The Witness Security Program owes its creation to one of the most-feared assassins the Mafia has ever produced: Joseph Barboza, who took pride in his underworld alias, “The Animal.”
It was a nickname he had lived up to. “I was an enforcer,” he boasted to the House Select Committee on Crime in 1972, “who kept the other enforcers in line.”
Barboza had done so as a top hitman earning $900 a week from the most powerful Mafia family in New England. Ruling that family was Raymond Patriarca, based in Providence, Rhode Island.
Joseph “The Animal” Barboza
But even before entering the Mafia, Joseph Barboza had spent most of his life as a career criminal. He was born in 1932, in New Bedford, Massachusetts, to Portuguese immigrant parents.
By the time he was thirty, he had served two prison sentences—one for burglary, the other for assault with a deadly weapon.
Even his jailers couldn’t restrain him. At Norfolk Prison Colony, he got drunk on illicit “hooch” and led an inmates’ riot, culminating in a short-lived escape-attempt.
When Barboza wasn’t serving time in prison, he made his living as a boxer (winning three professional matches and earning a rating in Ring magazine). He supplemented his income through a career as a freelance loanshark and extortionist.
By 1963, his growing notoriety had brought him to the attention of Enrico Henry Tameleo, the underboss, or second-in-command, to Raymond Patriarca.
Since 1948, Patriarca had been “the policymaker, judge and overlord of organized crime” throughout New England, according to a 1966 FBI report.
Raymond Patriarca
Tameleo offered a Barboza a job and fulltime income as an enforcer for the Patriarca Family. Barboza instantly agreed. He had always dreamed of becoming a “made man” of the Mafia.
(Tameleo didn’t warn him that this was impossible. Barboza was of Portuguese descent, and only full-blooded Sicilians and Italians could hold Mafia membership.)
Tameleo sent Barboza to shake down 20 nightclubs whose owners had refused to pay “protection insurance” to the mob.
The owners changed their minds after one or two visits from Barboza and his wrecking crew. Furniture would be smashed and customers terrorized until the owners began paying $1,000 a month to Patriarca’s collectors.
Meanwhile, the always fragile peace of the New England underworld was being shattered by an escalating wave of gangland violence.
In 1961, the two most powerful factions of the region’s “Irish Mafia” had gone to war. On one side was the Charleston mob of Bernard McLaughlin. On the other was the Winter Hill gang of James “Buddy” McLean.
The “Irish Gang War” triggered a police crackdown on all the New England organized crime groups—including Patriarca’s. That was when Patriarca demanded that the fighting stop.
To ensure that it did, he sent his underboss, Tameleo, to arrange a peace conference between the McLeans and McLaughlins. Both sides agreed to a truce because Tameleo was widely respected for his skills as a negotiator.
But when the conference opened in January, 1965, Tameleo was outraged to find the McLaughlins had come armed–a direct violation of the “rules of order.” Patriarca also grew furious at this spurning of his efforts as underworld peacemaker.
As a result, the Patriarca Family threw its full weight behind the McLeans.
During 1965, Joseph Barboza moved from being a “mere” legbreaker for the Patriarca Family to becoming its top assassin. His first important victim was Edward Deegan, a McLaughlin member who had raided several Patriarca gambling dens.
Barboza invited Deegan to join him in a burglary of the Lincoln National Bank in Boston. Unaware that he had been marked for death, Deegan agreed.
On the night of March 12, 1965, the burglars struck. As the four men emerged from the bank, Barboza and two cronies emptied their pistols into Deegan.
This killing proved a turning point for Barboza. He became the top hitman for the Patriarca Family and the McLean mob. He carried out more hits than any other assassin during the war. Later, in a hastily-written autobiography, he would boast of his string of killings.
(But he was always careful to describe his actions in the third-person, as though someone else had actually been responsible. In this way he protected himself against prosecution for murder, where no immunity existed.)
In June, Jimmy “The Bear” Flemmi, a close friend of Barboza’s, was gravely wounded by a shotgun blast. Barboza soon learned that the attackers had been Steve Hughes and Edward “Punchy” McLaughlin.
Swearing vengeance, Barboza quickly set out to claim his next victim. He was especially intent on disposing of Hughes, who had become the top triggerman of the McLaughlins.
On October 20, 1963, Edward McLaughlin was waiting at a bus stop when Barboza casually walked up behind him. Disguised in a wig and glasses, Barboza drew his pistol and pumped five bullets into McLaughlin.
Less than a month later, on November 11, the hitman visited the Mickey Mouse Club, a tavern in Revere Reach. This time his intended target was a bartender and McLaughlin member named Ray DiStassio.
Talking with DiStassio at that moment was an innocent bystander, John R. O’Neill. Barboza simply drew and shot both men dead.
Copyright@1984 Taking Cover: Inside the Witness Security Program, by Steffen White and Richard St. Germain



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TWO ANNIVERSARIES–ONE GLORIOUS, THE OTHER TRAGIC
In History, Politics, Social commentary on June 6, 2013 at 12:01 am“For it is the doom of men that they forget.”
–Merlin, in “Excalibur”
June 6–a day of glory and tragedy.
The glory came 69 years ago–on Tuesday, June 6, 1944.
On that morning, Americans awoke to learn–from radio and newspapers–that their soldiers had landed on the French coast of Normandy.
In Supreme Command of the Allied Expeditionary Force was American General Dwight D. Eisenhower. Overall command of ground forces was given to British General Bernard Montgomery.
Operation Overlord, the Allied invasion to liberate France from Nazi Germany, proved one of the pivotal actions of World War II.
It opened shortly after midnight, with an airborne assault of 24,000 American, British, Canadian and Free French troops. This was followed at 6:30 a.m. by an amphibious landing of Allied infantry and armored divisions on the French coast.
Field Marshal Erwin Rommel–the legendary “Desert Fox”–commanded the German forces. For him, the first 24 hours of the battle would be decisive.
“For the Allies as well as the Germans,” he warned his staff, “it will be the longest day.”
The operation was the largest amphibious invasion in history. More than 160,000 troops landed–73,000 Americans, 61,715 British and 21,400 Canadians.
Initially, the Allied assault seemed likely to be stopped at the water’s edge–where Rommel had always insisted it must be. He had warned that if the Allies established a beachhead, their overwhelming advantages in numbers and airpower would eventually prove irresistible.
German machine-gunners and mortarmen wreaked a fearful toll on Allied soldiers. But commanders like U.S. General Norman Cota led their men to victory through a storm of bullets and shells.
Coming upon a group of U.S. Army Rangers taking cover behind sand dunes, Cota demanded: “What outfit is this?”
“Rangers!” yelled one of the soldiers.
“Well, Goddamnit, then, Rangers, lead the way!” shouted Cota, inspiring the soldiers to rise and charge into the enemy.
The allied casualty figures for D-Day have been estimated at 10,000, including 4,414 dead. By nationality, the D-Day casualty figures are about 2,700 British, 946 Canadians and 6,603 Americans.
The total number of German casualties on D-Day isn’t known, but is estimated at 4,000 to 9,000.
Allied and German armies continued to clash throughout France, Belgium and Germany until May 7, 1945, when Germany finally surrendered.
But those Americans who had taken part in D-Day could be proud of having dealt a fatal blow to the evil ambitions of Adolf Hitler’s Third Reich.
So much for the glory of June 6. Now for the tragedy–which occurred 45 years ago.
Twenty-four years after D-Day, Americans awoke to learn–mostly from TV–that New York Senator Robert F. Kennedy had died at 1:44 a.m. of an assassin’s bullet.
He had been campaigning for the Democratic Presidential nomination, and had just won the California primary on June 4.
This had been a make-or-break event for Kennedy. He had won the Democratic primaries in Indiana and Nebraska, but had lost the Oregon primary to Minnesota Senator Eugene McCarthy.
If he could defeat McCarthy in California, Kennedy could force his rival to quit the race. That would lead to a showdown between him and Vice President Hubert Humphery for the nomination.
(President Lyndon B. Johnson had withdrawn from the race on March 31–just 15 days after Kennedy announced his candidacy on March 16.)
After winning the California and South Dakota primaries, Kennedy gave a magnaminous victory speech in the ballroom of the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles:
“I think we can end the divisions within the United States….We are a great country, an unselfish country, and a compassionate country. And I intend to make that my basis for running over the period of the next few months.”
Then he entered the hotel kitchen–where Sirhan Sirhan, a 24-year-old Palestinian from Jordan, opened fire with a .22 revolver. Kennedy was hit three times–once fatally in the back of the head. Five other people were also wounded.
Kennedy’s last-known words were: “Is everybody all right?” and “Jack, Jack.” Then he lost consciousness–forever, dying in a hospital bed 24 hours later.
Kennedy had been a U.S. Attorney General (1961-1964) and Senator (1964-1968). But it was his connection to his murdered brother, President John F. Kennedy, for which he was best-known.
His assassination–less than five years after that of JFK–convinced many Americans there was something “sick” about the nation’s culture.
One of the best summaries of Robert Kennedy’s legacy was given in Coming Apart: An Informal History of America in the 1960’s, by historian William L. O’Neil:
“…He aimed so high that he must be judged for what he meant to do, and, through error and tragic accident, failed at….He will also be remembered as an extraordinary human being who, though hated by some, was perhaps more deeply loved by his countrymen than any man of his time.
“That too must be entered into the final account, and it is no small thing. With his death something precious disappeared from public life.”
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