Cullotta: The Life of a Chicago Criminal, Las Vegas Mobster and Government Witness (11 page)

In the late 1960s, the Chicago Police Department created a special unit to confront the crews of professional burglars and robbers overrunning the streets of Chicago at that time. The new outfit was called the Criminal Intelligence Unit, or CIU. An officer named Bill Hanhardt was in charge of it; Jack Hinchy was second in command. These cops were sharp, and if Frank hadn’t known better, he’d have thought they were burglars or robbers themselves. They thought just like he did and continuously nipped at his heels.

Hanhardt was a quiet guy who did his talking with his eyes. Frank was in his office a few times and Hanhardt asked him questions about things he’d done that nobody knew about. But the head of the CIU knew. Frank had no idea how he knew, but he did. He found it kind of scary that Hanhardt had so many things figured out.

On the other hand, Hinchy, in Frank’s opinion, was a maniac. He used to threaten Frank by saying, “Cullotta, some day I’m going to catch you walking out of a joint you just robbed. I’m going to be right there. And I’m going to blow your fucking head off.”

Frank just smirked at him, which made him all the madder. Frank, his car-bombing friend Bushelhead, and another guy named Vince got word from Frank’s dispatcher friend about a truckload of televisions and made the snatch. They drove the rig to a big junkyard the gang used. The plan was to leave the rig and come back in a couple of days to move the load. They didn’t know it then, but the CIU was on them the whole time. When they returned, the cops were waiting.

Frank was up on the trailer when the yelling started. Then he heard gunshots. He tried to jump to a fence behind the trailer, but didn’t make it. A cop ordered him to the ground with his hands on top of his head. Then he hollered to the other cops, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! I’m back here and I’ve got Cullotta on the ground. Don’t shoot!”

Frank doesn’t know if it was intentional or not, but he thinks that cop saved him from taking a bullet. If he’d tried to run, he believes he would have been killed. Bushelhead was shot in the arm and the ass and was taken to the hospital. Frank and Vince went to jail and were bonded out the next day.

On a side note, Frank’s observation that the CIU cops thought just like crooks proved to be accurate in the case of Bill Hanhardt. On October 25, 2001, the former CIU boss pled guilty to overseeing a ring of jewelry robbers and having a decades-long relationship with organized crime.

In April 2002, John Kass of the
Chicago Tribune
spoke with Frank about Hanhardt. Frank said he wasn’t surprised to learn about Hanhardt’s double life. He told Kass that he became suspicious of the cop at the time of the jewelry-store robbery in the Maller Building on Wabash Avenue. Frank said that the day after that score, Hanhardt pulled him in and said he never figured Frank to be in on the job. Hanhardt laughed about it and let him go. Frank told Kass, “The only people who knew [about his involvement] were Tony and one other guy on the score. How could Hanhardt know so quick?” Frank said he posed that question to Tony. “The look Tony gave me made it perfectly clear to me that they [the Outfit] had him. Years later Tony told us, ‘That’s our guy. We got him.’ I was no angel, but [Hanhardt] was no better,” Frank concluded. In Frank’s mind, he may have been an outlaw, but at least he was honest about who and what he was. He has absolutely no use for crooked cops. Under the color of law, they break every rule in the book. In his opinion, they’re even worse than the criminals they pursue.

The 77-year-old Hanhardt is currently serving his sentence at the Federal Correctional Institution in Waseca, Minnesota. His projected release date is January 13, 2012.

The truck hijacking for which Frank, Bushelhead, and Vince were arrested turned into a federal rap, because the stolen televisions had been an interstate shipment. That meant FBI agents, as well as the local lawmen, were now interested in Frank and his gang. They were still out on bail from that when they pulled another caper.

The three stole about 3,600 Sunbeam electric can openers and stashed them on a farm they owned in Elgin, Illinois, about 45 miles from Chicago. They leased the house on the property to a couple of girls. A night or two after the heist, they went back to move the merchandise. Vince and Frank were inside the barn when they heard a noise coming from the direction of the house. Frank took a look and saw two or three guys with shotguns coming toward the barn. He yelled to Vince, “The goddamn cops are on us! We’ve got to get the fuck out of here!”

As the thieves fled, Frank was running so fast that when he bumped into a horse, he knocked it over! He made it outside, but the cops were everywhere; there was no escape. The two were taken to the state police station in Niles and charged with possession of the stolen can openers. They posted bond and were let go.

They went to their bondsman’s office and reviewed all the paperwork. The bondsman thought the defendants had a better chance to get a favorable verdict if they could get the case moved from Niles Township to Chicago. He said he had connections there and for the right amount of money he could help them. The bondsman wanted five grand to get things started. It was a big chance to take, but Frank gave him the money.

When they went to court, an FBI agent was there as an interested observer. It turned out the cops had erred on the search warrant. They hadn’t asked the girls leasing the farmhouse for permission to come on the property. The judge ruled the warrant was invalid and threw out the whole case. As Frank was leaving the courtroom, he made a huge mistake. He laughed in the FBI agent’s face and said, “Gotcha.”

The agent stared back at him and said coolly, “We’ll see about that.”

Within thirty days of Frank uttering that one word, the heat was on. It was apparent the law wanted Frank, Bushelhead, and Vince real bad. Every place he and his associates owned or hung out, including their homes, was raided in a search for evidence of burglaries or robberies. Frank was out of town when the raids were conducted, but he got word that the cops were looking for him. He immediately contacted the same bondsman, the one with all the connections.

“I heard about the searches,” the bondsman said, “but they aren’t the real problem. I know that all three of you are going to be charged with the armed robbery of a supermarket in Belvedere, Illinois.”

“That’s a lot of bullshit. I’ve never been to Belvedere. I don’t even know where the fucking place is.”

“That may be, but right now you’ve got two choices: Turn yourself in or leave the country.”

Figuring the Belvedere rap would be easy to beat, Frank turned himself in. He, Vince, and Bushelhead were put in a lineup. All three were positively identified as having pulled the job. A schoolteacher, the store-owner’s daughter, and another witness made the identification. The case wasn’t bullshit any longer. If convicted, they were facing some serious prison time.

When Frank and his crew did the Dad’s Root Beer home invasion and robbery, someone else took the fall. Now he found himself in a similar situation, charged with a crime that he swears to this day he didn’t commit. Frank had a number of other cases still pending, but this latest one was the most problematic and frustrating. With the help of their lawyers, Frank and his friends scrambled to extricate themselves from what they considered to be a gross injustice.

They fought this case for about a year. In an effort to create an alibi, the friendly bondsman used his clout to get an Oak Park cop to help out. The officer backdated a citation showing that he was writing Frank a speeding ticket five minutes before the robbery in Belvedere took place. During the jury trial, the fake ticket was introduced into evidence. It didn’t do any good; nothing did any good. All three defendants were found guilty and sentenced to 15 years each in the state penitentiary. They were immediately incarcerated and there were no appeal bonds.

In addition to his 15-year stretch, Frank still had two hijacking cases pending against him. Compounding his woes, he was indicted for robbing the Brinks truck at the church rectory, after two of his accomplices in that caper rolled and became government informants.

Frank discussed the situation with his African-American lawyer. “We’re in a lot of trouble on that federal hijacking charge,” the attorney said. “A black man and a dago haven’t got a chance in the federal system. I’m not telling you to cop out; I’ll fight all the way. I’m just telling you what we’re facing.”

“Go for it then,” Frank said. “We’ll fight every one of these goddamn cases.”

They did, starting with the state charges, and lost them all.

For years, Frank had had myriad charges against him reduced or dismissed and his one major conviction was reversed on appeal. Now it appeared the chickens were coming home to roost. But considering what he was facing in the way of jail time, the veteran thief believes he didn’t come out too bad.

He was sentenced to a total of 16 years for the two truck hijackings and copped a plea on the Brinks job, getting four more years. Adding in the 15 for the bogus robbery conviction, he was looking at up to 35 years. But he got the time cut more than in half by getting all the sentences lumped together and having them run concurrently.

That was the good news. The bad news was that the federal charge for hijacking the interstate shipment of televisions was still unresolved. A guilty verdict in that case could negate the relatively good disposition he’d received at the state level.

So, as the 29-year-old headed off to serve up to 15 years in state prison in 1968, there was no guarantee that would be all the time he’d have to spend behind bars.

Frank, Bushelhead, and Vince entered Stateville prison in Joliet, Illinois, on September 13, 1968. Frank found the conditions there to be much harsher than the Cook County Jail or the House of Corrections, where he’d previously done time. To survive in that environment required mental and physical toughness. Having some equally hard-nosed allies didn’t hurt.

The inmate population in Stateville was predominantly black. There were fistfights, stabbings, and rapes. It was a very hard place for white inmates to get along in, especially if they had to go it alone. Fortunately for Frank, several Italians in the prison stuck together and looked out for each other. But for the other white guys, it was a terrible place. With Frank’s extensive criminal background, one could argue that he deserved to be there. But being incarcerated for something he hadn’t done caused him to become a very bitter man.

The main black gang in Stateville was the Blackstone Rangers. Formed in the early 1960s, the gang was named after its home turf, the impoverished Woodlawn neighborhood on Chicago’s South Side. Many of the Rangers were cold-blooded killers. They murdered rival gang members or anyone else they had a mind to, whether they were on the streets or inside the prison. They were a dangerous group to be on the wrong side of, but could be powerful allies if they liked you. And Frank was already on good terms with one of their incarcerated members.

Frank had met a man known as Thunder while both were being held in the Cook County Jail. He knew that Thunder was a Ranger and that the gang had power and a lot of members. Nearly every correctional facility in Illinois—local, state, and federal—held a number of the gangsters at any given time. With that in mind, Frank included Thunder in some of the perks he received because of his relationship with the jail warden, things such as better food and extra phone calls. He didn’t have to do it, but he considered it good business. In Stateville, that investment paid dividends. With Thunder’s endorsement, Frank became a friend of the gang.

Inmates were able to work in the prison. Vince went to the barbershop and Bushelhead worked in the receiving-area clothing room, outfitting new inmates. Frank hoped to get into a program that would teach him more about electronics, but there wasn’t an opening for him. That resulted in an initial assignment to the coal pile.

Stateville’s boilers burned coal. The fuel was delivered to the prison by rail and dumped alongside the tracks. Inmate work crews then moved the coal to the boiler rooms using shovels and wheelbarrows. It was dirty back breaking work. Frank felt it qualified as hard labor.

After about three months on the coal pile, Frank transferred to the barbershop as a clerk. His job there was to give tests to inmates who wanted to become barbers after they got out. He didn’t particularly care for those duties, but he made the best of the situation. For a carton of smokes, he made sure any would-be barber got a passing score.

As Frank bided his time waiting for a better job opportunity, he found that he sorely missed many of the things he’d taken for granted on the outside. Freedom itself was a terrible thing to lose for an extended period of time. To him, if you didn’t have your freedom, you didn’t have anything. Everything was regimented. You got up, went to bed, ate your meals, and took a shower when you were told to, not when you felt like it.

Items such as soap and toilet paper that didn’t seem like a big deal on the outside were suddenly important. A decent writing pen, a good pair of socks or underwear, were precious possessions. And money was a hell of a thing to be short of. Cigarettes and food could be used as trading material, but good old cash was the best bargaining tool of all.

Inmates were allowed one visit per month. Frank’s relatives, especially his mother, were his main visitors. But if one of his friends wanted to see him, she’d stay away and let the friend visit instead. Although Frank exchanged letters with several girls he knew, none of them ever came to the prison.

Messages to Frank from his criminal associates still on the streets were received through his family and legit friends during regular phone calls, or delivered by visitors. The information relay system in the prison was so efficient that inmates often knew what was happening on the outside before the people on the streets knew it.