Is There More to the Mafia-Abortion Question Than Meets the Eye_
World Magazine; April 4th Issue

Chicago, IL -- The low, red brick building at 5714 West Division Street in
Chicago doesn't look like it would be anyone's destination of choice when
seeking health care. All around the A.C.T. Medical Center are bars,
boarded-up storefronts, coin-op laundries, and check-cashing joints. But
whether on the bus or in beat-up cars, the patients do come: mostly young,
mostly black or Hispanic, and mostly pregnant.

The sign on the side of the building promises a cornucopia of medical
services. "A.C.T. Medical Center," it reads.
"Obstetrics/Gynecology/General Surgery/Foot Surgery/Free Pregnancy
Testing/Same-Day Appointments."

That may sound pretty comprehensive, but two key words are missing:
Abortion abortion facility-or "pregnancy termination center," as the
office of the Illinois Secretary of State, which issues licenses for such
things, classifies it.

Federal prosecutors classify it differently: The A.C.T. Medical Center is
actually a Mafia front, from which one of the city's most powerful reputed
mobsters ran a multimillion-dollar empire built on gambling, bribery, and
extortion. After years of delay, the trial of Anthony Centracchio, the
owner of the abortion facility, appears imminent. On April 12, government
lawyers will appeal a district court judge's decision to suppress certain
evidence gathered during nearly three years of surveillance. Once the
court of appeals rules on the admissibility of such evidence, the case
itself will be cleared for trial-perhaps by summer.

Pro-life advocates have long whispered about ties between the Mafia and
the abortion industry. When pressed for details, however, they back down.
The logic is certainly there: Abortion facilities-largely unregulated
businesses that generate lots of untraceable cash-seem like a natural fit
for Mafiosi looking to launder their ill-gotten gains. Until now,
documentation hasn't existed. But if the government's case proves true,
that's exactly what has gone down in Chicago.

Perhaps tens of thousands of pages of surveillance transcripts, wiretaps,
and other evidence are locked in a vault on the 27th floor of the Dirksen
Federal Building in downtown Chicago. The vast majority of the case is
still under seal, but, ironically enough, defense motions to suppress
specific pieces of evidence have created an intriguing paper trail. By
examining dozens of those defense motions and the government's replies,
WORLD has pieced together a preview of the federal case against Mr.
Centracchio-and the first proof of Mafia involvement in the abortion
industry.

WORLD spent three days at the Dirksen building, requesting documents one
at a time, examining them on the premises and making notes, because
photocopying was not permitted. What follows is clearly one-sided because
the accused aren't talking. Though the Centracchio legal team has filed
its briefs in the case, they're not talking to reporters. "I've been
trying these cases for 45 years, and I don't usually comment," said
Raymond J. Smith, Mr. Centracchio's lead attorney. "I'm a big believer in
trying cases in the courtroom."

Nevertheless, the government's case looks strong. Most of what follows is
taken from months of wiretaps and surveillance videos, much of which
already has been ruled admissible. Other parts of the story come from
former Centracchio colleagues who are now cooperating with prosecutors.
Finally, a related trial is already complete, netting two convictions and
mounds of additional evidence. Soon the boss himself gets his day in
court.

Anthony Centracchio didn't pioneer illegal gambling on Chicago's west
side. According to a 32-page grand jury indictment dated April 13, 2000,
Mr. Centracchio took over the operation when the previous boss, Louis "the
Mooch" Eboli, died in 1987. The business was straightforward enough:
Through companies like OK Amusement and All Games Amusement, Mr.
Centracchio installed up to 500 Cherry Master, Joker Poker, and other
video gambling machines in bars, restaurants, and fraternal lodges all
over the west side.

The Centracchio games-unlike legal, government-regulated gambling
machines-operated without mandated payout ratios. Unregulated machines can
be as "tight" as the market will allow, paying out just often enough to
keep the customer hooked. When a payout did occur, the indictment charges,
it came in the form of a voucher, which the bartender would then redeem
for cash. But only sometimes: Business owners were told to pay only
regular customers whom they knew and trusted. When strangers presented
vouchers, they were to be told that the machines were for amusement only.

Exact numbers are not yet available, but the Centracchio enterprise was
certainly lucrative. Since a single machine can generate $100,000 a year,
tens of millions of dollars may have been at stake. The boss made sure he
got what was coming to him by sending associates to check every machine
every week, according to the indictment. A computer in each machine
tallied "ins" (coins accepted) and "outs" (monies paid). Business owners
then took 40 percent of the profits, and the Centracchio organization
pocketed the remaining 60 percent. In exchange for their smaller cut, bar
owners got protection from law enforcement and, in case that protection
ever failed, free legal representation.

But no amount of protection money could shelter Mr. Centracchio from the
FBI. Armed with RICO, the tough anti-racketeering law, federal agents
descended on Chicago in 1992. With the full support of the Justice
Department-Attorney General Janet Reno herself got involved at least
once-warrants for wiretaps and video surveillance were easy to obtain. On
Feb. 28, 1994, a judge issued a seven-page order authorizing the FBI to
install a closed-circuit TV camera in the ceiling of Mr. Centracchio's
office at his A.C.T. Medical Center.

For the next 10 weeks, the hidden cameras recorded a fascinating slice of
Mob life. Once a month, owners of adult bookstores and porn theaters all
over the greater Chicago area came in to pay their "street tax" to the
boss. According to the indictment, the payments were "induced by the
wrongful use of actual and threatened force, violence, and fear." As with
everything else, extortion was an all-cash business. Government
surveillance tapes recorded Salvatore Cecola, one of the bookstore owners,
slipping Mr. Centracchio an envelope stuffed with $20 bills on April 5,
1994, which sent the boss into a rage. "What the [expletive] is this_" he
demanded. He couldn't carry around such a thick wad of cash without
arousing suspicion, he explained. From then on, Mr. Cecola was to pay his
street tax in $100 bills.

Between the street tax, the gambling proceeds, and the profits from the
abortion business, the abortion facility was awash in cash. On at least
seven different occasions, FBI cameras caught Mr. Centracchio sitting at
his desk surrounded by piles of cash, which he sorted into stacks for the
various officials on his payroll. Not one to take chances with that kind
of money, he kept a 9mm Luger pistol on the premises, along with 15
cartridges-which is illegal because Mr. Centracchio already has a felony
conviction and may not legally own a gun.

While women were having abortions in the adjoining rooms, the abortion
facility president received a monthly stream of visitors eager for their
share of the bounty. April 2, 1994, was a typical day: FBI tapes show Mr.
Centracchio stuffing cash into an envelope just before the start of
business. An hour later, Robert Urbinati, a policeman in the nearby suburb
of Franklin Park, entered the office with Mr. Centracchio's chief
lieutenant, Thomas Tucker. After receiving what prosecutors allege was his
monthly payoff, Mr. Urbinati headed back to the car with Mr. Tucker.

TUCKER: "How much is here_ Did you count it_"

URBINATI: "I didn't count it. Do you want me to count it_"

TUCKER: "Should be 24 there."

The FBI claims that handwritten figures scribbled on a calendar page show
that Mr. Centracchio doled out up to $5,000 a month in such protection
payments, helping to ensure that his gambling empire would continue
unmolested by the authorities.

But on Dec. 2, 1994, that empire began to crash around him. Robert Natale,
mayor of the Chicago suburb of Stone Park, met Mr. Tucker at the
Paddlewheel Restaurant to receive what prosecutors contend was his regular
bribe. As the mayor approached the table at 1:03 p.m., Mr. Tucker stood
and motioned for Mr. Natale to follow him to the men's room. Two minutes
later they stepped back out, and Mr. Natale headed directly to the parking
lot. As he approached his car, agents swept in with search warrants. They
found $1,385 in cash, including $1,000 wrapped in a white paper band
labeled "1000." The handwriting, an FBI expert will testify, belonged to
Mr. Centracchio. The mayor, like Mr. Urbinati, has been indicted on
charges of racketeering, illegal gambling, and obstruction of justice.

In a panic, Mr. Tucker tried to warn his boss. Fearing surveillance at the
abortion facility, he went instead to a shop called Beauty on Broadway,
where Mr. Centracchio was due for an appointment. "I went to the beauty
shop," Mr. Tucker told Mr. Urbinati in a government-bugged phone call.
"You know, where he knows that broad real good. He's going there at 2:30.
I told the girl what happened.... She's got everything written down. I
told her to burn it after she gets done."

But the written details at the beauty shop were the least of their
concern, and Mr. Tucker knew it. In a barely coherent, obscenity-filled
call to his wife, Mr. Tucker ranted about the FBI raid, as law-enforcement
officials listened in: "Wiped me out. Took all my money. Took everything
... 'We're from the FBI.' [Expletive], a thousand dollars. I just give
Bobby [expletive] thousand.... I had eighteen hundred dollars in there.
They wiped me out, Lee. Didn't leave me with a penny. Took every
[expletive] thing I had."

The end was in sight. For months, the conspirators had idly speculated on
what they might be charged with if they were ever caught. The speculation
was not so idle anymore. With the noose tightening, Mr. Tucker called
another Centracchio underling, Nicholas Ciotti, who would later be
convicted of money laundering. The two men reminisced about the good old
days of organized crime in Chicago. "A dying art, Buddy," Mr. Ciotti said
wistfully. "I wish I was a shoe salesman.... I always told Bobby, I wish I
was a [expletive] shoe salesman. You go home at five o'clock."

If the government's case persuades the court, Mr. Centracchio, Mr. Tucker,
and their colleagues won't be going home at 5:00 any time soon. Facing
charges of racketeering, extortion, illegal gambling, intimidation of
witnesses, possessing unlawful firearms, and perjury, Mr. Centracchio
could face 20 years in prison. Now 70, he would likely die behind bars.
The government also has signaled it intends to seize both the A.C.T.
Medical Center and Mr. Centracchio's home in nearby Oak Brook.

To make their case, prosecutors plan to call up to 150 witnesses,
including some 70 FBI agents who worked on the long-running investigation.
The trial could last for weeks and is sure to rivet public attention in
Chicago, a city with a Mafia history going back at least to Al Capone.
"The Outfit," as the local Mafia is called, is woven tightly into the
fabric of life in the city. Brutal gangland slayings once dominated the
headlines, with more than 1,100 Mob-related murders recorded between 1919
and 1990.

In the '90s, however, the shootings, bombings, and disappearances stopped
as the Outfit turned its attention to less violent-and more
profitable-pursuits. According to the Chicago Crime Commission, the Outfit
makes its millions through gambling, extortion, and labor racketeering,
usually carried out under the guise of legitimate businesses such as
construction, catering, and janitorial services.

But abortion_ Even Mafia experts are surprised at that one. "Abortion
abortion facilities don't really have any history with organized crime,"
one official close to the Centracchio case told WORLD. "It's kind of like
drugs: The older bosses considered it a nasty business. The Mafia wouldn't
necessarily have approved of the abortion facility." Still, money is the
ultimate boss in the underworld, and many mobsters have gotten over
whatever natural aversion they might have to the drug trade.

Though the Centracchio case is the first documented example of Mob
influence in the abortion industry, it could be more widespread, according
to Carol Everett, a former abortion abortion facility owner who quit the
business after six years and 35,000 abortions, defecting to the pro-life
side. "It's a cash cow," she said of her former profession. "Because of
the so-called right to privacy, it's completely shrouded in secrecy. It's
never been regulated; there's no accountability."

Ms. Everett says she routinely kept two sets of books for her abortion
facilities in order to shield profits from the IRS. Because the vast
majority of patients pay cash, there is no paper trail of insurance claims
or credit-card receipts. With abortions costing $350 to $8,000 (depending
on the stage of the pregnancy), abortion facility owners generally expect
to gross about $250,000 a month in unreported, untraceable cash.

Would Anthony Centracchio, allegedly a corrupt and ruthless Mob boss,
hesitate to exploit the built-in advantages of the abortion business_ The
FBI certainly didn't think so. One whole team of investigators focused on
financial irregularities at the abortion facility, according to officials
close to the case, who refused to speak for the record because the trial
is pending. They suspected Mr. Centracchio of Medicaid fraud-applying for
Medicaid reimbursement for a patient's foot surgery, for instance, when he
had in fact provided an abortion for which he'd already been paid in cash.
(Medicaid does not reimburse for abortions except in rare cases.) The FBI
also believed Mr. Centracchio was billing medical services to stolen
credit cards, which he then disposed of. And, of course, he was suspected
of laundering his gambling profits through the abortion facility's books.

Such painstaking financial investigations have long been used to bring
down Mafia figures. Al Capone was suspected of murder, robbery, extortion,
and bootlegging, but it was tax evasion that finally sent him to prison.
Two other Centracchio associates have already received sentences of up to
16 years for money laundering in a related case.

But of all the indictments handed down for Mr. Centracchio himself, not
one had to do with the financial operations of his abortion facility.
Officials close to the case thought they would get him on money laundering
and Medicaid fraud. Why were those charges eventually dropped, when they
might have been easier to prove than a charge like racketeering_

The Centracchio investigation was reviewed at the highest levels of the
Reno Justice Department-a department with an infamously pro-abortion tilt.
The idea of Mafia-run abortion abortion facilities harkens back to the
seedy, dangerous abortions that abortion advocates claim happened before
Roe v. Wade. For professional pro-abortion groups, proven Mafia
involvement in the abortion business would be a disaster, with the
potential to undermine women's confidence in an industry that is
unrelentingly wrongly promoted as safe and professional. Is it possible
that charges related to the "legitimate" operations of the abortion
facility were buried for political reasons_

Asa Hutchinson, now a Republican congressman, was a U.S. Attorney in
Arkansas from 1982 to 1985. He says that during his tenure, prosecutors
had complete freedom to pursue whatever charges they thought were best.
"In the Reagan administration, we did not receive any pressure from the
Justice Department if it was a politically sensitive case. They left it up
to the U.S. attorneys to charge appropriately and enforce the law.... But
every administration might be different," he added.

Apart from the questions of the charges in this case, the bigger issue is,
just how widespread is Mafia influence in the abortion industry_ Was the
Centracchio case an isolated incident, or are women in other cities
seeking medical attention at abortion facilities that are, in reality,
fronts for the Mob_ The question is more than merely academic: One law
enforcement source, who could not speak on the record because the case is
pending, told WORLD that he saw Mr. Centracchio, in his abortion facility
office, pull out his gun to threaten an associate.

Despite such concerns, Mr. Centracchio has continued to operate his
abortion facility for more than five years while awaiting trial. Serrin
Foster, president of Feminists for Life, says that's outrageous: "Women
have a right to know that this abortion facility is allegedly being used
as a front for organized crime. It's no coincidence that this man was
collecting money for adult bookstores, which exploit women, while at the
same time exploiting women's misery through abortion. This man is gambling
with women's lives."

Feminists for Life, like most other pro-life groups, has long called for
increased reporting requirements at abortion abortion facilities, and Ms.
Foster hopes the Centracchio case will finally make lawmakers take notice.
"Women's abortion facilities are held to a lesser standard than veterinary
abortion facilities in terms of reporting requirements," she said. "Those
who oppose [transparent reporting] clearly show their lack of interest in
protecting the health of women."

As long as abortion facility owners can take cover behind Byzantine
corporate structures and slip loads of cash through loopholes in reporting
laws, the abortion industry will continue to offer a natural haven to
underworld bosses. In a politically protected business, Mr. Centracchio
found a safe and profitable cover for his alleged criminal empire. Was he
the only one_ The new administration could answer that question, if it has
the will to prove that no one-not even an abortionist-is truly
untouchable.