Chapter Sixteen

”Fighting for the People”

Members of the Local 6 Industrial Union of Marine and Shipbuilding Workers at Bath Ironworks in Maine had been on strike nearly three months in a bitter struggle with shipyard management when Joe focused on their plight.

One morning I received an urgent call. Joe had a brainstorm over night. The track would be closing soon, and the facility dormant until the October flea market. He wanted to know why we couldn’t we demonstrate his support for the B.I.W. union by staging a fund-raiser for them on the track’s infield “It’d be great,” he explained enthusiastically. “Bring in a name talent to perform, charge ten bucks a ticket, and donate the money to the strike fund. We can have concessions, and that could raise more cash too.”

I was instructed to call the president of the union, and explain the offer.. “You gotta do it right now," Joe insisted. "...because we gotta plan this thing, and pull it off within the month...you know they might settle, and we’ll miss a perfect opportunity.”

Union president Ray Ladd was gracious on the phone, grateful for the expression of concern. “We need all the help we can get,” he declared, giving me the go ahead to plan a benefit concert for the almost depleted strike fund. I explained that Joe wanted to donate all concert profits, even those from the concessions, after minimum expenses were paid. I noted that I was trying to get some Maine performers also involved as opening acts and we’d try to get their services donated. I told him Joe was willing to ’front the fees‘ for any performer so the union didn’t have to worry about anything except relaxing for a day with their families. After we agreed upon a date for the benefit, I promised to update him concerning progress.

During the next two weeks Dan and I worked from early in the morning until late at night organizing this event. We designed the stage, and contracted for sound, planned publicity and met with at least a dozen agents looking for a name talent who was available. Singer Tom Rush said he’d perform for a reduced fee, and contracts were drawn up.

Dan and I believed in the union , and didn’t object to the stress of planning their benefit. We were pleased to be in the position to make a difference. We didn’t mind when Joe said he wanted to go on TV, appearing in an ad for the strike aid concert. “I guess he’s got to get some political mileage out of it,” Dan remarked.

At midnight when our phone was finally quiet ( except for occasional calls from Joe at that hour ) Dan and I would have a glass of wine and reaffirm our commitment to the principles Joe was espousing. We both believed in workers' rights, were against corporate exploitation of people, wanted inexpensive health care, education, and felt nuclear power posed a serious threat. Joe seemed to feel the same way. Finally we’d found someone like Joe who felt for the ‘little person,’ and had enough money to put it were his mouth was. We’d both been through the poverty of grass roots movements before, and were thankful we

didn't’ have to endure that again. Dan remarked that he thought Joe was a benevolent capitalist and compared him to the financiers of the French Revolution.

Attempts to reach union president Ray Ladd to update him on the concert’s progress were unsuccessful. I phoned him at least three times one day, and then finally received a call from Milt Dudley, coordinator of the strike at the Bath Shipyard. “I’m sorry,” his voice crackled over the line, with a brittleness that conveyed no apology. “But the union has decided, we don’t want to be associated with your benefit."

"What? There must be some mistake, I stammered, unable to comprehend what was happening. “ I talked to Ray Ladd nearly two weeks ago, and he gave me the go ahead. We’ve set everything in motion." "No mistake," Dudley said flatly. “Ray had no authority...We took a vote. We have to be careful about the character of those we are associated with, " he continued spitting out each word vehemently as though the vowels were inadequate to express the rage that simmered beneath their surface. “Oh, then this is about Joe Ricci," I responded, thinking that was an example of the prejudice Joe always talked about. Because of what Key Bank had done to him, people thought he was bad, a Mafioso.

“The concert was always about Joe Ricci,“ Dudley continued like a pressure cooker ready to explode. “Everything Joe Ricci does is always about Joe Ricci. I worked for the guy once at his treatment center in Poland Spring. When I was first hired to do some maintenance and repair. I was promised a raise in thirty days, something about a fiscal budget. A month went by, then two more weeks, no raise. I asked about it, I was ignored. I asked about it again, I was fired. Joe Ricci isn’t any friend of labor and you know it.”

"Tell me...did you deal with Joe personally, or just one of his staff?” I queried. “My walking papers came from one of his henchman", he continued, ”...but it was a directive from him...I know how he operates.” “Well, I don’t think it's fair of you to judge him based solely upon your experience at one of his businesses years ago? “ I asserted. “You even admit, you didn’t deal directly with him...It seems to me you have a personal vendetta, and you’re costing your union a lot of money with your vengeance. I mean, look...he’s trying to help you guys. Doesn’t that demonstrate something?" “ Yeah..." Dudley answered toughly, “...it demonstrates he’s now running for governor...But let me tell you something. I know about that guy...I’m not alone...Look, I don’t want to argue! We took a vote, we met with our lawyers, and we don’t want to be associated with the concert...Now that’s it! Bye.”

Sitting at my desk with the phone’s receiver in my hand listening to the impersonal drone of the dial tone, I didn't know what to do. I called Joe, and told him the news. I down played Dudley’s hostility, careful to buffer the blow. I eventually explained that Dudley said he once worked at Elan, and was fired, allegedly for asking for a raise. “That’s preposterous!“ exclaimed Joe. “Its a maneuver by people who don’t want us to look to good. We’ve got to come out fighting.” Still feeling unsettled by Dudley’s remarks I suggested to Joe that we research his experience at Elan, and get the real story about his firing. That way we could be armed with the facts, if he said anything negative about Joe Ricci’s labor practices. “We can then defend your honor," I said. ”That guys an instigator, a paid pawn,” Joe responded. “Tierney’s people put him up to it. Did you know that the union ‘s law firm is the one Tierney used to work for before he became top cop.” I’ll get the guy checked out. But meanwhile we need to put a full page ad in this week’s Sunday paper, letting everyone know what happened, how we were victimized by all of this. What are our actual damages anyway. How much money are we in the hole for?”

When I observed that I hadn’t put pen to paper on major contracts yet, and that my time was the most notable loss, he replied: “Well don’t tell them that. We’ve got to use this new twist to our advantage.”

In the September 29th, 1985 issue of the MAINE SUNDAY TELEGRAM, the following full page letter appeared as a paid advertisement, costing Joe approximately $2,500:

POLITICS AS USUAL...

It was to have been a statewide celebration supporting Maine workers- an autumn afternoon of magnetism and music with performances by many Maine musicians along with nationally known singer Tom Rush, rallying together to benefit B.I.W. Local 6 union. The date was set for Sunday, October 5th, three months into the lingering strike by B.I.W. shipbuilders.

We at Scarborough Downs had offered to sponsor this concert as a demonstration of our support for the 4500 families affected by the on-going strike who have the prospect of facing winter with high heating bills and a depleted strike fund.

Even before Scarborough Downs ran its last race of the season on September 21st, plans for this benefit were underway with unequivocal support and gratitude already expressed by local 6 union president, Ray Ladd. After considerable rearranging of bookings, performers’ schedules were set. Staging was being constructed, sound and light technicals developed, and the Ticketron computerization programming for ticket sales was on line. TV, radio, and print ads were being produced and media buys made. Downs' personnel were eagerly working on the ‘extra’ additions to this after noon extravaganza on its infield

( like ordering chicken for the barbecue under the tent, deciding placement for the casks of mulled cider and charting the route for hayrides around the acreage) when the call came from Milt Dudley, strike coordinator for the local 6 union.

It was September 23, just 12 days before the benefit...

" We’ve had a meeting this morning with our union lawyers, and decided we don’t want to be associated with your benefit”, he declared in a flat voice to the Scarborough Downs employee who had spent more than 50 hours coordinating this event. When she indicated that Ray Ladd had already sanctioned the concert, and based on this commitment many more commitments had been made by Scarborough Downs to performers, vendors, employees, and volunteers, Mr. Dudley sputtered: ‘We (the union) have to be careful about the character of those we are associated with, particularly if that person is a candidate for governor. Too Bad.'

To say we at Scarborough Downs are insulted is an understatement. I am personally shocked and saddened that the ‘politics’ of this situation overshadowed the fact that 4500 families of strikers could have substantially benefited financially and emotionally by a groundswell of support from the people of Maine. It is mind boggling to realize that as much as $75,000 could have been added to the strike fund as a result of this concert.

I am appalled that my possible gubernatorial bid should put my character in question and make a mockery of my motivation to support Maine shipbuilders who are asking only minimal concessions from a multi national corporation that stands to make $80 million profit from the construction of two ships.

My background testifies to my support of fair working conditions. As a young man economic circumstances forced me to quit school and work in two non-union shops- Modern Tobacco in Port Chester New York, and Arnold Bakeries. I helped organize unions there and witnessed an improvement in the quality of life for workers. A fundamental right of American labor is to unionize and we need only remember the ‘sweat shops’ of the early nineteenth century to justify the existence of unions.

Although I am angered by the inconsistency in giving support to the strike aid benefit concert and then arbitrarily taking it away, causing great inconvenience to all involved, and considerable personal expense to me, I still staunchly support the rank and file of the local 6 union, and am sorry that they lose out. Ironically enough the call from Mr. Dudley came the same day B.I.W. management placed full page advertisements in newspapers throughout the state accusing the union leadership of 'substituting stubborn resistance for thoughtful decision making.' One would think that good faith negotiations with those who support the union would be a given, yet in this instance of the benefit concert, it was not the case.

At this writing no rational explanation for the sudden change of heart exists, but it is known that it came after a meeting attended by union lawyers. Curiously enough these lawyers were from attorney general James Tierney’s former law firm (McTeague, Higbee, Libner and Reitman) and it is common knowledge that Jim Tierney has expressed an interest in being a candidate for the Democratic gubernatorial nomination. One’s own conclusions can be drawn, but the inescapable inference I have come to is that once again the needs of the people have been overshadowed by the power of personal politics.

In spite of the special interest actions of a few, I urge the people of the state of Maine to rally around the efforts of the local 6 union strikers, and send B.I.W. management a message that Maine workers will not tolerate ‘union busting’ tactics.

Finally, I want to thank Tom Rush, John Penny, Michael O’Leary of Horsefeathers, Devonsquare, Scarborough Town Manager, Carl Betterly, and the dozens of other performers and volunteers who wanted to make the strike aid concert a reality.

Joseph Ricci

President

Scarborough Downs

At that time I had no cause to believe that Joe Ricci had not worked in two non-union shops (Arnold Bakery and Modern Tobacco in Port Chester) where he 'helped organize unions and witnessed an improvement in the life of the workers.’ It wasn’t until three years later during a trip to Port Chester, and a conversation with the president of Arnold Bakery's union that I learned Arnold Bakery had been unionized since the early 1920’s, at least twenty-five years before Joe was born. (Joe worked at Arnold Bakeries in 1966, and became a member of the union as all new employees did)

The Monday following Joe’s publication of what was to become a series of attacks upon the system known as POLITICS AS USUAL, the press was on the phone, and a TV crew even came out to the track to cover the story regarding the concert that wasn’t. Joe got in the paper, on TV, amassed a great deal of publicity, projecting himself as the benevolent victim whose help was refused by the union, because of rival gubernatorial candidates who wrongly wanted to ‘politicize’ his good intentions. " The campaign,” he remarked to me that evening, "is off and running, and I came out of the gate way ahead of the others."

During the first two weeks of October, I was distracted by a series of strenuous demands upon my time and energy.

Scarborough Downs assistant general manager, Dan Gearan, was having his wedding reception in the dining room, and I had to make the arrangements with his fiancee and her parents. Joe had offered Dan the clubhouse, along with the services of his kitchen personnel, giving him the wedding ‘at cost.’ Dan and his fiancee Ginny met at Scarborough Downs, so having their wedding reception in its new clubhouse seemed appropriate.

In the course of Dan Gearan’s preparations he mentioned to me that he wanted to put a ‘dance floor’ down at the bottom of the tiered dining room seating, since none existed. He explained that it was portable, and he knew how to install it. About a week later, however, he told me that he’d mentioned it to Joe who said no. “I don’t think he realizes what it is...that it can’t hurt anything," Dan explained, observing that he really wanted to be able to have dancing at his wedding. “Maybe you could mention it to him... “ he suggested, looking hopeful. About a week later during a telephone conversation with Joe I mentioned Dan’s reception, and the dance floor. “He’s not going to ruin my clubhouse, I already told him no, Joe stated with a vehemence that surprised me. “ Oh OK,“ I continued, “...I didn’t think you knew all about it, that it's just a temporary installation that Dan wanted to have done himself, at his expense so they could have the traditional bridal dances.”

“Let me tell you something, ” Joe broke in angrily. “...I offered the clubhouse to Dan and Ginny for their wedding. I’m not making a penny on it. If he doesn’t like it the way it is, he just better shut up or he’ll end up having his reception somewhere else, maybe the church basement.”

Then calmly, he warned me in a confidential tone: “Don't ever stand in my line of fire.”

Just where Joe’s line of fire was at any given moment was always difficult to determine when it came to my co-workers. When someone disappeared after a brief stint or long tenure, I didn’t speculate. Joe always justified everything he did, and I seldom bothered to ask about the ‘extenuating circumstances’ surrounding any employee’s demise.

While I was conducting Scarborough Downs function business in early autumn, I was also still in the midst of Joe’s pending gubernatorial campaign. Joe called frequent meetings to discuss what he called his ‘strategy.’ Dan and I were summoned to these meetings on Blackstrap Road, or the clubhouse conference room and surprised to find only Joe there with one other person, Deanna Atkinson, a secretary at Elan whom he had recruited to be his personal secretary for the campaign.

“We’ve got to streamline the decision making or we’ll never get anything done," he said. He proposed that the entire campaign committee meet for an update every two weeks, and the three of us meet every day, working as though we were 'in the trenches.' "We can’t lose our momentum.," he stressed. “"..We’ve got to come out fighting. We need to hire a team of crackerjack researchers who are going to systematically uncover every lie...They gotta go through the budget, expose the waste and mismanagement. Statistics, we need to get our hands on every statistic from the state that will prove that we’re heading toward the dumper unless we get a businessman in the Blaine House.”

Chapter Seventeen

"Mind Games"

Dan was given the directive to hire a research team. He was also instructed to accompany Joe’s realtor from the Portland Realty Group around town in search for campaign office space, and make arrangements for a campaign computer. Joe knew nothing about computers except that they were efficient, and he said he wanted an "efficient strike force." He declared “Information is power, and we’ve got to amass as much as possible.”

Dan was exhausted, and so was I. Our days would be planned to the minute, crammed with specific things that needed to be done. But then Joe would call us on a whim, and beckon us to Blackstrap Road for a couple of hours of ‘brainstorming.’ If we told him we had a prior commitment, he wanted to know what it was, and would decide that it wasn’t as important as meeting with him. Then a short while later he would want an update on how things were going, what specific progress had been made, and we’d realize that our prime time had been spent ‘brainstorming’ with him at the expense of getting the specific tasks done. "Joe gives us jobs to do, " Dan complained to me late one night, "and then distracts us constantly so we can’t do them. It’s bizarre...”

I had realized this quirk in Joe’s behavior many times, and knew that the eventual outcome for others was anger and ostracism for not accomplishing what he asked them to do. He distracted people with alcohol, and as I later learned, drugs. He would party with them into the night, but expect them to be on the job the next day. Joe himself was the distraction for us with his constant calls and meetings. I often thought it was a little game of his called sabotage, and began to feel ill at ease as I watched my husband scramble to accomplish the near impossible task of pleasing Joe.

After Dan spent almost an entire week touring buildings in search of campaign headquarters, he came up with some choices. All were rejected and Joe announced that he alone had discovered a spot. He revealed that he had made preliminary arrangements to lease and perhaps eventually buy a small building that had been a Wendy’s hamburger franchise and later a Chinese restaurant.. It was located in a shopping plaza in North Portland, ten minutes from downtown, and five minutes from Joe’s house on Blackstrap Road. Dan felt that Joe had made a decision about this building all along, and had sent him on a wild goose chase through Portland office buildings.

Soon three researchers were hired, and given assignments. A Macintosh computer and data base systems were also put on line. A temporary office was set up in the little red hut at Scarborough Downs where administrative offices had been housed during my first summer at the track. This place was operation central pending repairs to the place that was to become the Ricci for governor campaign headquarters.' An office manager was hired, furniture found, copier and phones installed.

Joe told Dan that he wanted him to supervise the researchers, that he didn’t want to have to deal with them directly. But less than two weeks after they were hired, he asked with impatience whether he was ever going to get a chance to meet them. A meeting was subsequently scheduled in the conference room of the clubhouse so Joe could be introduced to his newest employees. “Just schedule the meeting for an hour, 10am until 11am, " Joe told us "And make sure it's at the track. I’ll go there rather than have them come to my house. I don’t want everybody in Maine to know where I live.”

A week later the three researchers--- all women in their mid -twenties and each with interest in politics--- sat at the long table in the track’s conference room going over their notes, for the brief presentation of their findings to date. It was 9:55am, and Joe was expected to walk in the door any minute, It wasn’t until an hour and five minutes later, however, the time the meeting had been scheduled to end, that Joe made his appearance. He was wearing jeans, and an expensive Italian wool sweater. “Sorry I’m late everyone,“ he announced matter of factly “I had some business emergencies.”

Dan made the introductions, giving a brief background on each woman‘s experience in politics. He then outlined the agreed upon first assignments, and was about to let them speak about their findings when Joe interrupted: "I want to first let you know a little about me and this campaign we’re running. “

Joe began, explaining his poverty stricken roots in Port Chester, and his founding of Elan. He proclaimed that he helped people for a living and was victimized by the attorney general’s office, and slandered by Key Bank. He briefly summed up his case against the bank, emphasizing the personal torment and near financial ruin it cost him and his family. He accused the bank of destroying his relationships with his sons..."It was all that I have endured,” he said, “...that has heightened my sense of outrage at injustice...You know why ’m running for governor ?” he concluded: “Because as the great philosopher Neitche said 'That which does not destroy me only makes me stronger.' Well, they’re not going to destroy me, and I’m gonna blow the whistle on all of them."

It was after noon, and somebody’s stomach let out a hungry growl, eliciting a nervous laugh from one of the researchers. Attuned to his audience Joe quickly suggested that he send out for lunch. Within seconds, Deanna was dispatched to take orders for sandwiches from a nearby sub shop, and the meeting resumed.

Celeste Cloutier began her summary of then governor of Maine Joseph Brennan’s career which Joe told Dan to get researched. She was scarcely two minutes into her presentation when Joe cut her off sharply explaining that Dan had ‘not gotten it right’ He did not want to hear the bleary beginnings of Joe Brennan’s rise to prominence. He did not want to hear about his boyhood in Munjoy Hill. Joe wanted bad things about Brennan. He wanted to find out how he sold out his fellow Democrats for Republican special interest. Though Governor Brennan was prohibited from running for another term, Joe said “the fix was in” and he wanted to make sure no Brennan operative moved into the Blaine House. Dan attempted to explain his instructions to Celeste, in context, but Joe interrupted him mid- sentence, as he turned to address another researcher.

During the next two hours Joe demanded all the attention in the room, refusing to acknowledge any instructions Dan had previously given the researchers at his request. It was obvious that Dan had become an object of disdain for no apparent reason, and that Joe was running the meeting as though it were one of his therapy groups at Elan. He was ‘shooting down' Dan with the ferocious finesse he had perfected.

Dan was dumbfounded, wondering what he had done. I could see the confusion on his face, the pain, then the anger, but I felt helpless. Dan and I were individuals and I realized Dan would have to defend himself.

Then suddenly there was a rustling of papers beside me, and I heard Dan’s voice punctuate the pressure in the room “I’ve had enough of this,“ he announced rising from his chair to face Joe who was standing across from him on the other side of the table. “I’ve got to get out of here! “ he continued sounding like he had been exposed to a plague. I wanted to reach out, tell him to stay, or offer to leave too, but I sat silently, stoically watching the drama in the room as though my livelihood was not in jeopardy, as though Dan were just another one of Joe’s employees about to be history. Then Dan was gone. Joe blinked, and looked innocently at the researchers, carefully averting my eyes.

“Did I do something?” he asked. But without waiting for a reply, he left the room and headed down the hallway towards the receptionist. In the distance I heard him order security to come up ." I want the keys to the liquor cabinet in the dining room,” he declared.

After Joe’s sudden exit I said something simplistic to the researchers, then slipped into my office, and closed the door. Dan was waiting for me. “Sorry..I just couldn't take it any longer,” he announced looking shaken. I wondered if he fully understood the implications of his actions. I’d never see anyone explode like that in front of Joe before. Usually Joe reserved such impulsive action for himself. Dan’s outburst would be considered defection, betrayal, and Joe could not tolerate that. Dan would be written off, and probably so too would I.

I suggested that Dan go home until he could calm down. He kept calling Joe "a son of a bitch." He said he was done with the campaign. “Tell him that I just can’t work for someone who plays such cruel mind games...I trusted him, but I’m done", he declared.

I sat at my desk, staring at the thick pack of phone messages that had come for me during the day’s marathon meeting. Most of them related to Scarborough Downs, and had nothing to do with my work on the campaign. For a minute I had the impulse to throw myself into that work, purge myself of politics, particularly Joe Ricci’s gubernatorial campaign. I felt exhausted, as if I could easily sleep for days. Yet the adrenaline was pumping.

I expected Joe to arrive any minute and want to talk about Dan. What could I, or should I say? Didn’t Joe realize how he had treated him? Ten minutes passed, and then fifteen. I heard voices outside my door, and decided to venture forth to see what was happening. Martha whisked by, heading towards the upper club dining room, where Joe probably had begun holding court. Would I be summoned? Then two more employees, a researcher, and John Campbell all passed by enroute to commiserate with Joe.

I realized that Joe was not going to call me. Dan and I had already been labeled defectors, and were undoubtedly then the sole subject of discussion at the bar. My cheeks felt flushed, and my throat was sore. I wanted to go home, and sort things out. I even started to gather my papers and head toward the parking lot, but instinctively I knew if I left, it would be over. Dan and I would be banished from the campaign, and I would undoubtedly lose my job at Scarborough Downs after that. Joe had already isolated himself, and it would get worse. His resentment would feed upon itself. I’d seen it happen before. I realized that I had to confront the problem and nip it in the bud, or risk being fired. I gritted my teeth and headed upstairs to the clubhouse to face Joe.

I could hear his voice above the others as I walked through the kitchen. It seemed low and somber, though I couldn’t understand what was being said. I braced myself as I came into full view, and resolutely headed toward the bar. Half dozen employees were seated on stools, their backs to me as they faced Joe. Behind them stood Joe’s imposing presence.

He was pouring drinks, and looked stunned to see me headed his way. I adopted a steely self confidence as I came closer. Straddling an empty stool, I pretended Joe was just another bartender as I ordered a bourbon on the rocks with a ’this has been a terrible day' lilt in my voice. (I don’t drink hard liquor, but it seemed the scene required ordering something different from my customary glass of champagne or white wine)

The seats on either side of me were suddenly vacated by those employees who knew how to read Joe’s eye commands. Martha, seated two stools away, made a hasty farewell. Deanna Atkinson, and a security guard remained until Joe asked them to excuse themselves because he had something he "needed to discuss in private." Deanna had recently assumed the role of Joe’s chauffeur, so he told her to wait around downstairs, and come back for him in a half hour.

A brandy snifter half full of bourbon was placed on the bar in front of me and Joe poured himself another ‘hit’ of Vodka. He stared at me, and then asked “What are we gonna do about Dan? It can’t go on after today.“ “We don’t have to do anything about him," I began feeling annoyed by Joe’s desire to ‘sack’ him before Dan got a chance to officially quit. "...I think Dan’s departure today said it all. He doesn’t want to continue working on the campaign. Its just too much for him...That meeting today was very stressful", I continued, waiting for Joe to jump in, and give me some indication of where he was coming from. Would he admit that he deliberately set out to ambush him? Or would he deny any responsibility for inciting Dan's reaction?

“I guess I expected too much from him, “ Joe interrupted talking softly. “Well it's for the best if you’re sure he wants out. You know he was spending time on all the wrong stuff, and everything was overly organized...“

“ Dan is a different personality from you," I answered, feeling compelled to defend him, without sounding defensive. You might think he’s ‘rigid with the meeting agendas, charts etc., but he just wanted to do the best job possible, and couldn’t deal with you changing the game plan every day. You know you never asked me before you recruited him.“ I observed. ”I could have told you the personalities wouldn’t work.”

I decided to take smaller sips from my glass. My head was swimming, and I’d be dammed if I lost control of the conversation. We were fencing, and I had to beware of lunges. But then Joe changed his stance. While still standing behind the bar, he moved closer to where I was seated, and leaned against an ice chest.

“You know,“ he began his voice more intimate. "It means a lot that you came up here to talk. I appreciate it. Otherwise it would have been awkward.” He poured himself another drink, and offered to replenish my glass which was still half full. “ No thanks, " I responded " I‘m going to be driving out of here soon."

I noticed that he had been drinking heavily, even before my arrival, and had begun to slur some of his words. ”You’re OK,” he continued with a half smile. ”You really are. I remember the first time I ever saw you in that crummy office in the grandstand where Martha and I talked to you about advertising. I must admit, I was absolutely astounded when you took the job. You were so perfectly groomed , so proper, and sophisticated. It blew my mind that you’d work here, and now...how long’s it been?... "19 months," I said flatly.

“Look at us now, “ he began wistfully. Feeling a twinge of resentment, I couldn't resist interrupting. “You really shouldn’t be as surprised by the fact that I took the job as you should be by the fact that I’m still here," I declared.

Just then Deanna appeared in the doorway, and asked Joe if he was ready. It was after 5pm. “Look Deanna...," he answered, sounding suddenly business like "...We’re not ready yet. Could you give us another half hour?" She then disappeared amid my realization that I too had to wait another half hour before heading home to rest my head and talk to Dan.

“You know it means a lot to me that you came up here. ..I didn’t know what I was gonna do...It was all so startling to me having Dan react that way. It was shocking really, and I’m relieved that we got a chance to resolve things, that you and I are not going to have any bad feelings about what transpired...You know I thought I understood Dan. I do that for a living you know, understand people, and help them, but I guess I didn’t realize he couldn’t take the pressure. Too bad. Are you sure he wants out.? Otherwise it’d be awkward, you know, having to let him go.”

I listened to Joe sounding genuinely confused, and sincere in his concern for Dan’s feelings. I believed for a few minutes that he really was oblivious to his own unfair actions . I wondered if I hadn’t actually imagined the vindictiveness that I witnessed. I wanted the ‘open dialogue' Joe always said he coveted with people. But before I could ask him whether he harbored any special resentment toward my husband, he changed the subject pouring himself still another drink.

”You’re a good person you know....I’ve watched you, how you treat others, everyone. It doesn’t seem to matter to you whether its someone important to you, or a person way beneath you...You respect people. That’s rare...You don’t exploit people,” he went on, looking solemn, ” That's why I know you’re a good person. When you’ve been around like I’ve been around you pick these things up, almost immediately. It's a sixth sense. Instantaneously you zero in, and know a person... understand his or her motivations, weaknesses. I do it all the time at Elan, and probably here at the track too. Its natural for me to know people, and treat them accordingly."

“How do you treat them accordingly?" I asked, thinking about his often unbalanced scale of justice. Was I going to get a glimpse of the justification for some of his unusual actions, I wondered. "It depends," he answered, with a half smile ".It depends, on the situation,” he added smugly, suddenly becoming interested in something on my face.

“Look at me, “ he demanded curiously. “What?” I asked self-consciously, wondering if I had something stuck between my teeth. “Your eyes...What color do you call them?”

“ Blue. “ I answered a little irreverently, trying to convey that my appearance was not an accepted topic for discussion. “Well, they have a glow. It’s like there’s a light behind them," he added. ". They're luminescent. Very unusual.”

"Probably the bourbon,” I responded dryly. "No not at all," he countered, looking alarmingly serious. “I noticed it this afternoon, in the conference room during the meeting. I was talking and your eyes, they struck me. It was as if they were back lit." "

Well, they’re just the windows to my soul, " I observed with humor, trying to deflect a mood Joe seemed to be adopting. " And my soul is full of blinding light,” I added with a hint of sarcasm.

At that moment Deanna appeared again at the doorway. Joe seemed annoyed, flashing a look of anger in her direction. “Will you be coming soon?" she asked hesitantly. Joe was about to answer her, but I interrupted: “I should be on my way," I asserted, getting up from the barstool. Joe nodded in Deanna’s direction. "I'll be down, he stated as he walked out from behind the bar that had separated us. “Let me walk you to your car," he offered. “It’s the least I can do.”

Taking the steps to the parking lot he faltered slightly, and grimaced, and then grinned admitting “I might have had a bit too much to drink. It’s good Deanna’s driving me home.” Outside Joe insisted on bypassing Deanna’s running vehicle in his effort to walk me directly to my car about 20 feet away . Just before I got in he squeezed my hand and said “Thanks again for coming up to talk things over. You’ll take care of things with Dan, won’t you?”

Driving home that night I could hardly stay awake. I felt pain throughout my whole body as though I’d been in some kind of ‘war maneuver.’ My mind flashed back randomly over the last nineteen months since I first went to work for Joe Ricci. A little more than a year and a half of twelve to fifteen hour days passed in a blur.

That weekend was the first time in months that there was no series of Saturday or Sunday calls from Joe. I almost expected him to phone us, wanting to talk to Dan about what happened, or to contact me to see what Dan was up to. But he didn’t. Dan was devastated, and kept wondering aloud what he did to incur Joe’s disfavor. I kept telling him not to take it personally, to let go, forget. But it was like the day after a marathon, when you dropped out of a race you really wanted to win, and put so much into, and nobody cared.

Dan had known Joe through me for a year and a half, then finally met him. In less than a month, he’d become a star sprinter helping conceive and nurture Joe’s campaign. Then kaput, he was just a spectator, delegated to the side lines again. And there I was still running, consumed with the competition. I wondered how we were going to handle it.

Dan had already written his resignation letter by the time I walked through the door that Friday night after my clubhouse chat with Joe. It said he was sorry that he could no longer work on the campaign because of "circumstances beyond his control," but that he wished Joe well and would be rooting for him. It was a conciliatory letter, and I thought maybe part of Dan hoped Joe would refuse his resignation, plead for him to return, and offer a new set of ground rules.

That Monday morning I went to Scarborough Downs early because there was lots to do. My associate Gilda had left her job, and I hadn't yet hired her successor. I had to run all the scheduled functions, and take care of new business until I found a replacement. Interviewing candidates had been nearly impossible because of the demands of the campaign, but that week I was determined to lessen my load. I sensed that Joe would not find anyone to fill Dan’s shoes, and would just expect me to do more. But I couldn’t imagine how that was possible. There just weren’t enough hours in the day.

I was having a 9am meeting with a woman who had scheduled an upcoming employees party at the clubhouse, when I received a call from the receptionist. “Joe wants you to meet him upstairs in the clubhouse for coffee, at your earliest convenience,” she announced. I explained that I was in the middle of a meeting, and asked her to let Joe know that. Five minutes later there was a knock on my office door, and before I could answer, the door opened and in walked Joe. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, looking surprised to see me talking with someone. “...I didn’t know you were busy.” Acting charming, he reached his hand out to the woman “ Hi I’m Joe Ricci, ” he offered, then turned to me and said “When you get a chance, I’d like to see you upstairs. It’s really important, the sooner the better.”

Joe was seated at what had come to be known as ‘his table’ in the corner of the top tier in the expansive dining room, sipping coffee and dragging on a cigarette when I arrived ten minutes later. A half filled coffeepot and a tray of creamers were on the table, along with a fresh cup and saucer placed across from him where I took a seat. He immediately filled my cup as I sat down.

“I’m sorry about the other night at the bar,” he began. “I probably said some inappropriate things." I shrugged my shoulders, and discounted any knowledge of such actions, dismissing his apology as unnecessary. I assumed he was talking about his comments regarding my eyes, and I negated them by pretending they didn’t exist. Pleased to get that matter over with he plunged forward. "You know all weekend I thought about the campaign, about how we’ve got to really accelerate our pace now, not lose anymore time on research that doesn’t prove anything. We’ve got to act fast, or we’ll lose momentum. I was thinking we’ve got to do more full page ads lambasting Brennan and McKernan and that old guard...We’ve got to get people aware of what’s really going on in this state. And I want a weekly radio show where I can take calls and talk to people. I’ll have different guests. It’ll be great. Can you arrange it? We’ll buy the time, Its a good use of our money...I’m a political candidate so they can’t deny me, right? Also, we’ve got to restructure things. I’m gonna put Deanna in the campaign office full-time and she can learn how to work the computer, and answer phone calls. "

He stopped for a brief second, and then began again. “I want to be at every shindig, challenging them every step of the way. I’ve got Nelson, my pilot ready to fly us anywhere in the state. Just call him, and tell him to be at Maine Aviation 24 hours in advance and he’ll be there. My plane is my secret weapon, you know that? None of those bozos running for governor have their own private plane at their disposal. Did you know that I lent my plane to George Bush a few years back, so he could make some stops around the state? Those were my days as a Republican, I didn’t know any better,” he smiled. "By the way, how did it work out with Dan?“

“He wrote you a letter of resignation, you should get it today. He really has no hard feelings, “ I added.

Joe’s eyes narrowed. “You know I had to do what I did at that meeting,“ he revealed, admitting for the first time that he was responsible for Dan’s exit. “I had to, shall we say, force the issue. Everything was getting out of hand. But you know, I really did it for you." “For me?” I asked dumbfounded. “Yeah, Dan was making you nervous. I saw how you began acting the last couple of weeks since he was around. You’d changed. You haven’t talked as much, and your spark hasn’t been there."

“It's not that Dan has been making me nervous,” I blurted. “...I’m exhausted. I finished the season here, and instead of the usual down time to recoup from that frenzy, I began planning the B.I.W. concert, and then the campaign, and recently I took on Gilda’s job. It's been work around the clock.” “Oh...” he responded, looking a little annoyed, that I didn’t agree with him and confide that working with my husband was a drag. I felt offended by Joe’s remark, considered it another attack upon Dan, but realized if I acted too defensive he’d think he’d struck a nerve, therapist that he claimed to be.

I suspected that Joe’s bitterness towards Dan stemmed from an incident a couple of weeks earlier. Joe had accepted a speaking invitation from American Institute for Management to be their speaker at their annual meeting at a local restaurant. They wanted him to talk about what it was like to run two successful businesses. Joe was excited by the request, and told us it was a dry run for his campaign speeches. “I used to be pretty great at speeches,” he told me that afternoon. ”When I was at Daytop I’d get them all reaching into their pockets.“

Dan, Joe, and I arrived together, after their dinner and business meeting, and Joe took the podium. He began by telling about his successes at Elan and Scarborough Downs, citing all the standard reasons such as diligence, hard work and perserverence. Then he told the audience a story about a father and son. The father had no time to play with his son who kept pestering him for attention. The father finally ripped a map of the world from a magazine and tore it into little pieces, and he told his son to put the pieces together and come back when he was done.

The little boy was back in an instant, however, much to the father’s surprise. And when his dad asked how he’d put the map fragments together so quickly, the boy explained that on the other side of the sheet with the map was a picture of a man. “When I put the man together, the whole world just fell into place, exclaimed the son...”

Joe declared that he helped kids at Elan get their lives together so the world would be a less ugly place. After he was done he walked to the back of the room, and asked me “Did you like the story about the father and son?...I used to tell that when I was at Daytop, and it always got them."

Before the gathering was over Joe left the room, walked out to the bar, and ordered himself a very dry martini and talked to some people. After the meeting Dan and I joined him, and so did some members of the group. Joe was gregarious, drinking heavily and talking long after everyone from the meeting left. He closed the bar at midnight. The next day Dan tactfully told Joe he didn’t think it was a good idea for him to hang out at the bars where he gives speeches, that it didn’t project the most wholesome image. Joe listened, but didn’t like what he heard, and probably vowed to get Dan out of his life.

For two weeks after Dan left the campaign I worked with intensity, attempting to satisfy Joe’s incessant demands. I mechanically took on every task at hand, though it seemed a Herculean effort.

I had a cough I couldn’t conquer. Despite my efforts to let it run its course, it didn't get better. My glands were swollen, and all my limbs ached. One afternoon at work I began to get worried when I realized I was too weak to walk to the parking lot and drive home. I called Dan and he met me. I just wanted a ride home, but he insisted we stop at a walk-in clinic clinic so I could get some antibiotics for the cough that was sapping all my strength. I ended up submitting myself to a throat culture, blood test, and assorted other medical probes. A half hour later I sat upright on the examining table as the doctor told me I was walking around with Mononucleosis, that I’d better spend the next three to four weeks in bed.

I felt guilty when I broke the news to Joe that I’d have to disrupt his political momentum. He was usually impatient with anyone’s illness, but his own. I promised to keep in touch by phone, and do some work from my sick-bed.

“You should really go on vacation,“ he observed. "I’ll send you on a trip to a warm climate. How about the Bahamas, or the Caribbean? I do that all the time for my staff at Elan. It prevents them from getting burned out, rejuvenates them, and makes them better employees. Where would you like to go? You can take with you the person of your choice,” he remarked, purposefully ignoring the fact that it would obviously be my husband. I told him I appreciated his generous offer, but I wasn’t well enough to go around the block let alone thousands of miles away to a tropical island.

Three days later Dan drove to Scarborough Downs to drop off a packet of things I’d been trying to work on. He was just leaving when he ran smack into Joe. It was awkward, but Joe urged Dan to join him for an impromptu lunch at the nearby Sheraton. During the meal he asked Dan to come back to the campaign. He said he needed him then more than ever because of my illness, and declared “Beating those sons of bitches depends on us.”

Once Dan was back in the fold Joe began calling me at home again, usually when I was sleeping which was most of the time. He’d ask Dan not to bother me, but have me call him when I woke up. It was always important and he called sometimes three or four times a day.

After the first week Dan began bringing home the crude makings of full page ads Joe was planning to insert in the Sunday paper at a cost of about $2,500 a pop. Joe wanted me to ‘fix them up’ which meant a total rewrite, so the work would have some semblance of sense. Often the words rambled stream of conscious style from one idea to the next without any transitions, and most conclusions were supported by false premises.

I worked in hour increments, rested, and then went back to the task before needing rest again. During my three weeks at home I wrote three full page advertisements. Titled: POLITICS AS USUAL these narratives challenged the Maine political establishment’s approach to various issues including nuclear power ( an upcoming voter referendum)

One piece titled: Guess Who’s coming To Dinner? appeared in December and shamed then Governor Brennan, a Democrat, for not inviting Joe to a unity dinner he was hosting at his official residence for the other gubernatorial hopefuls. Joe was adamant about my making the deadline to get that article in the paper the Sunday following the dinner. He had already received publicity after sending a 7ft. yellow chicken to the governor’s door during the unity bash which bore the message: Heard of your unity dinner and was going to come. Didn’t get an invitation, however, so assumed you were all Republicans.

Joe didn’t want to lose out on any opportunity to demonstrate how he was the underdog, the lone ranger fighting for the people, and insisted the ad run no matter what it took. He also had me write the following radio ad, promoting the piece in the paper:

Tis the season to be jolly, but some holiday parties are political. This can create problems, especially if the host is Governor Brennan and the guest list contains an obvious omission...Find out about the one concerned candidate who was barred from the Blaine House in GUESS WHO DIDN'T COME TO DINNER—part of POLITICS AS USUAL in the editorial section of this week’s Sunday newspaper...POLITICS AS USUAL— an in depth look at issues which are often overlooked

—sponsored by the Committee to Elect Joseph Ricci Governor. .. Joseph Ricci, a very independent Democrat fighting for the people.

Joe was excited by all the attention his campaign had already attracted and was hungry for more. An article by veteran statehouse reporter Nancy Perry of Portland Newspapers mentioned Joe’s unusual political practices. The piece headlined: Ricci’s Campaign takes a new tangent, spotlighted his use of full page narrative ads and characterized them ‘unusual by Maine standards.’

In his extensive interview with Nancy Perry, Joe charged that state government was mismanaged and corrupt, and said that the ads he had run previously were "lightweight compared to what’s coming up.” He said he’d filed thirty different freedom of information requests with various state agencies to secure the documentation that would back up his charges. “I don’t want to say ridiculous things like ‘Maine’s a good place. Let’s make it better, " he told her. "Those things went out when you ran for high school elections."

Joe became impatient communicating with me by phone, and having to wait for me to return his calls when I woke up . But I learned my spleen was swollen, and the doctor said I needed more rest.

Then one day in mid- November he told me that Linda had a friend who had a villa in Jamaica where I could go to fully recuperate. He offered to pay plane fare and accommodations. Feeling ravaged from nearly four weeks of a working illness I was tempted not so much by the sun, as by the possibility of privacy, a week to really rest, and not have to even think about Joe Ricci’s campaign for governor. It was agreed that Dan, our son Ben, and I would go to Jamaica for the Thanksgiving holiday week.

The day before we left I drove into Portland for the first time in weeks, and went to work, meeting Joe at a production studio to produce a radio spot for the campaign. It was Joe’s first time doing radio, and it was taxing, with at least a dozen takes for the 30 second spot.

The next morning I woke up feeling sicker than ever, nauseous, and feverish. After my stomach turned upside down for the third time we tried to postpone the trip, but found there were no later flights. We decided to leave as scheduled, but I was ill the entire five hours in the air. The ride from the airport to the villa was memorable only for the number of times we stopped so I could be sick in fields of sugar cane. The next two days I slept while Dan and my son discovered the island beyond my darkened room.

Despite the rocky beginning, the trip was restorative. For the first time in nearly two years I had a chance to think about something other than work, and there were no phones where Joe could reach me. Sitting under a palm tree I read, and realized that in the future I needed to be kinder to my body. “Perhaps I was brainwashed into my work for Joe, “ I jokingly observed to Dan one night, without realizing the chilling truth-- that sleep deprivation, constant communication from the perpetrator and isolation from all other interests were all brainwashing components that had been factored into my daily routine the moment I took the job at Scarborough Downs nearly two years earlier.

When we arrived back in the states there were a half dozen messages on our telephone answering machine, three from Joe, and three from Deanna calling for Joe. When I returned to work early the next morning Joe was at Scarborough Downs. He was visibly pleased to see both Dan and me, and said he thought we were due home two days earlier. “You look great!” he exclaimed, noting that I’d lost ten pounds during my illness, and gotten some tan from the Caribbean sun.

“Now we’re gonna really get down to business, ” he declared. “My campaign has gone nowhere since you and Dan both went away. Now you’re back, and we’ve got to make up for all that lost time...We’ve got to rock and roll...During the next six months we’re gonna shake up this state!”

Chapter Eighteen

"You gotta put it all in perspective."

Joe Ricci, the gubernatorial candidate was also Joe Ricci the plaintiff in a much publicized lawsuit against the state’s largest bank. Many people were surprised that he jumped into the political arena. They were also surprised that he had the financial or emotional resources to do it, given his claims that the bank nearly destroyed him in both areas. Perhaps more surprised and concerned than anyone were his lawyers.

Dick Poulos cornered me day when I stopped by his law office. “Could we have a word or two,” he asked, leading me into his private domain. “Can you control Joe?” he inquired. “Because you better be able to or we’re in trouble with his lawsuit. This governor stuff,” he continued, shaking his head in disbelief. “If Joe goes around the state mouthing off about all this corruption crap, especially about the attorney general's office which is part of the suit, he’s liable to really blow his case.” I explained that I couldn’t control Joe more than he or anyone else could, but he disagreed. “I’ve had the same conversation with Linda,“ he explained. " I know who he listens to, and if you can just get him to confine the campaign to some newspaper ads, stuff we can review, we’ll all be better off.”

When the press asked Joe whether his candidacy was a vendetta toward Attorney General James Tierney for the alleged ‘harassment’ of Elan, Joe was quick to point out that his campaign had absolutely nothing to do with his lawsuit. The fact that Tierney was the favorite for the Democratic nomination was pure coincidence. Those close to Joe knew, however, that challenging Tierney, and garnering publicity for his lawsuit was an obsession. After he filed his nomination papers he eagerly asked “Do you think now that I’m running for governor I can finally get some national news coverage about me and the bank?”

I admired Joe’s ability to juggle a number of balls at any given moment, but began to realize that he was more cunning than I ever imagined. Just after I returned from my convalescence in early December he informed me that he was planning to file a multi- million dollar lawsuit against the publishers of local newspapers in Portland, Augusta and Waterville, Maine. He was charging them with “a pattern of gross negligence or active subversion” in the handling of advertising and news coverage involving him and Scarborough Downs. Joe hadn’t liked some of the previous headlines covering his lawsuit because he felt they were misleading. And months earlier I had complained about a series of errors in advertising I had placed for Scarborough Downs.

Nevertheless I was surprised to find these complaints resulting in a lawsuit. But Joe felt his action would be "a preemptive strike" and keep the editors in line during his campaign and upcoming Key Bank trial. “A good offense is the best defense," he remarked, noting that the case would probably never be pursued. “But its worth a few hours of Dick and John’s time to make the paper think twice when they're dealing with me,” he observed.

I was later summoned to Joe’s dining room table on Blackstrap Road to attend a meeting during which the content of John’s brief was formulated. Then a few days after Christmas a twenty-two page complaint was filed in Cumberland County Superior Court, citing news stories written by reporters during the past two years that were “calculated to harm Joe Ricci’s reputation by holding him up to public ridicule.“ It stated that coverage of his case against Key Bank “created confusion for the public and prospective jurors.” It charged that numerous statements in news stories had been made with actual malice..."with knowledge they were false or with reckless disregard of whether they were false or not.” It also listed the various misprints, omissions and errors relating to the servicing of Scarborough Downs advertising account and sought $500,000 in damages for lost profits and loss of reputation.

The entire suit sought $10.5 million in damages for ‘the intentional infliction of emotional distress, invasion of privacy and breach of contract.' Joe was happy. He had another ball in the air, one more coal in the fire.

Earlier in December the Massachusetts federal court judge who presided over Joe’s suit against Key bank for nearly two years withdrew, stating he was unable to schedule the four or five weeks necessary for the trial. A new judge, Bruce Selya of Rhode Island, was named as a replacement with the hope that his lighter case load would allow a definite trial date to be set. Joe had personally written to William Brownell, clerk of the U.S. District Court in Maine, complaining bitterly about the delays in the scheduling of his four year old case for trial. “I’m entitled to my day in court,“ he asserted, hinting that the postponements were part of a conspiracy by those sympathetic with the bank. “They want to break me down,” he declared one day. “...They’re hoping I’ll run out of energy or money.”

After Massachusetts Judge David Mazzone withdrew, it was apparent a trial date would most likely be set as soon as Judge Selya’s less hectic schedule had an opening, and courtroom space in Portland was available for the lengthy court room spectacle. Every indication was that Joe’s case would finally be heard by a jury that spring, near the time of the primaries for the Democratic gubernatorial race. Joe knew this, but didn’t seem to see any conflict between having to be both in court and on the campaign trail. "We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he observed.

A month later he fired his trial counsel, Daniel Lilley, because he had read in the paper that Lilley co-owned a Portland apartment building with a member of the Cianchette family. The Cianchettes were his enemies, and he asked how he could trust an attorney who had business dealings with them. Lilley had spent a year and a half on the case, and Joe’s other attorneys Poulos and Campbell, and Reeder were shocked to see Lilley abruptly cut off just as it appeared the case was finally headed for trial. But Joe was adamant and did not seem worried about finding replacement counsel.

On a Saturday night in mid January a belated Christmas party at the Scarborough Downs clubhouse was scheduled for Elan staffers, and the dozen or so Scarborough employees who were then working year round. Joe also invited his four campaign researchers, including a woman named Donna who had been hired just two days earlier. The Downs' Club chef prepared a simple buffet, and the bar in the lower clubhouse was open to everyone, offering as many free spirits as people wanted to consume. Joe talked to Dan and me early in the evening, but as the night wore on it was apparent he was seeking other forms of entertainment. He began dancing with secretaries, and disappeared without Linda for different lengths of time. Dan and I sipped wine, and got into a long conversation with one researcher, and noted that three of the others had disappeared. Eventually we left to meet our baby-sitter’s curfew, and we couldn’t find Joe to say good-bye.

That Monday morning, while sitting at my desk at Scarborough Downs, I received an urgent call from Dan who was at the campaign office. Donna had just walked in and given him her letter of resignation which stated that for personal reasons she had to leave the campaign. With the letter she also handed Dan a plastic baggie containing three marijuana cigarettes. “Please give this back to Joe. Tell him I don’t want it. That’s not what I’m about,” she said.

Donna was a petite woman in her early twenties, a single mother of a toddler. She had come to Joe’s campaign with two years of college. The day she was hired she told us she needed the job, since she was recently divorced, and supporting herself and her daughter. But less than a week later she walked away from her only source of income. She told Dan that she had previously had a problem with drugs, and didn’t want to deal with it again. She also said she was disillusioned by her experience with Joe, and after thinking about it all weekend realized she wanted out before she invested any more time in the job.

After talking to some of the other researchers Dan and I learned that Joe had invited Donna and a group of four or five others to his apartment in the clubhouse the night of the party. There they apparently smoked marijuana, or used cocaine. We were shocked and concerned that Joe was foolishly setting himself up for a fall. How could the owner and therapeutic director of an adolescent treatment center behave this way, especially when he was a candidate for governor determined to pull the plug on everything that was wrong with everyone else? Did he think he was above reproach ? Was he reckless, or just hopelessly arrogant?

Dan was intense on the telephone. He wanted me to call Joe and tell him what had happened. “This is absolutely insane,” he whispered loudly in the receiver. “Here I am with drugs in my desk drawer at the office of a candidate for governor, and a researcher for that campaign has just resigned because the candidate tried to ply her with dope. You better call him, or I will, and as you know, I won’t be as diplomatic as you.”

Joe reacted to the news of the incident (which I described to him in a flat tone devoid of emotion) by asking me where the marijuana was, and then telling me to tell Dan to get rid of it immediately. “This could be a set-up," he observed. “...Donna could have been an operative for the DEA sent in to infiltrate our campaign. Call me back after you’ve talked to Dan.” When I called Dan back, Joe was already on another line with Dan giving him the same instructions he gave me.

That afternoon Joe called and told me that I had shocked him that morning. He realized his behavior at the party had been foolish. He said even if nothing came of "the Donna matter" he was going to be as clean as a whistle for the rest of the campaign, "a recluse." He promised that he "wouldn’t even go out" at night for fear that anything he did might be misconstrued. “I’ll be cleaner than the rest or else I know I’ll be in trouble. We’ve all invested too much in this campaign to let it get destroyed by any of my indiscretions. I really don’t even do that stuff anymore," he added. “It's just that the party was kind of a blow-out because I’ve been cooped up all winter. Wouldn’t it be ironic if they got me because of that one isolated instance?” he asked.

Dan and I talked later that night, and questioned our continued support for Joe, given what we then knew. We had mixed feelings. We were disgusted with his behavior, but he had seemed repentant, and probably was scared into not letting anything like that happen again. How could we realistically abandon him ? He had given us a trip to Jamaica two months earlier. Didn't we owed him another chance? Also, I reasoned that if I walked away from the campaign it probably also would mean forfeiting my advertising post at Scarborough Downs . We reluctantly decided to stay and plough ahead.

what followed was an unprecedented period of closeness among the three of us as we traveled around the state of Maine in Joe’s private plane making public appearances. Joe was full of energy, and to the best of our knowledge, drug free. He was also very solicitous of Dan and me, asking our opinions and stroking our egos.” I couldn’t be doing this without you and Dan,“ he’d often say when he was alone with me. Or when the three of us were together, he’d declare “You two are great.”

The rest of the Committee to Elect was inactive, making their presence felt only at the committee meetings scheduled every two weeks, or whenever Joe got the urge for a larger audience. The exceptions were Martha, who computed the campaign payroll and approved all campaign related expenditures, and Linda, who occasionally accompanied us on plane trips to outlying areas.

Looking back on those days on the campaign trail I remember mostly the blur of constant activity from early morning until late at night. Dan and I would begin work about 8 am, attending meetings and making calls before Joe awoke. He'd usually phone us from his bedroom on Blackstrap around 11am. He’d want an update on that evening‘s itinerary, and randomly talk about items in the news. He’d then work out, lifting weights in his home gym and call us again, sometimes two or three more times, before we had to drive over to his house to accompany him to a political gathering. If the trip by car was more than two hours he’d insist on taking his plane and then we’d merely drive from his house to the airport ten miles away.

Each week day that Joe had an evening engagement either Dan or I had to pick our son up at his school in Portland and make the hour trek to our home where a baby-sitter was waiting. We’d zip in and out of the house, arriving at Joe’s doorstep frenzied, having had a sub, or some crackers for dinner.

After making a campaign appearance, Joe would often want to stop for a drink. By the time we got him back to Blackstrap Road it was usually after 11pm, and we’d rush home to relieve our baby-sitter. Often we’d be so wound up we couldn't succumb to sleep until 2am, and would awake four hours later to the same routine.

Sandwiched between Joe’s varied campaign appearances was the creation of radio and television ads and the production STATEWATCH his live call-in radio show which aired every Sunday night. In the midst of all this I recall only stolen snatches of family life. Our son Ben learned to ride the bike he got for Christmas on Easter Sunday afternoon during the two hours of leisure time Dan and I had before we headed to Portland to prepare Joe’s script for that night’s radio program. I attended my mother’s 75th birthday party 150 miles away, but drove back to Maine the same day. Just thinking about the intensity of that four month period between January and May of 1986 induces anxiety...

One of the first official campaign appearances was a candidate’s night in Millinocket in late January to which all five of the Democratic gubernatorial hopefuls had been invited. Located over 150 miles from Portland, Millinocket was a three hour drive. Joe decided he would fly in that evening with Linda just in time for the 7pm dinner. Because the format was unfamiliar Dan and I were dispatched to drive down earlier in the day to "scope things out" .

We arrived late afternoon and checked into a room in the hotel where the gathering was taking place, and located the small airfield where Nelson, Joe’s pilot, had told us to meet him. Waiting for sight of the plane on the horizon we listened to the local radio station discuss the evening's event. Excitement was in the air.

Joe had been raring to go earlier that morning, so we weren't prepared for the jittery person who emerged from the plane. The tailwinds had been frightful and he and Linda had been bounced up and down during the flight. “You two had the right idea,” he observed with a tinge of bitterness in his voice. Linda looked pale, and wearing a knit suit with a black turtleneck was dressed more conservative than usual.

We took them to our room to freshen up where our own belongings were still packed in an overnight bag stored in the closet. We had arranged at our own expense some champagne on ice, crackers and pate to celebrate later that night. Joe took one look at the chilling champagne, however, and asked if we'd mind having a glass then. We toasted the campaign trail "wherever it leads us" and walked down the hall to the gathering.

Jim Tierney wasn’t there, and the other candidates who did attend, State representative Bill Diamond, gubernatorial aide Dave Redmond, and lobbyist Severin Beliveau, were cordial to Joe and each other. Joe suffered through a dinner before he started pacing the hotel corridor.

Later the four of us went back to the room and finished, the not so bubbly champagne while Joe criticized the other candidates for being wimpy. When he finally put his coat on, Dan and I snapped to attention, ready to transport him to the plane. But Joe didn’t want to fly back yet. Instead he asked Dan to drive him to a local liquor store. A half hour later they both returned with Joe wielding a liter and a half bottle of some bottom shelf wine I’d never seen before. He explained that every decent store was closed, "so beggars can’t be choosers." He quickly consumed the entire bottle, pacing around the hotel room while Linda, Dan and I listened to his observations about the other candidates, which came complete with comic impersonations.

It was long after midnight when we dropped Joe and Linda off at the plane, and bleary eyed Nelson came out of his waiting area to greet us, so he could fly his boss safely home.

Joe was invited to speak at a Rotary Club luncheon in Presque Isle (100 miles north of Millinocket) on February 3rd which was Linda’s 34th birthday. Linda had expressed some ambivalence about going, but I gently encouraged her, commenting that I didn’t want to be the only other woman there. She finally agreed to go, so Dan and I decided it’d be nice to give her a little ‘surprise party’ on the plane. I ordered her a chocolate torte from a local bakery, bought a bottle of champagne, and arranged with Nelson to have the champagne on ice, and the decorated dessert ready when we returned after the lunch. She was really surprised when she stepped on board and saw the tray table set with four fluted glasses and a bucket of bubbly. Joe was surprised too, and told us “ This was very thoughtful of you.” After we were airborne we toasted Linda, and she doled out small slivers of the torte.

The next day Dan and I received a handwritten note from her thanking us for our unexpected kindness on her birthday. I thought nothing more about our gesture until about a week later when I was talking to Joe about something he had said at the Rotary Club. ”You know," he interrupted me with a strange look in his eye. “..I wanted to throw that birthday cake at you that you got for Linda...That whole scene was really a piece of work.“ He abruptly changed the subject as I sat stunned wondering what had offended him. Later I realized that it had angered him that I conspired with Nelson, who was his pilot and his employee. Only Joe had a right to ask give him orders. I had overstepped a boundary, and stolen the spotlight from Joe.

February heralded the premier of Joe's radio show called STATEWATCH, which was broadcast at local station WYNZ in Scarborough. The format was modeled after radio call-in shows and the program began with pre-taped dramatic opening music with a voice over stating:

This is Statewatch with Joseph Ricci, Democratic candidate for governor talking with Maine guests and accepting calls from YOU. This is YOUR chance to call the candidate and express YOUR concerns, offer YOUR opinions about the state we’re in.

Joe would introduce his studio guest, announce the call- in number, and wait for the phones lines to light up. During the rest of the hour he’d field phone calls, his mood running the gamut from gracious host, and insightful arbiter to savvy cynic and tough talker. Never did he sound like a traditional political candidate running for office, and the audience in the early broadcasts was attracted to this irrepressible individual. They liked a ‘straight shooter’ who didn’t dilute his dialogue.

That winter the state of Maine was informed by the U.S. Department of Energy (D.O.E.) that two sites in Maine were among those being considered for a high level nuclear waste dump. A series of public meetings were scheduled throughout the two regions — Sebago Lake in southern Maine and Lincoln up north -for members of the D.O.E. to receive testimony from concerned citizens. It was a volatile issue and, sensing an opportunity to express outrage that Maine’s representatives allowed this to happen, Joe jumped on the bandwagon,

He invited two men, Alva Morrison and Al Philbrook, leaders of the Maine Nuclear Referendum Committee (MNRC) to his radio show twice in one month to discuss the origin of nuclear wastes, its health hazards, and the politics underlying its production. Morrison was the founder of MNRC which had successfully defeated a state-wide voter referendum authorizing storage of low level nuclear waste . Philbrook, a former nuclear engineer was also active in this organization that had continued to work for the shut down of Maine Yankee, a nuclear power plant in Wiscassett 50 miles north of Portland.

It wasn’t until the furor over the possible storage of the nation’s high level waste on Maine land, that many Maine citizens seriously looked at production of waste in Maine, and considered calling for a shut down of its reactor. Though Joe didn’t admit it, he too was among those ill-informed citizens who waited until the 11th hour to jump on the anti-nuclear bandwagon. He had discussed his position on nuclear power, and decided a slow ten year phase out would be his platform. Within a month of the D.O.E.’s announcement about Maine, however, he changed his tune, calling for an immediate shut down of production at Maine Yankee.

He also showed up at the public hearings held in school auditoriums, and city halls. After listening to a number of convoluted questions and largely forgettable public testimony directed to members of the D.O.E, who were seated on stage, Joe would swagger up to the microphone, face the men from Washington, and make a bombastic remark, eliciting applause from the angry audience.

At one public hearing held in Casco Joe was surprised to find Maine’s congressional delegation and Governor Brennan in attendance. He glared at Brennan across the room and shouted “Joe I’ve been following you for a long time...” He then charged that Brennan and his 'sidekick Tierney' had not legally challenged the D.O.E’s authority as the state of Vermont had done. And as he spoke he seemed to get more incensed, building momentum with his mannerisms (one press account said he whipped off his scarf like a wet towel in a locker room) "Our attorney general should be mounting a legal challenge, " he told the crowd. “...and if we have to sue on ten legal fronts for twenty years, we should, and if we lose we can perhaps take a lesson from Mahatma Gandhi and lay down in front of your trucks!”

The crowd cheered wildly. Joe had learned how to incite an audience while creating quotes for the press. It was he more than anyone else who made the news the day after a hearing, and he loved it...

While the nuclear issue was a major thrust of Joe’s campaign, there were other dominant themes that punctuated his platform. Chief among these was his avowed concern for women, and working people. In mid February he had Marge Clark, state coordinator for the National Organization For Women, as a guest on STATEWATCH. During this show he talked about the "abominable conditions" for women in the state of Maine, citing the lack of crisis centers for women who had nowhere to go when they were "battered either physically or psychologically.“ He observed that there should be safe houses in every major city in the state "...so women could reevaluate their relationships, and be able to redirect their lives.” He lamented the lack of economic opportunities for women, noting that there are some people out there who would like to see them "...still chewing on buffalo ropes or making moccasins.” He said“Women are getting battered all over society, not only being raped, but deprived of economic development.” Regarding abortion he observed that a woman should have control of her own body, and claimed he supported ERA. In the course of the hour broadcast he also noted that he wasn’t married, but was a man who had a great relationship with a woman, declaring “She doesn’t want to dominate me, and I don’t dominate her.”

A few weeks later he had two leaders of the striking railroad union at Maine’s Guilford Industries as guests on his radio show and proclaimed that business in the state of Maine was "engaging in union busting tactics, and cared nothing for Maine’s working people." He said that people in the state deserved more than being jacked around by greedy big business who used people as pawns in what amounted to a true life game of Monopoly.

Around this same time Joe granted an in-depth interview to Scott Allen, a reporter for MAINE TIMES, who was compiling a major profile piece on all the gubernatorial candidates. During a two hour interview at his home Joe railed against the ‘professional politicians‘ commenting that “These guys change the rules in the middle of the game anytime they want..." He called them:“...a bunch of abusive, greedy, corrupt, power mad morons..." and proclaimed that he was"...a different kind of Democrat who won’t be bought off, and can’t be scared off.” This interview resulted in an article featuring Joe on the front page of the newspaper wearing a dress shirt and tie, but sporting a pair of boxing gloves, and a come and get me look in his eye. The headline read: Ricci's willing to pay the price to put on the gloves with the Democrats...The flamboyant Ricci adds spice to an otherwise bland gubernatorial race. The accompanying article portrayed him as a businessman with an anti-corporate philosophy stating “Ricci sees himself as an everyman, his problems with government reflections of the average citizens on a grander scale."

To the casual observer Joe Ricci was the quintessential concerned candidate, albeit a bit eccentric. “I’m a liberal activist Democrat,“ he often announced, and there was little reason for anyone to doubt it. Few questioned his underlying attitudes towards women because he projected only support for them. Not a soul asked why he fired Debra Therrien at Scarborough Downs for no apparent reason only two days after touting her prestigious position as the country’s first female assistant general manager of a harness racetrack. Nobody probed to discover how a single mother was forced to quit her job as his campaign assistant because she did not want to share drugs with him. Nor did anyone make a fuss over his preference for hiring only slender and attractive women as mutuel cashiers, and waitresses. And hearing of his pro-choice stance regarding reproduction, nobody remembered that during a newspaper interview years earlier he had said flatly that abortion was murder, no matter what.

Did anyone contemplate the champion of working people’s' batting record with his own employees at Scarborough Downs and Elan? How many had been fired at whim without notice, and left out on a limb with no income, or health care coverage? Why was Scarborough Downs one of the few tracks without unionized mutuel sellers? Did everyone believe him when he previously stated in a newspaper ad that he had helped form the Arnold Bakeries union as a youth when he worked at the plant in his hometown of Port Chester? Didn’t anyone know the union there was formed years before he was born?

The more I listened to Joe as I sat beside him in the tiny broadcast booth during his weekly radio shows, and at his dining room table on Blackstrap Road, the more I wanted to believe that he was the person he projected. I wanted to help direct the campaign of a candidate who really cared about women’s issues, fair working conditions, poverty, health care and the environment, but I wondered if such a politician existed. Yet, I didn’t believe then that Joe was actually the antithesis of who he claimed to be. I thought he was just a flawed imitation. If I had been more aware (perhaps less exhausted) I perhaps could have detected the hollow mimicry of emotions, the genuine lack of empathy, the inability to experience guilt.

The closest I ever came to realizing Joe's total insensitivity came one bitterly cold morning, January 28th, 1986. Joe had called me at Scarborough Downs from his home where he had just finished exercising. His television blared in the background. He was talking about an impending campaign ad when he suddenly seemed distracted. “Wow...” he announced into the receiver. “...the space shuttle just blew up. “

“What?” I asked, “Was anyone in it?” (I had been watching the news before going into work that morning, and thought it wasn’t going to lift off because of the weather conditions. Last I heard the astronauts were perhaps going to disembark) “Yeah... “ he answered, “.all of them, all blown up...wait...they're doing an instant replay...” he responded, as though he were watching a ball game. He seemed more curious than anything else. I felt sick, shocked. “How?" I asked numbly. “What happened?” “I don’t know,“ he continued, "...I’ll go check it out, and call you back if you want. By the way, Did you see that piece in the paper today?" he asked suddenly shifting the subject back to his campaign.

Minutes later everyone in the clubhouse had come out of the offices, watching the television in the reception area. We were all aghast at what happened. Then Joe called again. “Hi..." his voice was calm over the phone. “Did you see the TV?” I expressed my horror at the disaster, and expected the commiseration that usually happens between people in times of public tragedy, but Joe seemed annoyed: “I don’t know why everyone’s so upset," he commented. “So six astronauts and a high school teacher get blown up in a rocket trying to get to outta space. What about the marines that were just killed in Lebanon? You gotta put it all in perspective,“ he concluded.

Later he worked that American nightmare into one of his campaign speeches to illustrate his support of pay hikes for teachers “Instead of grieving over Christi McAuliff after she’s dead, we should’ve paid her better when she was alive," he declared.

Chapter Nineteen

Behind the scenes: The 60 MINUTES Interview...

It was the kind of day that Punxetawny Phil would have loved, perfect for observing one’s shadow in the sunshine.

It was during the last week of February that the Maine Innkeepers Association had scheduled their luncheon for both Democrat and Republican candidates for governor. I drove over to Blackstrap Road late that morning to pick up Joe, and take him to this event. All eight gubernatorial hopefuls had been invited and asked to elaborate upon their plans to increase tourism in Maine. Joe felt confident that day. Being the only candidate who ran a seasonal business, he felt he could identify with the concerns of those in the hospitality industry.

Large round tables were set up in the dining room of the Ramada Inn and campaign staffers were encouraged to spread out and sit with various association members, rather than congregate together. Joe didn’t like breaking up his entourage, nor did he want to sit at a table where he had been assigned. Consequently he excused himself from lunch, and wandered to the lobby for a cigarette.

Ten minutes later in the midst of stabbing a piece of iceberg lettuce with my fork, I was summoned to the lobby by a hotel employee. I assumed Joe wanted to talk to me and was surprised when a desk attendant handed me a slip of paper with scrawled letters saying: “Bob at Elan. Very important." I thought it was odd that this priest who only called me a few times before would track me down there. I found a pay phone, and dialed the number to Elan. The voice on the end of the line, usually timid and scratchy, was exuberant and intense. “Joe’s gotta call this guy at 60 MINUTES,“ Father Bob announced. "I just talked to him, and he might be interested in doing a story about Joe and his battle with the bank. He wants to talk to Joe. It was really amazing he called just about fifteen minutes ago. His name is Allan Maraynes. He’s a producer at 60 MINUTES. He called and asked for Gerry (Davidson ) and when Gerry’s not in I usually get the calls about admission, the program and the like. So I answered the phone, and it seems this guy Maraynes had been looking through the magazine MANHATTAN INC., and came across the ad you placed for Elan. He thought it was interesting and said that he might wanna do a story about this place. I told him the real story here was about Joe, and briefly detailed the rumor about Joe being in the Mafia, and how his credit got cut off. I mentioned his four year legal battle, and how he can’t get his day in court. He said it sounded fascinating, and wants to talk to Joe as soon as possible because he’s planning to start filming new segments soon. Can you explain all this to Joe?” he finally asked, taking a breath and giving me Allan Maraynes’s number at CBS in New York.

Joe was across the lobby, taking Bogart like drags on a cigarette when I told him about 60 MINUTES. He looked surprised, pleased, then paranoid. “You call this Maraynes,“ he instructed, “...and check him out. Maybe it's a set up. He could be out trying to annihilate Elan. Be careful.”

I spoke with Allan Maraynes, elaborating on the basic information Father Bob had given him, and he seemed genuinely interested in pursuing the story regarding Joe and the bank. He asked me how articulate Joe was, whether he was charismatic, how he’d come across on camera. I told him Joe was running for governor, that he was young, good looking enough, very verbal, very charming, and that his story was begging to be told. I said Joe had been the embodiment of the American rags to riches dream, until the bank intervened, and nearly ruined his life ( I had heard Joe do the schpiel so many times it was on a permanent reel in my mind ready to be played at any time) I also pointed out that information concerning Joe’s saga had previously been sent to another 60 MINUTES producer by me months earlier, and we’d heard nothing. Allan seemed more enthusiastic than ever after we spoke. He wanted to talk directly with Joe, and I said I’d try to have Joe call him that afternoon about 3pm when he’ d finished with his present campaign stop.

Later Joe appeared nervous as he paced around his paneled study off his living room, phone in one hand cigarette in the other, while waiting for Allan to come on the line. But after an initial stiffness, he was up to snuff, talking about his crucifixion by the bankers who wanted nothing more than to destroy him. He told him about his humble roots, Elan, and Scarborough Downs, which he said he bought as a diversion from the stresses of his work at Elan. He mentioned his sons, how they had been taunted at school, and how his relationship with them had been destroyed because of the bank’s insidiousness. He went on and on, while Dan and I stayed on the living room sofa listening, watching Joe as he made various gestures with his eyes and fingers to show us how the conversation was going. Finally, Joe told him “People need to know about these injustices that those in power perpetrate...It could happen to them, probably does every day only they don’t have the resources to fight back...That’s why I’ve been driven to run for governor, to make a statement about the corruption and the injustice that’s going on...If you want to do a story it’d be great. You can come down here and see everything. My life’s an open book. I have nothing to hide...”

Joe was ecstatic after talking with Allan. He had agreed to go to the CBS offices in New York later that week to meet him and bring documentation about the lawsuit. A big fish had bitten. He summoned other employees to his house, and opened bottles of wine. It looked like he was ready to party, and when Joe was in high spirits he always had plenty of company. At that time, however, Linda had already left for her annual month long trip to her parents' retirement residence in Florida, so her hostessing presence was missed. But female companionship wasn’t lacking. In the door came Alice Quinn.*

Alice began working for Elan in 1982 after graduating from Providence College in Rhode Island with a degree in social work two years earlier. She had been working as a waitress at an Inn in her hometown of Warwick. Though she had no professional experience with adolescents prior to her arrival at Elan, she had quickly become senior director earning a salary in excess of $35,000. I had heard that she and Joe had a personal relationship, and one former Elan staffer expounded upon that statement, commenting that it was their mutual appetite for cocaine that made Joe and Alice compatible.

I hadn’t expected Alice to be a 1960’s version of chic Linda. Like Linda she had long straight blond hair, but it was not a modern cut. Dressed in corduroys and a simple shirt, she had little makeup and had a strange countenance, as though she were uncomfortable inside her own skin, a sharp contrast to the acutely self-possessed Linda. Shortly after arriving that afternoon Alice began confiding in me while Joe was out of the room. She explained that she and Joe had a personal relationship, declaring "Linda understands all about us." Yet she confessed that she didn’t know where her liaison with Joe was headed. For a year she had been trying to get Joe to accompany her to Rhode Island to meet her parents, but she said he kept putting her off. She talked incessantly and seemed out of control, I was surprised by her demeanor and wondered how she could wield so much power at Elan.

Dan and I excused ourselves as more people began arriving. That night was one of the rare occasions when there had been no campaign appearances and we’d planned to spend the evening with our son. Joe walked us to the door and reached out to embrace us. “I hope everything works out in New York...“ I commented as I pulled away. “You’re coming with me to make sure it does,” he stated, smiled then closed the door.

That Friday morning I boarded Joe’s private plane for a flight to LaGuardia along with John, Joe, and Father Bob. I realized, as we took off from the Portland Jetport, that Joe had assembled an impressive entourage designed to persuade 60 MINUTES to do his story. John carried a bulging briefcase containing court documents including secret interdepartmental memos from the bank that would illustrate how victimized his client had been. Father Bob was there to certify the purity of his employer’s soul, and I to translate and talk TV terms. In New York we were met by a chauffeured limousine Joe had hired, and whisked to to the headquarters of CBS News on West 57th Street.

*name changed

During the flight Joe had been in good spirits despite the dramatic descent as we approached La Guardia. Flying a tiny plane into one of the world’s busiest airports wasn’t easy, and I wished we had taken a commercial flight. Joe was adamant, however, about his privacy, and his need to come and go as he pleased without worrying about flight times. It was obvious too that he was relishing the day, and wanted to savor it in style.

When we arrived at the suite of 60 MINUTES offices the oversized trademark clock loomed in front of us in the reception area. A cameraman on the 60 MINUTES staff soon greeted us and declared that he loved Maine and was building a retirement home there. Yet he was concerned by all the information he had heard about the D.O.E. using Maine for a hazardous waste site. Joe told him that the public only knew half of what actually happened in the state, and offered to send him information concerning the D.O.E. hearings he had attended. The guy seemed grateful and gave Joe his home address. He then took us down the narrow carpeted hallway to Allan Maraynes’s tiny office. Enroute we observed other small offices to the right, the left wall devoted to framed photographs and other 60 MINUTES memorabilia. We passed by Andy Rooney and Morley Safer’s offices before we came upon Allan on the phone with his door open...

It was awkward at first with the introductions, and seating arrangements. There was only one couch, and a coffee table crammed with magazines beside Allan’s desk which was afloat with paper. Joe and Father Bob remained standing while John and I took the couch. Allan zeroed in on Joe, appraising his television worthiness. He then suggested that all five of us go to lunch in the CBS cafeteria which he said had good food, and quick service.

During lunch at a round table in the dimly lit pub style restaurant Joe sat to my left, and ordered himself a drink. He seemed a little overwhelmed that we had actually arrived and we’re being taken to lunch by a 60 MINUTES producer. Allan soon put everyone at ease. In his 30’s he was dressed casually, wearing sneakers, and a dark sports shirt, and pants. He talked quickly and often interrupted us mid sentence, either with a question, or a new thought of his own, but this New York style didn’t bother the kid from Port Chester.

Allan reminded me of a producer I had worked for at WBZ-TV in Boston, and I remembered that guy’s contempt for P.R. people, so I governed myself accordingly, careful not to engage in any ‘PR puff.' I also tried to let him know that I understood the ‘realities’ of television.

John outlined Joe’s civil suit against the bank in specific legal terms, while Joe injected a graphic emotional account of all he’d been through during the past four years, underscoring the ‘horror.' Joe told him how after spending nearly a $1 million in legal fees he still did not have a trial date, and said he doubted he’d ever get to court. Joe’s diatribe against the bank prompted Allan‘s observation that Joe could have been a character in a Kafka novel, specifically one titled: The Trial in which an innocent person was put through years of torture.

Allan seemed less impressed with Joe’s claim of ‘near financial ruin’ than others had been as he noted that it couldn’t have been too bad considering the fact that Joe flew down here in his own plane." I don’t know very many people who can do that", he said.

Father Bob did not talk much, but explained his role as director of counseling at Elan, mentioning that there were some gratifying "success stories" with some of the kids there.

Upon hearing the entire sordid saga, Allan half jokingly asked Joe to promise to give him the movie rights, saying it would be great for Hollywood.

After lunch we returned to Allan’s office, and visited the control room to see a tape of a recent story he completed. When we finally departed Allan stated he definitely wanted to do Joe’s story, and was almost sure he could shoot it in April, but had to clear it with a few people. He said he would let us know the following week so he could schedule a preliminary visit to Maine. He explained that each of the 60 MINUTES producers worked with different ‘talent’ on a rotating basis, and that he was working with Ed Bradley who would probably be interviewing Joe on camera.

Later in the cafeteria where we waited for the limo to take us back to Joe’s plane, the four of us were jubilant. “This is all I’ve ever wanted...” pronounced Joe, ”...to have somebody like 60 MINUTES draw attention to the torture I’ve been put through. If I lose my lawsuit now, it doesn’t matter, this will be worth it all. But if I do win, ” he continued, talking to me while John went and ordered us all wine from the bar, and Father Bob used the phone. "...I’m gonna share my good fortune with everyone who helped me during all of this...You know what I’m gonna do? he smiled. "...I’m gonna give you people close to me suitcases full of money..."

"Well lets not get carried away, " I responded laughing. But looking earnest he continued ”No, I’m not kidding. If I win millions of dollars from the bank I can pay off my legal fees, the Scarborough Downs mortgage, and then what more do I want? Money is to share, and if and when I win I’m going to give away suitcases full of hundred dollar bills to my friends.”

Chapter Twenty

"Whatta ya think I'm gonna do breakdown?"

Though Joe had been running for governor since October, he hadn’t yet made his formal announcement. Three of the five candidates had made their customary kick-off during the end of February, so it was decided Joe would have his moment in early March. The American Legion Hall in Wiscasset was chosen as the site for this gala after it was determined it would be logistically impossible for him to do it (as symbolic gesture) in front of the fence around the nuclear power plant in that town.

The hall was booked for March 6th. (less than a week after the trip to 60 MINUTES) Press releases had been sent out well in advance, podium, and sound system rented, refreshments ordered, volunteers mobilized. Joe was geared and promised to "knock them dead." I hired a video crew to tape his announcement so we could perhaps use excerpts of it for future TV ads. Everything was ready, except for Joe’s speech which I suggested he and I work on together. He kept putting it off, but finally scheduled a few hours the afternoon before the event for us to "hammer it out"at his house.

But after only a few minutes he seem distracted, unable to concentrate. There was a knock on the door, and Alice Quinn was let in. She sat quietly by, then mentioned that she had some problems at Elan that needed to be discussed. Sensing my frustration Joe dismissed me, giving me the charge to write the speech that night. “You know what I want to say ", he declared. "He promised he’d work on some points of his own and "weave them in" ..."You know me, the master of improv, he said trying to put me at ease. I pointed out that it was customary to have a text of the speech as hand-outs for the press, and everything would have to be finished and copied before his press conference scheduled for 11am the next day. ”It’ll be OK,” he assured me “...just do your version, and we can give them that...Last minute I can always make changes.” I reluctantly agreed and left, though I felt a cloak of uneasiness I couldn’t shake. “I’ll call you tonight, and we can go over it, “ he promised.

That night Dan and I labored over a speech . It was a virtual call to arms for disillusioned Democrats who wanted their party to get back to practicing its fundamental principals. It talked about how some elected officials cater to special interests trading favors with friends, and how big business lobbyists care nothing about the rights of working people. It focused on an eroding economy, an endangered environment and violations of individual civil rights due to “politicians who put a price tag on everything."

This was not reckless rhetoric, however, there was a strong upbeat slant about making positive changes for the future. When we finished it was near midnight and we realized that Joe hadn’t called. I dialed his number, anxious to read the speech to him, but his phone just kept ringing. I decided he must have stepped out, or gone to sleep, so we retired ourselves too tired to think anymore.

Six hours later we were up and at it. Dan was taking our son to school, and immediately making the hour trip to Wiscasset to supervise set-up for the rally. A contingent of volunteers had been mobilized to put up the maroon Ricci for governor signs all along the roadway leading to the American Legion. Inside the hall was to be decorated with balloons and banners, and stocked with campaign materials. Everyone who had expressed any interest in the campaign had been invited. I had planned on getting copies of the speech to add to the existing press packets before picking up Joe.

I arrived at Blackstrap Road a little after 9am, and was greeted by Joe’s housekeeper, Anne. ”He’s not up yet,“ she offered, asking me whether I’d like some coffee. Apprehensive, I asked her whether he was awake, and she told me that she just arrived a few moments before I did, but he probably would be down shortly, especially if he expected me. I sat and sipped coffee, re-read the speech twice, and Joe still had not appeared. It was 9:30am, and I was anxious. ”We’ve got to leave in a half hour in order to get there for the appointed time,“ I explained, asking her if she could check on him. She was reluctant, as she always treaded lightly around her boss, but she agreed to go up stairs and see if he was stirring. A couple of minutes later she came down and informed me that she told him I was there, and he "seemed to be getting ready."

Breathing a sigh of relief I waited a few minutes longer, expecting to see his spiffy figure stride into the room at any moment. Instead I heard what sounded like a whisper coming from the hallway. I listened and heard it again. It was somebody calling my name. I jumped from the dining room table and headed toward the hall. I moved closer toward the sound and realized it was Joe calling me from the second floor. I looked up, and did not recognize what I saw. He was standing, unshaven, in a bathrobe beckoning to me. He then walked down to the first landing and began crying... “What’s the matter ?” I asked, my heart racing. “I don’t know...“ he answered his voice barely audible through the sobs. "...My whole life nobody’s ever cared about me...” I placed by hand on his arm, and told him, fairly firmly that then was not the time to freak out, that he had to pull himself together, so we could get to Wiscasset. “I know, I know... “ he continued, gaining some control, “...Things will look better later. Its just that Alice and I stayed up all night doing cocaine, and drinking...I guess I gotta wash my face, and get ready, “ he stated, then turned and went upstairs.

Stunned, I went back to the dining room table. “More Coffee?" Ann asked in a cheery tone. I must have looked ashen because she asked me if everything was all right. "Yeah..." I said, "..Joe’s just got some pre-speech jitters."

"Oh.", she remarked as she fidgeted with the vacuum cleaner. “I thought there might have been a problem. You know you see things around here, especially when I’m the first one in after an evening, but I don’t like to poke my nose into things...” she continued her voice trailing off. ”What Joe does is his business." she quickly added. (Just that moment I remembered a comment I overheard Linda making a couple of months earlier, that she and Joe planned to fire their housekeeper Anne"...but not until after the Key Bank trial because she knows too much.”)

Waiting for Joe, I had to control my anger. It was the first time he ever admitted to me that he used cocaine, though I’d certainly heard the rumors. But this was significant. It was crazy to use that stuff, especially on the eve of his campaign kick off. What was he thinking? And what about Alice? Though she wasn’t involved in the campaign she certainly had to know how important that day was. I was incensed, but realized it was then the time for containment. It was 10:05 am, and we had to get to Wiscasset by 11am and through the next hour after that.

Joe walked into the dining room fifteen minutes later, shaven and wearing a suit with the tie dangling loosely around his neck. His shoes were in his hands, and he put them on as he talked to me, asking how long it took to get to Wiscasset. Anne appeared with a mug of coffee from which he took two sips and said "Let’s go." Out in his driveway I headed for my Honda, but he suggested we take his Mercedes. “It’s faster"," he said, handing me the keys. I had only driven the car once before two years earlier, so I was a bit flustered about having to navigate it over the unfamiliar territory, particularly in the rush we were in...

Driving along the treacherous Falmouth back roads to the turnpike Joe directed me to suddenly take a turn I hadn’t planned. “I need to get a pack of cigarettes," he announced as a small variety store came into view. Realizing he couldn’t function without them I dutifully stopped and waited at the wheel. Three minutes later he sprinted out of the store cigarettes in one hand, a can of beer in the other. Stopping directly in front of my window he surveyed me in the drivers seat, and announced “You really look good with this car. It goes with you.“ “This car goes with anything,” I observed irritably as Joe hopped in his side and pulled the lid on his can of Millers. He fixed his tie as I bolted along the highway. The clock on the dashboard read 10:50. In ten minutes Joe was supposed to meet the press and we were at least 45 minutes away.

“So how do I look?" he asked, his tie finally in place. I glanced briefly in his direction and noted his pallor and red rimmed eyes, the skin on his cheeks hanging loose, and beefy, the tiny bluish blood vessels near his temples. His $600 suit didn’t compensate for the ravages of self abuse that was revealed in his face. ”Great," I said, latching on to the power of positive thinking. Joe laughed, his I know you're zoomin' me laugh, and said “You’re OK .You know that. I really love you.”

Then looking more serious, he declared “You know it meant a lot that you didn’t pull away, get repulsed when I was all fucked up back at my house. I appreciate it.” “Well, let's just make the best of a really rocky start,“ I stated, directing him to a copy of the speech I had written the night before. He picked it up anxiously, and read it through... ”It's absolutely brilliant," he announced, thanking me for doing it. “I didn’t have anything,“ he confessed a bit sheepishly, getting out a pen where he made some markings for emphasis . “I’ll just read this exactly the way it is," he promised. “Then I’ll take some questions from the veritable members of our Maine media, and then I’ll be outta there, and hope to do what I overlooked last night-- sleep."

Driving 85 MPH I made it to the picturesque town of Wiscasset by 11:30. “We’re just a half hour late, “Joe remarked as we pulled off the highway, "and we know they're not gonna start without me.“

The main drag leading to the legion hall was punctuated every few feet with the burgundy and white Ricci for Governor signs that had just arrived the previous day. Joe whistled as he saw them, commenting that they looked "dramatic" As we approached the hall, Joe disengaged his seat belt, and suggested he get out of the car and go in first, instructing me to park in an inconspicuous spot,” so everyone won’t see my car.”

Inside the hall large bouquets of burgundy balloons emblazoned with white letters: Joe Ricci, A Very Independent Democrat Fighting for the People floated through the crowd of about 75 well-wishers. Dan had done an amazing job preparing the hall. It looked wonderful.

Camera crews from the three television stations had set up their equipment, with their nightly news anchors positioned nearby. Radio reporters, and newspaper people were also there, watching the clock, waiting for the tardy candidate. Joe walked in the small door in the back of the hall, and just as the audience became appraised of his arrival, he disappeared quickly into the bathroom from which he emerged a few moments later.

Then striding somberly up to the stage, he seemed ready to address his audience. He looked at the script and began reading: "Thank you for coming here today. I’m not going to give you a monotonous monologue of political platitudes with thirty pages of ‘PR puff’ like John McKernan ( Republican gubernatorial hopeful ) did in January . Rather I simply .....” He stopped seemingly on the verge of choking as he coughed. “Sorry,” he called out as he reached for a paper cup of water, but missed sand spilled it on himself. “I’ll start over," he announced, “...Its such a good speech I want to start again.

"I'm not going to give you a monotonous monologue of political platitudes like John Mc Kernan did. I simply want to tell you what’s wrong with this state and how I believe we can change it. Afterall if you’ve spent anytime surveying the political scene you’re already tired of hearing the usual rah rah speeches from other gubernatorial candidates ..."

His delivery was heavier than lead, every word labored, and articulated poorly. There was no life in his voice or his eyes, and he had to know it wasn’t working. This man whom I’d seen charm a crowd could have been reading a restaurant menu. He’ll get into gear once he get’s going I reasoned as I moved up from the back of the hall, taking a chair in the fifth row in front of the podium. Just then, however, he flung the speech aside, and said irritably ”I’m not good at reading speeches...I‘m not a professional politician. I’ll just tell you what I stand for... It's a good speech though," he continued, slurring his words " and I think Maura Curley, the one who wrote it, should come up here and read it."

All eyes in the room followed Joe’s finger, pointing at me, and there was silence as I shook my head declining, trying desperately to conceal my horror at what he was doing. ”No?” he asked me from the podium, "...Well then I’ll tell you what I stand for...” he began again looking into the cameras. "First of all I don’t want to be nobody’s governor. I’m just touched that you all showed up here today.” Then looking surly he added “I’ve got better things to do than be governor...If I don’t get elected, big deal. I’m not Joe Brennan. I know who I am...“ Then, as if he suddenly remembered he was waging a political campaign, hastily added “But if I’m elected I’ll serve."

For the next ten minutes or so he rambled on attempting to summarize his platform, wildly jumping from one subject to the next, often contradicting himself. He chastised the Maine State Police for being hired as undercover private police by S.D. Warren Paper Company to investigate drug use among its employees: “If you can go out and hire the state police then what’s it

coming to ?" he asked angrily, adding “Yes I’m angry and I have a right to be, I’ve been abused. There’s so much wrong, I just want to stop it, but I don’t know where to start. That’s what this campaign is all about,” he asserted “....stopping the madness. I’m going to try and change things, and make it rational.”

I couldn’t bear to watch and quietly got up and went to the back of the room looking for Dan. Our eyes had met earlier when I rushed in behind Joe, and I had given him the 'just don’t ask why we’re late' look. Once Dan saw Joe, however, he seemed to comprehend.

I found Dan in the compact kitchen area in the back of the hall looking dazed and pale. Two people, Alan Philbrook of Nuclear Referendum Committee, and Eric Moynihan, were nearby. Eric had brought his wife and two of his children to that ‘historic occasion' thinking it was going to be a gala event. "What’s happened to Joe?" Eric asked. “He’s sick. “ I said, and walked closer to Dan who had himself been battling the flu the whole week, working despite it to get everything ready for that day.

“I can’t believe what that son of a bitch is doing. He better not talk to me,” Dan exclaimed, and then headed for the men’s room where his stomach voiced a revolt of its own. Feeling the chill of certain defeat, I was calm if not philosophical. ”Get outta here, “ I told Dan. "Let's both go...I'm finished with this asshole," he replied. “I would if I could, but I ‘m driving his car,” I declared. Dan left immediately, and I learned later that he pulled over to vomit every ten minutes during the hour and a half drive home.

I wanted to yell fire or something to just end Joe’s monotony on stage. I half expected the press to just pack up and leave, dismissing him as one of those loonies that rages on in public parks to anyone who’d listen. Then abruptly Joe seemed bored or fed up himself, and stormed off the stage, heading to the back of the room where I was standing. Just then an anchor for one of the TV stations approached him, and asked whether he’d be willing to take some questions from the media since he had originally said he was going to do that after his ‘speech’. “Hell, why not?“ Joe responded, turned on his heel and headed back up to the podium.

"Think you can beat Jim Tierney in the primary?" "He violates peoples civil rights. I've been abused. I think I can beat him cuz he’s got no guts. He’s also a liar and I’ll tell you he should be suing the DOE, but he’s too busy playing puppet to Joe Brennan, and everybody knows who he works for." His eyes were darting wildly about the room. "Is your candidacy making a difference? Do you think people are listening? asked the same reporter. “I think I've been censored...I'm running to be a voice that’s heard, not necessarily a winner, but a voice. It’s the only way I could get a forum without being censored, ” he stated looking agitated again.

Then an anchor for the 6 o’clock news, a mild mannered 17 year old station veteran asked: "You think you’ll make it ? (you think you’ll win the race) Joe glared at him, eyes blazing like fireballs: “What the hell kinda question is that?” he sneered. "Will I make it? Whatta ya think I’m gonna do breakdown in front of all of you? Self destruct? What?...You people and Jim Tierney just waiting for that to happen...It figures." He walked off the stage, calling Celeste Cloutier one of the campaign researchers up to answer anything else.

I couldn’t avoid his eyes as he approached me, and my face felt purple from tension. “How’d I do?” he asked seriously. “I’ve seen better, “ I replied, searching for other words, but he walked away. Moments earlier Sharon Terry came up to him and exclaimed“Joe you were just great, marvelous!" Five minutes later Joe sent word over to me that he was riding home in Sharon’s car. I was to follow them back to Blackstrap Road in his Mercedes.