manager who got along with the horse men and women, department managers, and even the minimum wage ticket sellers and concession people. He generally liked people and prided himself in trying to run a smooth operation, though it wasn’t easy. Working with Eric the second season I became more tuned in to his concerns as general manager, and also confided my advertising objectives to him, though I never considered him my ‘boss’ since I dealt directly with Joe. He reminded me of my brother, with his dry sense of humor, concealing a sensitivity he protectively shielded from strangers. We became friends, and our alliance was beneficial to the track. When I wanted to produce a complex TV ad portraying horses and sulkies riding on the beach, hooves splashing the shores, he helped arrange a volunteer driver and was a valued resource in other areas as well.

But his relationship with Joe was quite different from mine. Though they ‘socialized’ together Eric seemed to be on-guard around Joe, steeling himself for the impulsive and often erratic actions of his employer. Yet he was not at all like those who blindly followed him and took his word as Gospel. He questioned Joe's actions, and was frank about his feelings to others. Often he was the lone voice of reason, and for that he commanded respect. He wasn't a 'wimp' who was afraid to observe that some of Joe's actions were ludicrous. Yet he was pragmatic enough to establish a safe perimeter and work within it..

I approached Joe with certain expectations based on his own self- portrayal, and amazingly (for the most part) he kept in character in his personal dealings with me.

Joe’s talk of concern for ‘working people ‘ and the poor increased, and during our frequent conversations was put in a political context. “They are so corrupt...,” he would say with sweeping generality, not bothering to define who ‘they‘ were. It was understood that ‘they’ didn’t care about people. 'They' were greedy, and had no feelings for anyone but themselves. 'They’ were the people trying to exploit all of us. He said if he threw his hat into the 86’ Maine governor’s race, he could expose the injustices on a state level, and I could help.

Eric was astounded that Joe was really going to run for governor, since Joe had no prior political experience and was involved in the complex Key Bank law suit that already demanded much of his attention. “I don’t know., " he said with genuine concern. "Joe’s got some skeletons...Politics is tough stuff.”

One evening in July I arrived home a little after 9pm feeling exhausted. When I walked through my breezeway that night I heard my husband’s voice talking to someone. After a few more moments, he hung up the receiver, and beamed at me with the enthusiasm of a boy scout ready to do some trail blazing: “I’ve just had a half hour talk with Joe, ” he announced. ”...It was a great conversation. We talked about philosophy and politics, and he wants me to help run his campaign for governor.”

I stared, suddenly feeling a pervasive chill. Joe had gotten in the habit of chatting with my husband during the previous months whenever he answered the phone. More recently Joe began calling before I even got home from work which I thought was odd, since he knew my schedule and realized it took nearly an hour for me to drive from Scarborough Downs.

Had he purposefully been doing this to get to know Dan? In the course of their chats Joe had learned that my husband was a philosophical thinker with a history of social activism. He had apparently sized Dan up, and decided he was intelligent, socially conscious, a bit of a well meaning gadfly, and-- because of his accident-- also in a position of need. He would make a good recruit.

Dan was thrilled to be ‘in the loop’ once again, having not worked for over a year. His ego was boosted by the fact that a successful and powerful person like Joe Ricci sought his help. Dan had confided to Joe that he had limited experience with politics, but Joe said he didn’t care. “We’ll learn as we go,” he laughed. “I don’t give a rat’s ass whether or not I’m elected. I just wanna expose the corruption and give them all a run for their money.”

Joe lost no time moving forward with his political ambitions. Calls to me concerning the campaign became even more frequent, as he speculated how he could put together a " credible campaign committee." Although he asked my opinion on many matters, he never once inquired how I felt about his having persuaded my husband to join his bandwagon. It was assumed that we both shared Joe’s political ideologies and had to enlist in his infantry.

In August while I was in the midst of preparations for the track’s annual President’s Pace, Joe decided to schedule a meeting at his house, bringing together a group of people he wanted involved in his campaign. All those invited to participate also worked for him in some capacity..

It was Dan’s first visit to Joe’s house, and we arrived together for the morning meeting. Joe was on the phone, but we were greeted by Linda who graciously poured coffee, and jokingly reminded us that she was going to be an ex-partie committee member, since as a registered Republican, it would be awkward for her to work for Joe’s bid in the Democratic primary. ".I’ll just sit and listen, " she volunteered. "I‘m just not used to this political stuff." she added "I still didn’t believe Joe is really going to run for governor."

Ten minutes later a group of us sat around Joe’s table, while he stood over us, leaning on his mantle, dragging on a cigarette. Directly across from me sat Sharon Terry, the assistant executive director at Elan, a woman about 45 years old whom I had met just once before. Sharon had salt and pepper colored hair, and protruding upper front teeth. She was not attractive, nor was she ugly. Stylishly dressed in a sweater and skirt ensemble she looked respectable. She began at Elan in 1980 as a ‘gal Friday.’ Though she had absolutely no training in mental health, or any professional credentials she rose in the Elan ranks to be Joe’s right hand person, making an annual salary one former Elan administrator speculated was ‘close to $100,000.’

Joe informed us that John Campbell would join us later. Dan and I passed out the meeting agenda Joe had asked us to prepare. It covered a range of subjects including necessary officers for the campaign committee and the structure within the committee itself involving platform, finance, communications and recruitment of volunteers. It also focused on the acquisition of campaign headquarters, field offices, staffing and equipment. Joe looked at the agenda, and complimented our thoroughness.

“Well, guys, ” he began with a sigh, borne of his aversion to structure. “ Let’s get through this...What about a campaign manager?” Dan and I discussed that and came to the conclusion that given Joe’s ‘take charge’ attitude, he should reserve that title for himself. Neither of us wanted that burden. “We thought you could manage your own,“ I offered. “Well, I was thinking that this would be the campaign manager right here, ” he answered agreeably , sweeping his hand to include all of us seated at the table. “...because God knows, my ideas are far from fallible...” he said. (making the 'Freudian slip' by not using the prefix in)

”But let me ask you this," he continued. “Who the hell do we know who’s famous, and honest and decent? That’s a hell of a question, I know, but we need a chairman of the committee, a figure head position. Right?...How about Father Bob (Allanach)?,” he asked as if he’d already had his mind set on the Oblate priest who had been employed as director of counseling at for Elan for the past two years.

“Yeah, Father Bob would be good...” Sharon asserted, agreeing instantaneously with Joe. “...He’s done a lot for the community, though I guess he’s not really well known..." “You don’t have to be well known," Joe interrupted her with a cynical smile “...If you’re a priest and can jiggle ads, and make devils go away, you’re great...”

That line delivered he left the room. A minute later we heard him on the phone in the next room, informing Father Bob that he had been drafted by the committee to be chairman.

Returning to the table Joe announced that it was all set with Father Bob and that he would also assist in the solicitation of signatures, mobilizing volunteers to help get the 2,000 names needed to get on the ballot for the following June. “It’s too bad...” Joe remarked, “...that we can’t start getting the signatures now, while the track’s open, and we have 400 employee signatures built in.” “Are you sure, ” he queried Dan, “...that we have to wait until January to begin getting names?...Well, no matter. We’ll still get them one way or another, “ he responded after Dan read him the candidate guidelines from the Secretary of State’s office.

“Can I say something...change the subject for a moment?," he asked, knowing he needed no permission before plunging forward. “This is going to sound very dramatic, but it's half the reason I was up all night," he said, lowering his voice and slowing its cadence, his demeanor becoming solemn.“ It's gonna get pretty heavy and scary. They’re just not going to sit back and let me get out with my message all over this state....And they know we’re gonna put them in jail. We’ve got to spend some money for security, especially a guard for the plane. I’m gonna have it thoroughly checked out each time before we step anywhere...” he continued, referring to Elan’s private Cessna that he planned to use for campaign stops throughout the state.

“I’ve got $150,000 of my own money I’m throwing in to get going, actually $125,000 because I’m keeping $25,000 out to pay the interest on this money I’m borrowing. I suppose I should also keep some money out for a flak jacket, " he added with a beleaguered smile. “...And just hope they don’t aim for my head.”

At that point John arrived, and Joe gave him a quick greeting, that of a man lost in thought, and then remembered that he had a question for him. "John..," he asked suddenly, “... is a blind trust reversible? Because if I win I guess I gotta put all my stuff in a trust, and when I get out, I just don’t wanna be begging for food on Congress Street.” Linda and Sharon laughed aloud, and so did John.

The subject shifted to a 'Unity Day’ the State Democratic Party had scheduled for mid- October. All the other gubernatorial candidates would be there shaking hands and stalking for supporters for the primaries in June. Dan had said that would be the party's primary kickoff, and signal a momentum all its own. I mentioned that former presidential hopeful, Gary Hart ( pre Donna Rice scandal) was going to be the keynote speaker.

“Gary Hart, ” Joe said , sounding surprised. “You know the interesting thing about him. He changed his name, and his age, and lied about his military service...Is that the kind of guy we want to represent the Democratic platform? That’s a good reason for not going to that shindig. Now do you mind if I jump around a little I’d like to talk about campaign colors, OK? Have you thought about it?“ he asked me. “How about maroon and white?...Lets take it one step further.....What about slogans? Do you have any in mind? Because I had some thoughts...How about this, " he asked stopping to make sure Sharon, Linda, Dan, John and I were all looking up at him from the table."..Joseph Ricci... A Governor only the people’s money can buy. " Whatta you think?"

Sharon immediately bobbed her head like a trained trail horse. “ I think it's great Joe. Its got the grass roots people approach. You know that there is corruption in government and that you’ll be a governor for the people. I think it's excellent Joe.”

I was not as effusive in my praise... “Maybe its just me because I deal with words all the time,” I began, ”...but I’m afraid that statement could be misconstrued. People might take it that you indeed can be bought.” Joe looked momentarily stunned, but recovered. “Well, then how about this...Joseph J. Ricci. A Governor that can’t be bought.” Much better I conceded as Joe then unleashed his idea euphoria upon all of us. “Who's to say we have just one bumper sticker?" he queried. “Why not have a series of slogans like...Joseph Ricci for Governor: This time one for the people...Or How about...Isn’t it time someone regulates them?...Or try this on...Joseph Ricci for Governor: No Compromise, No Collusion.. No Bullshit!" "You can’t do that." John announced, after laughing.”Why not?" Joe asked shrugging, and immediately Sharon began lobbying for Joe: “I think it's important that people get that message," she began in earnest. “People say bullshit all day long, and could really identify... “ “But you offend more people." John countered as Linda readily agreed with John. "The slogan would take the whole bumper, ” I observed lightly, noting that compromise, collusion and bullshit were big words...Joe seemed to be in his element and amused by the reactions he was eliciting. He kept throwing his ideas out. "How about this, " he continued: “Isn’t it time there was a business like approach to government? Joseph Ricci for Governor....” Before anyone could speak Sharon was again bobbing her head: “Yes, “ she affirmed, “...I think it's important that we get that business approach point out.”

Watching her I suddenly realized that she had agreed with absolutely everything Joe had said all morning, sometimes just reworking his words and parroting them back to him... “How about some Longley slogans?" John suggested, referring to an independent party candidate who served as Governor of Maine during the late 70's. "You’re an outsider like him...a non-machine candidate.”

“Nahh...we can’t do that..." Joe replied. “Besides we got more than enough of our own. How do you like this: Send them a message: Let them know we’re coming, Joseph Ricci for Governor...You know John that's what the guy in the gas station pumping gas said to me: 'Send them a message...' You gotta understand something...There are so many individuals who have been shit on, who really want to send a message to the boys in Augusta...Anyway, I have this great idea for a TV ad...Listen to this..." he said with a cunning smile. "We get a cartoon made in caricatures. You have this smoke-filled room, OK, and all the other candidates seated around this table looking up at a guy who looks at them individually and says things like: 'You want nursing homes, You got em...' 'You want condo’s OK? you got them...' and so on...Then the screen goes black. Visual words in white are printed on the screen and a voice overhead is heard saying: 'Put an end to this nonsense...Joseph Ricci for Governor."

“Wow!” Sharon responded even before Joe was finished. “You better get a full time guard on the plane for security.” "You like it huh?” he asked. "Nobody’s ever done anything like that before...You gotta understand something..." he continued, addressing all of us: "...If we’re gonna win this thing, we’re gonna beat them with originality.”

The meeting had been going on for two hours. It was noon, and Joe had abandoned the agenda in favor of ‘brainstorming’ slogans and planning bumper stickers and signs. “ Let’s update John about the other things we’ve been discussing before he arrived", he suddenly suggested. " Dan, how about you telling John about the committee?” he asked before turning to John himself. “John we need a lawyer who knows about law to serve as clerk of the committee. Father Bob is going to be chairman, and Martha treasurer.” He then left the room as Dan went through the list of committees and other stuff we’d talked about before discarding the printed agenda.

“What about a campaign manager? “ John asked. ”The campaign manager doesn’t exist..." Dan responded. "...We’re going to run the campaign by committee, this group.” John sighed, and decided to get his feelings out. “Well I think there really needs to be at least one person, with some political savvy who’s responsible."

In the midst of this statement, Joe returned, addressing John as he entered: “Isn’t this exciting.?” “Yeah..." John responded, “...but what I was just saying was the one thing you’re really lacking is an experienced political person...animal...You really do need this. You know It doesn’t mean he’s going to be an insider flunky.” Joe immediately glared at John and cut him off, his voice low: “We already discussed it...” he announced irritably, “And you don’t agree ?" John asked, his voice wavering. “No...” Joe replied. “...and you know why. Look at how many we got in this room. You, her, him, her, me..." he continued pointing individually to John, Sharon, Linda, Dan, and me.

“But there’s something unique about running a political campaign...” John pressed on. “Yeah, not with us it isn’t...” Joe cut in. "We don’t want an outsider OK, who’s just gonna come in , and you know what their gonna do..Want me to tell you something John?“ he suddenly said. “If we have a campaign manager, he’s right there...” he exclaimed, pointing to Dan.

Stunned, Dan just sat in his chair, not knowing whether to challenge Joe or not. He was getting ready to say something when John asked: “Does he have experience in politics.?” “Not running a gubernatorial election," Dan answered honestly.

“Listen John."..(Joe said adopting a lecturer stance).."What can the complexities be? We’ve got to get our message out to the people. We’ve got to campaign and talk to groups. We’ve got to do a direct mailing. We’ve got offices...Ya know what I think you bring on with an experienced politico? You bring on all the old shit...I think Dan can run this campaign better than anybody in Redmond’s organization. (an aide to then Democratic Governor Brennan and one of the gubernatorial hopefuls)

Realizing that Joe was about to heap a major responsibility on my unsuspecting spouse I jumped in. “You know... “ I said looking directly at Joe. “ ...I understand what John ‘s saying, about having contact with someone who knows about inside stuff. I would like to work with someone who has had experience with Maine politics, not necessarily as a manager if you don’t want that, but someone with some insights to share." “Yes..." Linda agreed, “...someone who might think of things we might not think of.”

The only thing I think we have to worry about to be quite candid with you...” Joe responded "...is that we don’t come off too radical with our message, and isolate ourselves...If we deliver a mainstream message we’ll be fine. And look at our slogans. Look what they’re saying...If we then go out and hire a known political type to run our campaign, then we’re full of shit" ..."Well, they don’t have to be known political types..." John injected. "...There’s some people associated with the Hart campaign, they’re pretty radical.” “Yeah...we just discussed that before you came..." Joe cut in.

“Look at the people associated with the Hart campaign. They supported a guy who changed his name, changed his date of birth, forged a navy career, and lied about just about everything he said...I just think John, If we lose, we’ll lose at this table. I just don’t want a quote unquote ‘campaign manager’ who’s going to tell me say this, don’t say that, don’t do this, do that...You know why? Because it's a matter of my social consciousness. If I win, I wanna win because I got my message out, and they believed it. I may lose. But if I lose. I’ll lose honestly...You know here in this room we all trust one another. We all know one another. We’re not going to intentionally deceive one another...We can bounce things off each other...have dialogue and say ‘yes that sounds good’ or ‘Maybe that should be changed.' But I’ll tell you this...we have to watch out for infiltrators. Others will be wanting to know our strategy. And the worst thing that can happen is for us to go to a debate, and have them know what we’re gonna say. We’ll get slamdunked. This group here that decides the strategy can’t get much larger than this. This group has to be kept very very elite, and for lack of a better word, Gestapo...Summing it up...it has to be an elite hit squad.”