For 30 years, as Vince Fumo ruled Philadelphia politics, we knew how he operated: You were either on his side or he’d try to destroy you. The behind-the-scenes run-up to his federal trial this month reveals something new: His family works in exactly the same way

By Jason Fagone

IT WAS MARCH 2003, and Vince Fumo should have been happy. He was Vince Fumo, after all, and his life had been an epic, unlikely success. When he was a kid, no one would have singled him out for greatness. He was runty and meek. He got beat up a lot. And yet his transformation from wedgie magnet to the Vince of Darkness, the most feared Democratic politician in the state, was the stuff of local legend and long magazine profiles. He was rich. He was powerful. He owned a 99.9-acre farm where he planned to raise alpacas, whose meat, he had heard, was very profitable.

And now, for the first time, it looked like Vince Fumo might soon be blessed with grandkids. Vince had three children. His 34-year-old son, Vincent E. Fumo II — named after his grandfather — and his eldest daughter, Nicole, 30, were products of his first marriage; Allie, 13, was a product of his second. Vincent II wasn’t married, but Nicole was preparing to tie the knot. She was a lithe brunette — no trace of the jowly, canine features that make Vince look like a bobblehead doll of himself. Her groom was an ex-football player at Penn State and a lawyer who had worked for Vince for almost five years. Christian Marrone was six-foot-three and 270 pounds. He had thick black eyebrows and slicked-back Pat Riley-type hair that was starting to thin a little on top. He was loud, ambitious and ballsy — ballsy enough, anyway, to have walked into Vince’s office to ask Vince for his daughter’s hand. The day it happened, Vince sent an e-mail to Nicole’s mother, Susan Meo:

Christian was just here and has asked for my permission to ask Nicole to marry him. He is already broke from buying her an engagement ring! … Well, we’ll see where this chapter in life now takes us! I hope to a happier place!

More than once, Vince had told Christian that he considered him to be like a son. And now Christian was marrying his daughter, making it official. There was only one problem, from Vince Fumo’s point of view: He wasn’t invited to the wedding.

Read the rest of “The Betrayal.”

Illustration by Rob Day, from the September 2008 issue of Philadelphia magazine.

The inside story of how the venerable Main Line golf club pulled off the biggest sports upset since ’Nova beat Georgetown — landing the 2013 U.S. Open

By Jeff Silverman

ON THE LAST Friday of each September, the members of Merion Golf Club celebrate Bobby Jones’s ascension — on September 27, 1930, to be exact — from mere golfing legend to American cultural icon. Nestled in its leafy Ardmore enclave, Merion has witnessed much golfing glory through the years: No club has hosted more USGA national championships or been more central to the Jones fable. It was here that Jones, armed with immeasurable talent and a putter named Calamity Jane, walked away from the awards presentation — into retirement, myth and divinity — with his fifth, and final, U.S. Amateur title. With it came the Grand Slam sweep of golf’s four major titles all in the same calendar year — something no one has managed to do since.

So members annually convene to mark the moment. After lunch and a round of foursomes, they change into black tie for a traditional march, led by a bagpiper, out to the first fairway, across Ardmore Avenue, past the plaque on the 11th tee commemorating Jones’s triumph, ending at the spot on the hill where Jones hit his final approach. Champagne is hoisted. The president offers a toast.

Merion’s members are understandably proud of their club, its history, its tradition, and its significance; its wicker-basket flag sticks, its shrubby Scotch broom, its 18th fairway, where with a one-iron Ben Hogan launched one of the most famous shots in golf to propel him toward improbable victory in the 1950 U.S. Open. It’s one of only two clubs in the country anointed National Historic Landmarks, and its premiere East Course, perennially ranked among the world’s finest, is revered. “Acre for acre,” Jack Nicklaus, loser of the ’71 Open in a playoff at Merion, once observed, “it may be the best test of golf in the world.”

Read the full story on phillymag.com.

In an exclusive piece to be published in its August issue and posted on its web site today, Philadelphia magazine raises questions about the death of former Howard Stern Wack Pack member Kenneth Keith Kallenbach, who passed away in April.

The piece, by staff writer Dan P. Lee, says that Kallenbach, who suffered from cystic fibrosis, may have been mistreated while he was incarcerated at Delaware County Prison, where he was being held after allegedly trying to lure a teenage girl into his car. In conversations with his mother, Fay Kallenbach, Kenneth Keith complained that he wasn’t being fed enough and wasn’t receiving his cystic fibrosis medication appropriately from prison officials. As his condition worsened — his weight eventually dropped to less than 100 pounds — he pleaded with his mother to get him released. “Please, Mom,” he said, “get me out any way you can. I don’t think I’m going to make it out of here.”

On April 21st, Fay Kallenbach says she spoke with a prison doctor, who asked how old Kenneth Keith was. She said 39. “That’s a long time for someone with CF to live,” she says the doctor told her.

Kenneth Keith Kallenbach was transferred to Riddle Memorial Hospital on April 23rd. He died the next day. “They executed him,” says his girlfriend, Danielle Shutz.

In the story, Fay Kallenbach also says her son told her that police officers mocked him when he was arrested at the family’s house in March. “Let’s see if Howard Stern can get you out of this one,” one officer muttered, according to Kallenbach.

The piece also raises questions about why the Delaware County medical examiner initially declined to conduct an autopsy. The story quotes high-profile forensic pathologist Cyril Wecht: “As far as I’m concerned, there’s just no question at all that every jail death — I don’t give a shit if a guy’s had cancer for 35 years — that an autopsy must be done. It’s like wiping your ass when you go to the bathroom.” An autopsy eventually was performed.

Read the complete piece.

When Michael Nutter takes questions from a live audience tonight at 8 p.m. in the first segment of the WHYY/Daily News joint In Our City project, we want attendees to be prepared. To help out, we’ve excerpted three of the toughest questions raised about the mayor’s first six months in office from our July piece “An Open Letter to Mayor Nutter.”

1. Why are you trying to borrow your way out of a confrontation with the city’s unions?
With Philadelphia facing potentially crippling pension-fund and health-care costs, we knew that you’d have to confront the city’s municipal workers; we figured it would be Rendell Redux, circa 1991, when, facing bankruptcy, he eliminated one out of every 14 city jobs, started contracting out many city services, froze city worker pay for three years, and cut the number of paid holidays.

But alas, you undercut virtually all your leverage by announcing that you’d opted to borrow your way out of the problem, to the tune of $4.5 billion (later adjusted to $3.5 billion). In the process, you rejected every major recommendation made by the “Philadelphia’s Quiet Crisis: The Rising Cost of Employee Benefits” study released by the Pew Charitable Trusts and the Economy League of Greater Philadelphia just after your inauguration, such as seeking an increase in workers’ contributions to the city’s pension plans. We were disappointed; we expected a mayor who was touting “New Day, New Way” to lay out a bold vision, to paint a picture of what Philadelphia could become, to prioritize a series of investments in concert with straight talk about the sacrifices many of us would have to make for the common good. Certainly, part of reforming Philadelphia means confronting the stranglehold certain unions have over the way we’ve long done business. Taking a pass on doing that with the municipal unions right out of the gate sent a “business as usual” signal.

2. Why did you ask Councilman Rizzo to hold off on his ethics legislation?
You haven’t attacked the status-quo culture in the way candidate Nutter spoke of. You’ve laudably reformed the mayor’s office, bringing in former U.S. Attorney Joan Markman to ride herd on ethics, in accordance with your staff-directed mantra of “setting a higher standard for ourselves.” Well, we believe you should be demanding higher standards for the political culture as a whole. That’s why we were so disappointed that you asked Councilman Rizzo to delay proposing ethics legislation that Councilman Nutter, we’re convinced, would have supported. Those bills would have required lobbyists to register, would have extended the gift ban, and would have outlawed nepotism and moonlighting.

3. Why did you hold private budget meetings with small groups of Council members, contrary to the spirit, if not the letter, of the Sunshine Law?
Here you’ve borrowed a play from the game plan of your predecessor and nemesis. Much to your dismay, Mayor Street used to routinely violate the spirit of the Sunshine Act by conducting city business in private with small groups of Council members, thereby avoiding meeting with a quorum of members, which, by law, would have to be done publicly. But you did precisely the same thing when revising the city’s budget. You went so far as to issue a Clintonian rationalization — that informational briefings were permitted in private. Again, let’s keep it real. You’re either for transparency in government, as you’ve often said you are, or you believe that the people’s business is best conducted in secret — when secrecy happens to be convenient for you. Which is it?

Read the full “Open Letter to Mayor Nutter” here.

Illustration by Tim Marrs from the July 2008 issue of Philadelphia magazine.

Score one for made-up holidays: The first Friday of June turns out to be National Doughnut Day. And while you could head over to Dunkin’ or Krispy Kreme (or even Highland Orchards in West Chester) for your fix, our own Ashley Primis offers this simple-to-make alternative:

Doughnut sticks
Serves 8

1 can Pillsbury premade, refrigerated pizza dough
2 c. canola oil (more or less, depending on size of pan)
1/3 c. sugar
1/8 tsp. ground cinnamon

For garnish (optional):
1/2 c. heavy cream
4 oz. semisweet chocolate chips
1/2 tsp. vanilla extract
1/3 c. rainbow sprinkles

Unroll pizza dough so that long edge of rectangle faces you. Cut dough vertically into 1/8-inch strips, about the width of a pencil, with pizza slicer. Cut each strip horizontally in half. Strips should fit in flat-bottomed pan without bending. Fill pan with about 2 inches of oil. Heat over medium-high heat. Combine sugar and cinnamon in separate dish, and set aside. Test oil temperature with piece of dough—dough should float and little bubbles should form around it, but it should not burn. When oil is ready, place up to three dough strips in pan. Fry until golden brown (about 20 seconds per side). Drain on paper-towel-lined dish. Roll in sugar mixture until well coated. Continue until all dough is fried. To make chocolate sauce, heat cream in small pan over medium-high heat until just simmering. Turn heat to low, add chocolate chips, and stir until well combined. Add vanilla and mix. Remove from heat. Dip ends of doughnut sticks in chocolate sauce, then in sprinkles. Serve immediately.

Read “Kitchen Mission: Sugar Rush” from the Spring 2008 issue of Philadelphia Home. Photo by Jason Varney.

It gives me great pleasure to announce that Philadelphia magazine came home with one gold, three silver and five bronze awards from the City and Regional Magazine Association’s annual awards event in Memphis last night. In case you missed any of our award-winning pieces when they first ran in 2007, I’ve brought them all together in an easy-to-click list:

GOLD
Regular Column: “Loco Parentis,” by Sandy Hingston, for “The New College Try” (March), “Stuff Happens” (May), and “Minority Report” (September).

SILVER
Leisure/Lifestyle Interests: “How Philly Eats” (January).
Reader Service: “How to Be a Better Philadelphian” (December).
Reporting: Richard Rys for “Mystery at Rohm & Haas” (November).

BRONZE
Designer of the Year: Michael McCormick, design director.
Excellence in Writing: October 2007 issue.
Food/Dining Writing: April White for “Fork in the Road” (January), “Street Fare” (May), and “In Search of the Jersey Tomato” (July).
Personality Profile: Jason Fagone for “Press Lord 2.0” (April).
Special Issue: “The Good Issue” (December).

Real estate is no fun these days, dumplings — unless you’re Alex Plotkin, the man making Edgar fat with all those filets at Chops. (Delish!) He’s halfway through a redo of Betsy Cohen’s old two-story Rittenhouse condo, which he snapped up in February. Star architect and pal Cecil Baker swung by to peruse the fireplaces and 30-foot ceilings (in a non-official capacity, of course). We can only hope we’re invited for snacks when it’s done! … Another primo invite will surely be to the Parc Rittenhouse rooftop terrace of tycoon Ira Lubert, being designed by Gabrielle Snyder, new bride of hunky entrepreneur Matthew Canno. (Gaby designed Matt’s terrace across the Square, avec movie screen and seating!) No doubt Ira’s first guest will be gal pal Martha Snider (ex of Ed) — or perhaps we can all just meet at Matt’s for a screening of Cinema Paradiso (his fave). Edgar, pass the popcorn!

How did a popular, handsome college freshman end up buried in a Bucks County landfill? A tale of a baffling death, Joyce Carol Oates, and the secret society that may have cracked the case.

By Dan P. Lee

TINY TULLYTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA, population 2,090, sits on the banks of the Delaware River, 25 miles from Philadelphia. It’s an old, modest town to which the picturesque grounds of William Penn’s summer home are immediately adjacent. Liquid is everywhere, both natural and in the vast blue lakes that are the product of gravel harvesting, Tullytown’s former lifeblood. In the late 1980s, renewal came in the form of the large, verdant hills that rise 220 feet above town, visible even from the tall buildings across the river in Trenton. Buried within them are 50 billion pounds of human refuse.

On April 25, 2006, as on any other day, massive trucks came and went, orderly but relentless, kicking up fresh dust by the minute. It was a warm, windy day. The trucks rumbled deep into the landfill, to the area known as the “working face.” Above it swarm some of the highest concentrations of rare gulls in North America, which in turn attract birders who point their binoculars toward them. Through their lenses on the afternoon of April 25th, however, the birders observed not just the gulls but also a small flock of television news helicopters, hovering above a cordoned-off one-acre area. Below, police officers wearing white plastic suits were erecting a makeshift tent to block the view.

For three weeks, the officers had toiled, excavating down through 25 feet of rotted food, paper, bottles, diapers, containers and dirt, using backhoes, rakes, shovels and even their hands. Around 2 p.m., an investigator finally uncovered what remained of the body of John Anthony Fiocco Jr., a well-liked, smart, athletic, curly-blond-haired freshman at the College of New Jersey in Ewing who’d gone missing one month to the day earlier. He was 19 years old.

Read the rest of “Trashed.”

Photo illustration by Paul Pugliese, from the June 2008 issue of Philadelphia.

Technology is making it harder than ever to delete the past

By Sandy Hingston

My daughter Marcy and her boyfriend Mario are sitting on my living room sofa, aiming her cell-phone camera at themselves. They kiss, shoot, check the image, kiss, shoot, check the image, seeking the perfect photo to post on Marcy’s Facebook page. I smile at them and head for the kitchen, passing, on my way, a white wooden cabinet that happens to be filled to bursting with yellow Kodak envelopes. Some of the envelopes are marked with a month and year on the outside, or “West Virginia Vacation,” but most of them aren’t. When Marcy and her younger brother Jake were little, I was dutiful about recording their lives in photographs, but less dutiful about organizing the results. My friend Ruth keeps her carefully selected pictures of her three boys in handsome albums, complete with where-and-when captions. Me, I just stopped taking photos when the cabinet was full.

There was a ritual aspect to snapping pictures with my old 35mm camera that even Marcy remembers fondly. You’d go to CVS, fill out the form, put your film in the envelope, drop it in the slot … and wait.

Read the rest of “A Tangled Web.”

Illustration by the Tyler School of Art from the May 2008 issue of Philadelphia.

He’s 67 but still rockin’, with a new WXPN audience for his doo-wop oldies. Our writer spent an exhausting week together drinking wine, learning about Indians, meeting Connie Francis, watching him hang upside-down on an inversion board — and finally figured out what keeps the Geator with the Heator snappin’ away

By Jason Fagone

MONDAY
“Yo man, it’s the Geator! … I just got out of the hospital, but I’m dancing and doing my thing! … Yeah, why don’t you come out to dinner with us? … Modo Mio, 2nd and Girard … I bring my own wine … You’ll love the guys, the group of guys we hang with … Doctor Razor’ll be there … oh, you’ll flip over the food at this joint, you’ll flip.”

I only know the Geator by his legend. The Geator with the Heator, the Boss with the Hot Sauce: peripatetic founding father of rock-’n’-roll; breaker of countless hit records; deejay/performer/tastemaker whose influence on the shape of American music rivals Wolfman Jack’s; close personal friend to Dick Clark, Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr., Sidney Kimmel, Bob Brady, and half the famous mobsters in Philly. And it sounds like he’s still got some sort of brat pack. So here we go. I’m in.

Read the rest of “Jerry Blavat Finds the Fountain of Youth.”

Photo by Chris Crisman, from the May 2008 issue of Philadelphia.