Surviving the Mob - Dennis Griffin [89]
“And then in early October of 2008, nine years after he went missing, I was out eating at Emeril’s restaurant when the news came across the AP wire. It wasn’t yet confirmed, but the authorities were pretty sure they’d found the location of my father’s remains. I rushed out to get to a computer to monitor the news sites. I had mixed emotions. Was it really going to be over after all those years?
“It was. An examination confirmed that the remains were his. Many times I’d given up on God and law enforcement bringing that closure. Because one of the men convicted for the murder was an avid sailor, I figured they might have dumped his body at sea. So my confidence in anybody ever finding him was slim to none.
“My father’s burial site was on Long Island in a small town called Farmingdale. The morons that killed him were too lazy to get rid of the body. They buried him fifteen minutes from the private home of the family’s new street boss. He was wrapped neatly in a tarp with a single gunshot wound to the back of his head. The scars on his right arm and dental records confirmed that the corpse was indeed my father. My family was relieved at that moment and they were able to move on. But I wasn’t. I’m still not the same person I was before my father’s murder and I never will be.
“The difference between me and other people involved in my father’s life is that I finished what I started. I had the means to an end. I never had to actually take the stand against his killers. However, I did get to sit in the courtroom about fifteen feet from two of them. I sneered at them and they wouldn’t look at me. There wasn’t even a jury present and they were afraid to look at me. I remember saying to them before the judge came in and only the lawyers were present, ‘What’s the matter, you ain’t got nothin’ to say? You two bastards don’t even have the balls to look me in the eye?’
“When court was over, the judge thanked me for all my work and dedication. And most importantly for not falling through the cracks of society. On my way out of the courtroom, I made sure I waved to the morons.
“Today I’m active in the wars against organized crime and domestic violence. And I try to help solve cold cases whenever I can. I think that’s important, because if we all walked around with our heads in the sand, nobody’s disappearance would ever get solved. I love being an activist in this crazy world. I love knowing that I can and do make a difference. I instill that idea in my children and I am greatly rewarded for that each day when I open my eyes and put both feet on the floor. I know that’s what my father would have wanted. I still miss him so. And I speak with him daily in my thoughts and prayers.
“Looking back on it, I know I could have hurt a lot of other guys, but I didn’t. Many of my father’s crew and associates loved him and I knew who they were. Anybody that got caught in the crosshairs of my cooperation with the law has only himself to blame. If they want to know why they’re in jail, they only have to look in the mirror. I was taught at a young age that any moron can hurt someone. But it takes a man to extend his hand and help that person back up. And that’s the way I see myself today.
“Closure is a very fickle word. It has different meanings to other families and individuals. It doesn’t bring a loved one back. But it puts your heart and mind at ease knowing that the person you cared so much for has been laid to rest. Knowing my father’s murderers will die in prison helps, too. It doesn’t take away the hurt, though. I wish I could say it did for me, but that would be a lie. The pain will always be there.
“I do have to say that after all the years we went without knowing for sure where he was, I now take nothing for granted. I stop and smell the roses and appreciate human life for all that it is. I’m happy with the choices I made then. I wasn’t in any legal trouble and I wasn