Washington, D.C.
January 2001
On January 19, a new FBI surveillance warrant was signed by Southern New York District judge Whitman Knapp, for placement of a bug in a Ford Windstar van. (Knapp was well known in New York law enforcement circles—he chaired the 1971 Knapp Commission that held hearings into charges of corruption on the NYPD brought by Frank Serpico.) The warrant was good for the period between January 20–22, when Dennis Malvasi, Loretta Marra, Loretta’s brother Nick, and informant CS1 were taking a road trip to Washington. Malvasi had invited his old friend to attend the White Rose Banquet.
The grandly named “banquet” was a small annual gathering held on the same weekend as the March For Life in the American capital. The march was a big mainstream event, the banquet a meeting of the pro-life fringe, where those who had taken the anti-abortion fight to violent extremes were honored. Malvasi was in the spotlight this year. Loretta, sensing that the authorities would be looking for her, kept a low profile. Before the banquet began at a suburban Washington Comfort Inn hotel, Loretta sat in the van in the parking lot, took out a pad and wrote notes for Dennis’s speech. When Malvasi spoke, he lambasted pro-lifers who opposed violence in the abortion fight.
“I’m glad to be here today,” he began. “This is the largest gathering of baby defenders I’ve ever had the pleasure of being with, and what a good feeling it is to see so many of you… We’ve had around 30 years of abortion, and around 30 million mangled baby bodies. Year after year, pro-lifers get outraged, and the bodies pile up. Year after year, pro-lifers write angry letters to the editor, to their congressman, to their senator, and the bodies pile up even higher… It is the baby defender who dares to suggest that the time for playing by the rules of the enemy is long past. It is the baby defender who dares to suggest the use of direct action to interfere between a vicious assailant and a helpless infant… I will always be grateful to… the ones who gave me moral and material support, before and after my arrest. I encourage you all to continue the noble work of supporting your local baby defender, from lock gluers to bombers, monkey wrench crews, arsonists and snipers. Your help makes all the difference in the world and to the babies themselves. Thank you and God bless.”
Afterwards, in the Windstar, Loretta, Dennis and the informant talked about Jim Kopp. Loretta said that Jim had expressed interest in getting in touch with Time To Kill author Michael Bray. Perhaps Bray would be interested in assisting Jim upon his return to the United States, helping to find safe housing, money. Jim’s name would never have to be used among anyone associated with Bray, he could just be referred to as a baby defender.
“I’m still interested in sending Jim some money,” the informant added.
“That would be no problem,” said Malvasi.
“But it has to go directly to Jim.”
“Of course.”
They drove the Windstar back to the hotel where they were staying, the Hampton Inn at 15202 Lansdale Boulevard. in Bowie, Maryland—Bray’s hometown. On January 22, they headed home to Brooklyn. The next day, FBI agents walked through the doors of the Hampton Inn, searched hotel records and found a registration card under the name of Joyce Maier, a known alias of Marra’s.
On Friday, February 2, New Jersey District judge Alfred Lechner Jr. approved a third bugging permit for the FBI, this time for a white Chrysler Grand Voyager, for the time frame February 3–4. Dennis and Loretta’s friend was thinking of driving the Voyager to Atlantic City, where he had a contact at the Taj Mahal hotel and casino. He could put them up in two rooms, had some extra money to gamble, too. They could send all their winnings to Jim Kopp—wherever he was.
The next day, Saturday, on the drive from to New Jersey, CS1 asked Loretta about Jim. How was she communicating with him? It was email, she explained. A Yahoo! account she accessed at a local library.
“I’d love to meet Jim some day,” the informant said. “I could eventually arrange a dinner meeting with him.” “Really? How much?”
“You could get his autograph, talk to him. For $10,000.” At the casino Marra gambled along with CS1, while Malvasi
stayed back in the room with their two sons. Loretta turned to her friend. She needed a break. “Have to go back to the room for a minute, check on the boys. Can you hold this a minute?” She handed him her purse and left the room for the elevators. There wasn’t much time. How long would Loretta be? What if Dennis showed up? What if security saw him? He searched the contents of the wallet. Two PT-1 calling cards. A slip of paper. Two sets of numbers. A name. He got out a pen and started writing, finishing before Loretta returned.
Later, CS1 contacted Michael Osborn. The agent wrote down the numbers: 0113531872801; 0874106124. The first three digits— 011—was the code for making an international call. And 353 was a country code—for Ireland. Osborn phoned the Buffalo FBI Field Office.
Osborn well knew that a lawyer could ultimately take issue with the search of Loretta Marra’s wallet. The FBI had a warrant to bug the vehicle, not rifle through a woman’s wallet: “The search and seizure is presumptively unreasonable. Unquestionably, as of the time of the warrantless seizure and search of the wallet, CS1 was functioning completely as a government agent.” Osborn would counter that his job was to gather evidence. Clearly he had not sought, nor obtained, a search warrant to go through Loretta’s personal property. But the informant was acting on his own initiative. He was under no direction from the FBI on that specifically.
Dublin, Ireland
February 16, 2001
Jim Kopp ducked into the cyber café, smoke hanging in the air, computers lined up row upon row. He took his assigned seat at a terminal. On the run he had taken such care to keep moving, trust no one, bury his identity. So what was it inside that told him to reconnect with his past through a computer? Dangerous? No. He knew how to keep the FBI—“the Edgars,” as he called the G-men—guessing. Do not send conventional email. The FBI could surely monitor it. Instead leave notes in cyber bottles. Write your email, store it in a draft folder on a Yahoo mail account. Do not hit Send, ever. Simply save it as a draft, let it sit there, like an envelope that never makes it to the mailbox. A second party can access the draft if she knows it’s there and knows the account user name identification. A private pipeline—for Loretta’s eyes only.
He logged on to Yahoo! email and typed the user name: [email protected]. It was named after a woman, real or imagined, named Alyssa Heaume.
Subject: quickie
He wrote in his cryptic, quirky way, the letter sprinkled with non-sequiturs, observations, inside jokes, French phrases, self-deprecation. He wrote about a possible trip he was planning. What did Loretta think about it? He finished the email, saved it in the aheaume draft folder, logged off, paid at the counter and left. Dublin is five hours ahead of Brooklyn. Loretta would read the message when she got a chance to log on. The next day, February 17, he was back, at a different café. He typed a new message.
Subject: longer
His present and future. Surely Loretta was the only one who would understand, who could offer something of value back to him. The mission? The babies? What should he do? He saved the email in the folder and left. Later that same day—joy. Loretta had read his messages and deposited her reply in the draft folder, couching her letter in code words and inside references: On margins: the capital city of mom’s birth to jackie area is fine with me, but I am nowhere near in the position you are to judge that. Anything at all you’d suggest would sound fine with me, because you are an if kind of gal, and you can talk big and act rich, as far as I’m concerned. Mech points out, though, that jackie, and the whole larger area of which jackie is but a part, is said to be under closer scrutiny these days because others have also thought of what you’ve thought of, with those others are said to be very, very naughty and so forth. I am simply ignorant on the facts of the matter. I understand where you want bmtm to occur. I believe I told you i was calling from one during our 2nd phone conversation, and you worried that i was out in the cold and wet, and I told you it was fairly sheltered, because I was in the very shadow of the establishment.
Loretta noted that “BMTM” would be best if it was just a phone call from Jim to her apartment. No talking, though, just ring the phone. The call would be the signal that he had not been detected, that he was safe, and they could go and get him. The email continued:
New RMC program is fine with me. I see several weighty advantages, both tactical and moral.Only drawback is the hideous emotional stress it will visit upon you. I think it will be incalculably more difficult in that sense than RSQA. Assuming, however, that you’re at peace about it, the advantages are immense. In the RSQA type world there were two possible outcomes (not counting complete failure). One happened only once, we’ll call that outcome number two, and the more common outcome is number one. Number one was always the desired one. I have with regret more bitter than you can imagine, come to hold that it is immoral to seek number one, that one has no right not to go for number two, if one is doing RSQA type stuff. There are now enough examples to form statistics, and the statistical rate of recidivism is just too high to justify pursuing number one, in my opinion. Now, this is a bummer. I mean to say, who wants to run around and set a goal like two over, and over? UEWW. RMC solves all that nicely. The recidivism rate is guaranteed zero which is of paramount importance, if the finality of number two is avoided, leaving options for happy endings all around.
When Jim Kopp sorted through his thoughts, he decided to reply, but on paper, by hand. He wrote a letter that he planned to send by regular mail:
“The descendents are the only ones in this blankety-blank town who will give me sacraments, knowing my background (good). But when the subject comes up they spend all their time trying to convince me I should never do it again (bad). And then in Passant they harp on the value of hidden penance to solve the world’s ills, (good) to the exclusion of Ronald Reagan in principle (bad). This is all beaucoup frustrating to me, but it’s also something of a moot point, since my efforts to get new papers have ground almost to a complete halt because I know not why. Is it due to a psychological lack of confidence on my part, a closet desire to retire, or because the papers are truly impossible to get? Some days I wake up and I want to go be a monk. Other reasons, but then I remember I can’t go anywhere. Also, to get new real papers is a risk beyond the status quo where I exist (uneasily) on the black gray market (with no record of any sort).
Through all of this, the threat of what you said before we parted company last haunts me. The thing about retirement. I know I’ve asked before, but could I ask you your thoughts on this? It was the retirement thing you said. I clearly see I am force-retired from any run of the mill effort in the cause so dear to us, but do you also mean permanent retirement from R-squared? Because if so, I might as well go be a monk. The only thing that sticks in my craw about that is that it would require foreswearing R-2 in principle, and in perpetuity. That strikes me as a moral impossibility, wouldn’t you agree? Let’s assume it is, for a moment. Practically this leaves me in a sort of limbo where I am prevented anything like a monastery, but also practically prevented any return to the field. Now, limbo I can deal with one day at a time, etc., but from time to time I begin to hope or wonder, will I ever return to the field? I guess my situation resembles that of an aging movie star who has lost his looks, but has a hard time imagining picking up a new trade. I don’t know the answer, but I’m sure your thoughts about retirement fit in somewhere. I hope to send hard copy as soon as possible, please don’t despair, meanwhile, notwithstanding computer situation, you’d enjoy reading all the drafts there.”
FBI Field Office
Buffalo, N.Y.
Tuesday, February 20, 2001
FBI agent Joel Mercer examined the phone numbers relayed to him by Michael Osborn. At least one of the numbers was in Ireland. Mercer contacted the FBI’s legal attaché closest to Ireland, based in London, England. The London office put a call through to Dublin and the Garda SÌoch·na, Extradition Section. The translation of the Gaelic title is “Guardians of the Peace.” Extradition works in great secrecy, dealing as it does with foreign governments on sensitive matters. The Gardai agreed to work with the FBI to track down James C. Kopp, if indeed he was still in the country.
An Irish agent examined the phone numbers provided by the FBI. One of the numbers—0874106124—was for a cell phone registered to a Sean O’Briain. Detectives began asking questions around Dublin, showing photos of James Kopp. As the Gardai worked the streets, names started coming, rumors, then contacts, people who knew of a man named Sean O’Briain who fit Kopp’s description. They learned that Sean O’Briain was an alias for Timothy Guttler. Word was that Guttler stayed at the Ivelagh Hostel. The Gardai paid a visit to Kevin Byrne, the manager. Timothy? He collected his mail. Went to work. Quiet man. Said hello now and again. That’s it. He’s gone now.