White Devil. Bob Halloran
all the information John gave me would need to be corroborated by other witnesses, investigators, wiretaps, federal or criminal court documents, and newspaper accounts. I also had several hours of transcribed interviews from my manager, Matt Valentinas, conducted separately with John and his girlfriend, Anh Nguyen. That information, along with my own interview with Anh, formed the basis of a lengthy research process that included additional interviews with members of John’s family, social circle, one former gang member, and the FBI.
A wealth of information and detail came directly from the first and second superceding indictments in which a grand jury charged John and several others with drug trafficking and money laundering—charges to which John and most of his associates pleaded guilty. Those indictments included transcribed phone conversations recorded by legal wiretaps. They also confirmed and added details to John’s version of money seizures, drug buys, and his own purchases of luxury items such as boats, cars, and houses—all of which were cited in the money laundering charges against him.
Affidavits submitted by FBI Special Agent Timothy C. McElroy for the continued use of electronic surveillance and by FBI Special Agent Thomas Conboy in support of the government’s motion to detain certain defendants clearly laid out the case against John and his coconspirators, and led to court-approved wiretaps of nine targeted telephones for nearly six months. Three of those phones were John’s. And you will read excerpts of what investigators recorded.
The FBI built a case against John and more than two dozen others that included narcotics distribution, money laundering, illegal gambling, extortion, alien smuggling, racketeering, human trafficking, and prostitution. Only one accomplice, Colby Deering, took his case to court. The trial transcripts with several coconspirators testifying under oath further corroborated or illuminated my research.
There were several reports in the Quincy Patriot Ledger, the San Francisco Weekly, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Boston Globe, and the New York Times from which I used information, eyewitness accounts, and quotes. Those are not footnoted in the book for the purpose of fluid reading, but I acknowledge them here.
What I learned from combining John’s stories with diligent research was that John had been honest, though a bit fuzzy on details and names. For instance, when John told me about a friend of his being killed right in front of him in a parking lot, this is what he said:
“His name was Wing. He had just gotten out of prison for robbing jewelry stores in Lowell. I knew him when he got out. It would be 1994–95.”
Well, as it turns out, a man named Chay Giang was killed in that parking lot under the same circumstances John described, but it happened in 1991.
John simply knew Chay Giang as Wing the same way he knew his own boss as Bai Ming, even though Bai Ming also went by Bike Ming, and his real name is Tan Ngo. Another criminal convicted under the name Truong Chi Trung was known by many as either Ah Sing or Ay-yat. John refers to him as Pida; although for quite a while I thought he was saying “Peter.” Clarifying all the aliases and discovering that many Asian gang members used Americanized names like Kevin or William was one of the more difficult challenges in assuring the information in this book is accurate.
Some names have been changed to protect the privacy of some individuals, but I offer a good-faith assurance that all other information is factual.
IT WAS COLLECTION DAY, and all the aging Chinese men who ran the dozens of low-stakes gambling dens and popular restaurants in Boston’s Chinatown were prepared to pay that month’s extortion money. The envelopes full of cash were usually transferred with a broad smile that belied each victim’s begrudging nature. They no longer felt the fear of what would happen if they didn’t pay, because they always paid. So the fear was gone, long since replaced by something far worse—a weekly emasculation at the hands of an abnormally large white guy who had them by the balls.
“I was always polite,” John Willis says reassuringly. “My boss, Bai Ming, would send me, and he always said when you go to collect money, make them respect you. Sometimes you’d have a problem. You’d have to, you know, do damage. Whether it’s beating people up, or sometimes you might put their hand on the grill; do something to really get the point across.”
John began collecting for Bai Ming as a teenager in the late 1980s. The first time he ran into a problem was at a gambling den on Harrison Avenue. He went in and introduced himself to the owner, and told him he was collecting for Ming. The owner was as surprised as he was offended that a round-eyed white kid would enter his place of business and demand money.
“Who does this white boy think he is?” the owner said to another man in Chinese. “He should just leave and go fuck his mother.”
The two men continued speaking in Chinese, mocking John and laughing. John stood patiently for a moment before turning around and locking the door. He then proceeded to tear the place apart. He turned over tables, smashed chairs, and pulled the lights down from the ceiling. When he was done and the gambling den looked like a disaster area, John walked up to the owner and spoke softly but firmly to him in perfect Chinese.
“Next time just give me the money. Don’t insult me. Don’t disrespect me, and don’t make me go through this again, or it won’t be furniture I break. Understand?”
“Oh, you speak Chinesey,” the owner said, managing a smile.
“No, I don’t speak Chinesey,” John corrected him. “I speak Chinese. Now, go fuck your mother.”
JOHN WILLIS SMILED at the memory and inhaled deeply. Willis is a large, muscular man of English, Portuguese, and Cherokee Indian descent, made even larger by persistent steroid use. He keeps his hair cropped short in a neat and stylish crew cut. His eyes are blue. His face is round and handsome. He is much too serious to allow for a broad, carefree smile. Laughter is a luxury. He is all business all the time.
His moment of fond reminiscing ended abruptly when he heard the distinctive echo that can only be made when metal doors are slammed shut. He listened to the muffled whimpers of strong men crying into their pillows. Moments later the lights were turned out, and he felt the loneliness that darkness brings. He sensed fear all around him, and as he felt it growing inside of himself, he jumped down to the cold cement floor and he prayed.
John forced his large, muscular body into a modified lotus position, closed his eyes, and listened to his own heartbeat. He concentrated solely on its rhythm until the space between beats grew remarkably wide, and his breathing was shallow enough to be imperceptible. He pushed out thoughts of anger and self-pity, and wrestled with the self-awareness that caused him to both love and loathe himself. Finally reaching a more peaceful state, John thought about all the people he loved in his life. There were exactly two—his wife and his daughter. Prior to meeting his wife, Anh Nguyen, he had no familiarity with either love or fear, and the sudden appearance of both disrupted his core beliefs. Love and fear threatened his way of life. They made him vulnerable in ways that could get him killed, and he felt love, in particular, weakening him every day. It must be love, he thought, “because it brings a lot of pain.” His mind didn’t land on the notion that love brings a lot of happiness. There’s far too much conflict and guilt and rising thoughts of violence associated with love for it to ever offer John the false hope of pure joy. Love was far more likely to fuel his rage.
“Somebody hit my wife one time in a nightclub,” John recalled. “I was in New York, and somebody called me and told me. They’ve never seen that guy again. And nobody ever will. He shouldn’t have put his hands on her. The fact of the matter is the guy will never, ever do that again. Whoever knew about it, or was involved in it, they were getting whatever he was getting. When it comes to my wife, I’m not arguing. I don’t have a problem with taking out five or six guys just to get to the right one. Then it’s over. And I sleep a little better.”
The memory of having done the right thing helped John relax. He continued rubbing