The restaurant was in the North End, a traditionally Italian neighborhood that, at the time, was also the headquarters of the local Mafia franchise, an affiliate of the Patriarca family run out of Providence.At some point in the late 1980s (exactly when and why are unclear, but the reasons can fairly be summarized as In the narrative assembled by the authorities, Ponzo’s life of crime was both violent and inept, which fits remarkably well with the broader story of organized crime in New England during those years. had been an old-school Mafia boss, ironfisted and disciplined.
So even though he said he came to check on the computer, Dale knew Jay really just wanted someone who would listen to him for a while. Then Jay got up, said he needed some hay and that he was going to see if he could get some from Bob Briggs, who farmed 500 acres on the other side of Hogg Road.
He drove the Saturn out of Dale’s drive and down Hogg to where a side road wanders up into the Whispering Heights subdivision.
An agent checked his ID and seemed to take an awfully long time to believe Bob was just an old farmer. Jay had paid cash, about $51,000, for the land, which he put in Cara’s name, and he paid cash to have the house built, too, handing stacks of bills to carpenters and roofers and electricians as though he didn’t have a checking account or a credit card.
Once that was settled, Bob asked one of the agents what Jay had done wrong. Roy thought about plumbing the place for him, but that would’ve been a big job, at least four grand if he used cheap fixtures and maybe ten if he didn’t. Marsing’s good like that.**Jay Shaw—technically, **Jeffrey John Shaw, the name on his Arizona driver’s license—apparently did nothing wrong. And according to state and federal prosecutors, that guy, Ponzo, did many, many things wrong.
The city is not as clean as they make it seem and you really have to get over the occasional smell of the nasty Great Salt Lake.
It isn't an ugly city - but I think there are cities in Idaho that are more beautiful in their own ways.
Last February, while buying hay, he was cornered by federal agents and arrested for violent crimes tied to the Boston Mob. Jay Shaw showed up at Dale Sherard’s place for the last time on the first Monday in February, in the middle of the afternoon and unannounced.
He’d come to make sure Dale’s computer still worked, which, a lot of the time, it didn’t. Even after ten years in Marsing, Idaho, Jay still didn’t quite fit: He was a transplant from the East Coast, and sometimes the remnants of his big-city swagger, cocky and abrasive, got the best of him.
She’d worked as a bookkeeper at one of the orchards across the river while Jay stayed home with the children. When they were babies, he laundered the diapers and hung them to dry.
As they got older he taught them how to read and to count and took them fishing in his little aluminum boat and showed them how to feed a newborn calf from a bottle.
Dale would poke a wrong button and the screen would freeze up, and then he’d have to call Jay to fix it. But he fid Dale’s computer for free, and did the same for anyone else who asked.