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发帖数: 1632 | | H****w
发帖数: 1632 | 2 Billy Walter and the computer group:
The Arrests
He was in the bed sleeping when the two men walked into his bedroom.
Billy
Walters sleeps in a big clean bed in Las Vegas, in a small but elaborate
home renovated to his liking, with palm trees and white flowerpots and
two
satellite dishes in the yard, and four large televisions in the den, and
a
security guard who sits just out of sight behind the shrubs across the
street. This environment was disrupted early last Jan. 5, when the two
strangers introduced themselves to Billy Walters with all the subtlety
of an
alarm clock. He greeted them by sitting up in the bed, blinking. His
wife
wasn't in the bed with him. They already had her, probably.
"You're going to have to get dressed," one man said. Billy Walters
reached
down for the pile of wrinkled clothes he had worn the night before. The
room
was quiet. The men watched him dress.
"We don't like to have to do this to you," the other man said.
His wife Susan was downstairs with a third man in the kitchen. There was
not
a lot of chit-chat. Susan and Billy Walters were led across their fine,
trimmed yard in handcuffs. The path to law and order wended past a copy
of
the daily newspaper, which lay on their driveway like an upturned
headstone.
As Billy Walters glanced down at the headline, he realized that he was
the
front-page news:
INDICTMENTS TARGET BETTING GROUP IN LAS VEGAS
As he tells it, what steams Billy Walters most of all was the sight
later
that day of his pretty wife in leg irons, chains scraping the floor as
she
staggered toward him. Afterward, when they had been released without
bail,
she revealed how the manacles had eaten through her stockings.
Seventeen days later Billy Walters and 16 associates held the first
meeting
of the legendary Computer Group. This was a celebrated occasion in
gambling
history, and long overdue. The men and women of the Computer Group had
been
pioneers in their field. All the Computer Group did, apparently, was
wager
money on college football and basketball games, but for five hysterical
years they did it better than anyone else ever had. It was almost as if
they
had invented junk bonds. Every season the cash arrived by the millions,
all
because their computer told them which teams should be favored to win
everything from the mammoth Ohio State-Michigan football game to the
basket-
ball game pitting Monmouth against Fairleigh Dickinson. The Computer
Group
did not fix games. It simply understood them.
The group began to assert its mastery of sports betting in 1980, when
the
computer as an everyday machine had no firm place in sports. Most of the
big
Las Vegas players of 1980 were still relying on their own good sense
and
whatever trends they could pick up. A computer seemed to them a gimmick
from
the future, a big blinking queen-bee serviced by men in white coats.
There
were relatively few of these "personal computers" that are everywhere
today.
As a matter of fact, the Computer Group didn't even own its own
computer.
Until 1983. the group settled for renting time on a computer 2,400 miles
away in Rockville, Md. As for the group's invaluable program, it was
maintained on thousands of clumsy old "batch" cards, kept in shoeboxes,
then
fed to the computer like hay into a thrasher.
Although dozens of workers served the Computer Group, only one man
communicated with the machine itself. He was Michael Kent, a 34-year-old
mathematician who had spent II years helping to develop nuclear
submarines
for Westinghouse. He found such work boring. In 1979 he quit his job and
moved to Las Vegas, to bet on football games. In 1980 he became partners
with a man he hardly knew, an orthopedic surgeon. Dr. Ivan Mindlin, who
Kent
says agreed to place bets for them on a 50-50 basis, in accordance with
his
computerized forecasts. In the 1980 season the computer wizard and the
doctor shared winnings of $100,000 playing college football. By 1983
they
were winning almost $1 million in one week of college football - or, at
least, that's what Michael Kent was told. He never bothered to check the
books.
By then Dr. Mindlin had built their little corner business into
something
resembling a national conglomerate, which had opened betting offices
staffed
by a dozen employees in New York and Las Vegas. The Computer Group had
burgeoned into the first truly national network of sports bettors, able
to
buy up the best point spreads from coast to coast. At the height of its
powers, the Computer Group of 1983-85 wielded more influence over the
millions of Americans who bet on sports than any superstar athlete or
Super
Bowl franchise. Yes, it was even more important than the split-fingered
fastball. In its sleekest moments, the Computer Group had as grand an
effect
upon its constituency in the 1980s as OPEC had upon American consumers
in
the 70s.
As its influence grew, the Computer Group became something of an
underground
social club, extending an unofficial membership to at least one
smalltime
hoodlum, as well as sharing information with the likes of lrwin Molasky,
the
powerful real estate developer and Las Vegas civic leader.
Profits were staggering. The group never had a losing season betting on
college football or college basketball. According to figures compiled
recently by Michael Kent, the Computer Group in 1983-84 earned almost $5
million from wagers on college and, occasionally, NFL games. Yet Michael
Kent suspects that his records are incomplete. They do not account for
personal bets made by Dr. Mindlin, or Billy Walters, or by the dozens of
other associates who had access to the Computer Group's information. By
the
time everyone had exhausted Kent's forecasts in the 1983-84 sports year,
they might easily have earned 110 million, perhaps $15 million. Perhaps
more.
"When you worked it down all the way to the bottom," says Billy Walters,
"it
might have been 1,000 people using our information."
Finally, in 1987, success got the best of them. They had to break up,
just
like the Beatles. Despite all the time they had spent working together,
the
members of the Computer Group had never really known one another. In
most
cases they had spoken only by phone, in staccato conversation, using
code
names. Faces rarely had been attached to voices. And so, as their legend
had
grown in recent years, it was only proper that these reclusive
celebrities
be united last Jan. 22 in Las Vegas, to shake hands and wonder where all
the
time had gone, as 17 of them assembled in Courtroom No. 4 of the Foley
Federal Building, awaiting their arraignment on 120 counts of
conspiracy,
gambling, and racketeering charges.
Among these Garbos there were two their partners most wanted to see:
Billy
Walters, gambler of gamblers, who had come to Las Vegas in debt and was
now
a millionaire; and the treacherous doctor, Ivan Mindlin, whose cunning
had
built the group up-and then led to its demise.
On the day they were arrested, just two weeks before the five-year
statute
of limitations on their case would have run out, Billy Walters sat in a
holding cell with Dr. Mindlin and a third member of the group, Billy
Nelson.
Dr. Mindlin wore his hair longer than Walters remembered - combed back,
until it splashed against his shoulders. The three of them were
discussing
their contempt for the FBI, and, in particular, the ambitious special
agent
Thomas B. Noble, whose investigation of six years had uncovered so very
little. Walters and Nelson went back and forth in their denigration of
Noble
, using many unpleasant terms, until finally the doctor spoke up.
Walters
recalls Mindlin saying: "Yeah, and can you believe that S.O.B. told two
people that, if they'd tell him how I killed my wife, he'd go easier on
them
?"
Now, in the courtroom 17 days later, his former colleagues whispered
about
Dr. Mindlin. He was the most intriguing presence among them. Yet he sat
alone in a corner, as if he were the least popular boy in school.
In groups of four they were called to the bench of U.S. Magistrate
Robert
Johnston. Dr. Mindlin's was the first name called. Each man and woman
was
asked about his or her education, and it turned out that all had
attended
college, with the exception of Billy Walters. Then the magistrate wanted
to
know how they intended to plead.
"Not guilty," each of them said.
"Not guilty," the magistrate repealed each time, a little sarcastically.
He
then proceeded to set all the gamblers free, on their own recognizance,
and
several of them hurried back to their homes, for there were games that
night
, and wagers to be made.
The Operation
In a room alone, just he and his computer, Michael Kent was simply
another
technology dweeb. But plug him into a network of bettors, and now, with
the
flick of a switch, Kent was utterly brilliant, a mastermind. These
dozens of
betting agents, or beards, as they are called, were as essential to
Michael
Kent as the electrical juice that drove his computer. He could not
begin to
succeed without them. And so, each day, without equivocation, he turned
over his forecasts of the upcoming games to Dr. Ivan Mindlin, who then
passed them on to his New York partners, Stanley Tomchin and Jimmy
Evart,
who, until 1984, were responsible for placing the majority of wagers for
the
Computer Group.
Dr. Mindlin had been making personal bets through Tomchin and Evart long
before the Computer Group was formed. According to a partner in the
group,
Mindlin had built up a debt of some $100,000 to Tomchin and Evart when
Michael Kent came along in 1980. By offering Kent's computer information
to
them, Mindlin was able to work off his debt quickly.
Tomchin and Evart were so impressed with the accuracy of Dr. Mindlin's
information that they agreed to move money for him on a regular basis.
Their
colleagues describe Tomchin and Evart as a pair of Ivy Leaguers, more
erudite than the normal gamblers. Tomchin, a Cornell alumnus, was a
world-
class backgammon and poker player; his friend Jimmy (Sneakers) Evart was
said to have attended Harvard. Tomchin and Evart were well known in New
York
gambling circles as the "Computer Kids."
In 1983, when Billy Walters began making bets for the Computer Group, he
often received his orders from Tomchin and Evart. The Group's main
betting
pool was wagering $40 million per year, but all the action in the world
could not sustain Evart's interest. His newlywed wife insisted that he
stop
gambling, and so, in 1984, he walked away from the money and moved to
Spain.
According to a former partner, Tomchin moved to San Francisco and
eventually left the group . His former partners say he is now an options
trader in Santa Barbara. Tomchin declined to answer questions in
connection
with this story.
The Computer Group foundered in Evart's absence until October 1984, when
Dr.
Mindlin offered Billy Walters a percentage of the group's winnings and
placed him in charge of moving the weekly millions. At that time Walters
worked out of a lovely three-bedroom home overlooking the eighth fairway
at
the Las Vegas Country Club, Indeed, Billy Walters wore clothes
suggesting
that he had been called in from the golf course. His gray speckled hair
was
styled straight back. away from his thin face. its expression creased by
the
transitions of gambling, from sadness to happiness and then back again.
His
face was older than his body. He was always thinking about work. He had
been assigned (he enormous responsibility of exploiting the weakest
betting
lines, and it did not matter where they were. Billy Walters was supposed
to
find them. and where they failed to exist, he was expected to create
them.
He was a powerful broker in an unregulated industry. Walters blanketed
the
country with bets, taking action wherever it was available, which was at
times in as many as 45 states. In 44 of them he dealt exclusively with
illegal bookmakers. To help bear that burden he hired six people to work
for
him in Las Vegas, at a salary of no more than $700 per week, plus the
occasional bonus. His wife served as an accountant, but he depended most
upon his young assistant, Glen Walker, who had quit his job in the
publicity
department at NBC Sports in New York and relocated to Las Vegas, so
enthralled was he by a 1980 story in Sports Illustrated about Las Vegas
gambler Gary Austin. "That copy of Sports Illustrated changed my life,"
Walker says today.
Billy Walters maintained a low profile in Las Vegas. If he appeared at a
sports book it was usually around midnight. when he might come to open a
betting account with $100,000 or more in cash - however much he could
fit in
a Famous Amos Cookies bag. As for more public matters, he preferred
that
business be conducted by Glen Walker. So Walker would visit the Las
Vegas
sports books each day, to settle up or place bets, and fend off the
legions
of bettors who wanted to know which games the computer liked that week.
He
worked with three other group employees at the "C&B Collection Agency,"
which was a front for their betting operation. His colleagues would meet
there, at an office park on Spring Mountain Road., when they weren't
moving
money out of Billy Walters' house.
Perhaps Walters' favorite employee was gentle Arnie Haaheim, a big
bright
laughing man who was unable to mask his tremendous emotions. He liked
women
- liked to talk about them, actually, until he was all talked out. Then,
says Walker, Arnie would stare off, leaning on his elbow, as passive as
a
solar cell at dusk. All around him phones were ringing and money was
being
wagered in thick sexy wads, but Arena would just sit there, his jaw
hanging
open while Billy Walters shouted orders.
By and large, though, there was little humor in their work. On a
Saturday of
college basketball they might bet 60 games, which required that they be
aware of every injury, casualty and rumor surrounding all 120 teams.
They
had to chart the movement of the point spreads in various sports books
for
each game. They had to find the weakest lines, and they had to make and
keep
track of their wagers by the hundreds. They worked almost every day
from
September through March. Some days they would start at 6 a.m. and finish
at
midnight. Always Walters felt obliged to protect the Computer's
information
from the public, because these numbers were as valuable to him
personally as
they were to the group. His employees never even heard mention of the
name
Ivan Mindlin. The voice delivering the daily betting orders was known
only
as "Doc" or "Cowboy," and Billy Walters would say nothing more to
identify
him.
Occasionally, however, it paid to be careless. On a Wednesday afternoon,
ever so casually, Billy Walters might tell Glen Walker to make a call
over
to the old Gary Austin Sports Book on the strip. "We want to lay $30,000
on
Wisconsin giving 3 to Purdue," Billy Walters would tell him.
Walters knew that several wise guys would be passing time near the
counter
at Gary Austin's. And they would notice that the line favoring Wisconsin
over Purdue would rise to 3 1/2 points. And they would ask who was
responsible for moving the line, and they would be told the truth: That
$30,
000 had just been laid by the computer. And then..
The wise guys would bet on Wisconsin themselves. These wise guys would
whisper to other wise guys. Tout services would hear that the computer
liked
Wisconsin. A run would begin on Wisconsin. News of Wisconsin would
spread
nationally. By the time word reached the man in Louisiana or the woman
in
Illinois, there would be no mention of the Computer Group. They would
simply
be told that they had better get something down on Wisconsin. You can
see
now that the betting market in Las Vegas is no different than Wall
Street.
Fed by rumor, speculation and greed, a stock like Wisconsin can grow hot
for
no substantial reason.
By Thursday or Friday, Wisconsin might be inflated to a 5-point
favorite, 5
1/2 in some markets. At this point Billy Walters believed the price
could
rise no higher, and so he would marshal his forces: "Open order on
Purdue
taking 5!" In moments, they would be on their speed-dial phones,
reaching
every available source nationwide, betting as much as they could
wherever
Purdue was a 5-point underdog. They were a frantic yet focused group
inside
the "C&B Collection Agency," attempting to flood all the markets
simultaneously, before the point spread could drop. Into one phone they
would shout a few words and then hang up while dialing another number on
another phone, back and forth, until they were frazzled. In two minutes
Walters alone could place bets through a dozen beards or bookies.
So: On Wednesday they'd bet against Purdue. to lower its value in the
market
. Now on Friday they were buying as much Purdue as they could, a grand
total
of $1 million or more. And wouldn't you know it: Sometimes Wisconsin
would
beat Purdue by 4 and the Computer Group would win the "middle" - bets on
both teams paying off in the same game.
Now and then, Billy Walters fooled his own employees. Glen Walker
recalls
more than one occasion when Arena Haaheim laid his own money on the
first
team (in this case Wisconsin) only to find out later in the week that
the
Computer had preferred the opponent (Purdue) all along. On Saturday they
would sit in Billy Walters home and watch the game on television.
"Arena,
what's the matter?" Walters would say. "I don't see you cheering over
there."
No betting operation bad ever controlled the market on such a
synchronized
and national level, but Billy Walters admits, he didn't always have his
way
so easily. "There were other times I bet $130,000 or $140,000 just to
move
the line," he says in his low Kentucky drawl. "One thing about the
public,
they'll follow anybody as long as you're picking winners,"
Because they pay a 10% service fee to the house on all losing bets,
professional gamblers have to win 52.38% of their games just to break
even.
Records of the 1983 college football season seized from Dr. Mindlin show
that the Computer Group won an incredible 60.3% of its games against the
spread. The Computer Group's main betting pool began that season in
September with a $1.1 million line of credit, and concluded Jan. 2 with
$5
million cash.
Of course, in those days the official point spread was softer than
mayonnaise. The mathematical wizard Michael Kent admits that the
Computer
Group might never have risen to prominence if not for the removal of Bob
Martin, who since 1967 had been making the official line for Las Vegas.
However, in 1980, Martin was sentenced to 13 months for the crime of
transmitting wagering information across state lines by telephone. If
the
federal government had not gotten rid of Bob Martin, then the FBI might
never have felt compelled to spend six long years investigating the
Computer
Group.
More often than not, Michael Kent's line was more accurate than the
official
line in Las Vegas. Line-makers will argue that the only purpose of
their
official line is to entice betting action on both sides, that they are
not
responsible for outsmarting experts like Michael Kent. Nonetheless, the
people who were making that line in the early 1980s were a particularly
feeble lot.
Other gamblers noticed the same weaknesses, but they couldn't take
advantage
to the same extent as the Computer Group. "They had some amateurs
setting
the line at that time, and the line was very weak," says Lem Banker,
whose
nationally syndicated newspaper column made him perhaps the most famous
gambler in Las Vegas. "It was a good opportunity to win, and a lot of
people
did."
Greater than any individual, the mysterious Computer Group emerged as
the
prominent voice in Las Vegas, much like a Wizard in Oz. "When a
handicapper
gets going good, a 'following' phenomena goes into effect," says Michael
(
Roxy) Roxborough, now the top Las Vegas linemaker, whose services are
purchased by 35 sports books. "A game might open at 3 [points], and the
followers raise it up to a 6. With these computer guys, every time a
game
moved, they were the ones credited with moving it, whether they did it
or
not. Their legend may be larger than they actually were."
The top gambling rings today use the Computer Group as their model. In
Las
Vegas, a classroom genius like Michael Kent has to depend entirely upon
someone like Billy Walters, who was educated in alleys. "There is no
gambler
's college," Walters says. "Everything I know, I learned the hard way.
Now,
how do I know when the spread has risen as high as it's going to get? I
have
to depend upon my years of experience. I use my feel and the
information I
get from my contacts around the country to decide when I should bet and
when
to back off."
Sitting at his desk each day, Billy Walters based his decisions upon
numbers
he wrote on two pieces of paper. On one page was a list of point
spreads
compiled by Michael Kent's computer. In the case of Wisconsin at Purdue,
Kent might have decided: Purdue -I over Wisconsin. On the second page
Billy
Walters was keeping track of the official lines at various sports books
in
Las Vegas. Wherever he could find a difference of I '/2 points between
the
Computer Group's line and the official Las Vegas line, he would bet on
that
game. If the official line decided: Wisconsin -5 over Purdue, then what
Billy Walters had here was a massive 6-point difference of opinion. In
such
a case he might bet $1 million on that game. The greater the difference,
the
more he would bet (see box, p.40).
So confident was the Computer Group that its weekly wagers often
exceeded
the ceiling of its betting pool. According to ledgers seized by the FBI,
Michael Kent's group in one week wagered $4,571,050 on college
basketball
games alone - more than twice as much as its reservoir in the pool at
that
time. Including the college bowl games and the NFL play-offs. the group
bet
more than $5.5 million that week, turning a profit of almost $700,000.
And that represented the work of Michael Kent's tiny group. Dozens of
other
bettors had access to his information. Who knows how much additional
revenue
they earned?
Billy Walters claims that he gambled more than $500,000 of his own money
each week with the help of computer information. He is just one of many
big
winners whose profits do not appear on the group's ledgers.
Even though he tried to gamble like the button-down brokers on Wall
Street,
Walters admits that he too fell victim to the occasional betting frenzy.
During the Christmas holidays six years ago, Walters found he was
betting
hand over fist on Michigan in the Sugar Bowl against Auburn. It was one
of
those rare times when the tout services were opposing the computer on a
major game. No matter how much Billy Walters bet on Michigan for the
Computer Group and for himself, the line remained the same. The public
kept
laying money on Auburn, giving 41/2 points.
"I kept betting on the game, and the line kept coming back, so I just
kept
betting," Walters says. "I guess I got a little carried away. I had more
than $1 million on that game. I literally bet my entire net worth on
that
game, and probably some additional."
Trailing 7-6 in the fourth quarter, Auburn took possession at its 39
with 7:
44 left. If Auburn scored a touch-down to cover, Billy Walters would
lose $1
million. But Auburn kicked a 19-yard field goal to win, 9-7, and Billy
Walters is today a rich genius.
The Computer Wizard
One day Michael Kent, who was the centerfielder, got to wondering about
his
company softball team. How good were he and his teammates, really? When
they
destroyed a poor opponent by 15-4, was that as impressive as beating a
good
team by 6-5? His team had won a couple of league championships, but
what
had they really accomplished? All his life he had found answers to such
questions in numbers, statistics. He simply had to find out what those
numbers meant. What was the numerical definition of a good softball
team?
His thoughts drifted naturally in this direction. Kent was a 27-year-old
math-' mathematician at Westinghouse in suburban Pittsburgh. Every day
he
worked with computers. to help design a better nuclear sub. At night, he
says. he began to formulate a computer program that rated the strength
of
his softball team. Each week he would update the statistics, then feed
the
information into the high-speed Control Data computer at Westinghouse.
His
teammates were interested in this output of statistics - it was
flattering
to them - but Michael Kent ultimately was disappointed by the results.
When
(he work was done he had a printout listing his team's strengths and
weaknesses. So what? He had given order to these numbers, but there was
no
application, no further use for them.
He says he began work on a more complex program. The game was college
football. This time he could foresee a dollar sign in front of the
numbers.
The year was 1972. He recorded information from old NCAA football
guides,
which list the scores and statistics from the previous season. Then he
visited the library, the old newspapers in particular, in order to see
which
teams had been favored each week, and by how many points. He examined
the
spreads and the slats. attempting to find a correlation. Which
statistics,
he wanted to know. were important in assigning a point spread?
He knew of only one way to find out. He began to write a program. The
computer would ask hundreds of questions in algorithmic. pinpointing
strengths and weaknesses for each team. As his wealth of information
grew,
Kent learned that some strengths were more important than others. There
was
a value to first downs and there was another value to yards gained.
Home-
field advantage had a value. So did strength of schedule. So did success
against common opponents. The list of questions went on and on, some so
picayune that the average football fan might have laughed in the face of
this stocky, bespectacled mathematician. Billy Walters believes that the
program even accounted for the distance of the visiting team's road
trip.
The hobby soon became his vocation. He began to test his model by
placing
bets with local bookies. He says he worked an average of two hours per
night
over the course of seven years, fine-tuning his football program and
developing a similar program for college basketball, until one morning
he
walked into the plant and quit his job. He was very quiet about it. Only
his
closest friends were informed of his plans. He moved to Las Vegas in
lime
for the 1979 college football season. For the last seven years he had
been
saving his money, to wager on football and basketball games. Still, when
he
looked in the mirror, it was a hard thing to believe, that the person
staring back at him was a professional gambler.
When Michael Kent arrived in Las Vegas, he clearly was on his own. No
gambler of note was depending solely upon a computer to analyze bets.
Allow
yourself to go broke because of a machine? That was crazy thinking. But
Michael Kent didn't know anything about Las Vegas common sense. He was
from
Pennsylvania. He wanted to know where he should do his laundry. On a
daily
basis he wanted to bet as many games as he could, whenever he perceived
the
slightest 1 1/2 point advantage, and this was more crazy thinking.
Common
sense in Las Vegas said that you couldn't win big by betting a lot of
games.
You should concentrate on just a few games. That's what common sense
said.
Michael Kent didn't know about that, either. Most of what he knew about
this
business was contained in a book called Theory of Gambling and
Statistical
Logic, by Richard A. Epstein. Chapter 2 told him the percentage of his
money he should bet, depending upon how much he liked the game. The book
was
written in the language of numbers. Michael Kent wanted to meet this
man
Epstein.
The job of betting sports fulltime was a little harder than he had
imagined.
Kent would wake up early, update his information from the morning
newspapers. tap into the Control Data computer on which he was renting
time,
and establish a belting line for each game. Then he and a friend would
spend the rest of the day and night visiting sports books and private
bookmakers, seeking out the most favorable point spreads. He was not
instantly successful.
"That first football season was curious," Kent recalls, speaking by
phone
from Las Vegas, under the supervision of his attorney, Steven Brooks of
Boston. "l started real well. Then in midseason, there were five big
games,
and I lost all five by a point, by a half-point. by a missed field goal.
All
crazy things. It put me down. and for the rest of the year I'd lose
every
week."
According to his records, he lost $40.000 that football season. His bad
luck
continued two months into the basketball season.
"I was getting killed," he says. "I was at the point where I was
debating
what my future was going to be. Then, I remember, there were 17 games I
was
betting one night, and I won 16 of the 17. That was a definite high. to
get
me back on the plus-side."
He found that betting the games was an awesome responsibility. It was
not an
easy thing to settle up with a bookmaker after each round of bets,
carrying
huge bundles of cash in and out of public places. Whenever he had a lot
of
money on him, he feared he was being followed. If he happened to notice
two
men walking behind him on the sidewalk, he would run as fast as he could
into the nearest casino, and stand near a security guard for a while. Of
course, this only drew more attention to himself. He asked security
guards
to escort him to his car whenever feasible. He also depended heavily
upon
valet parking. He didn't like the idea of carrying 150.000 into a dark
garage. Valet parking was much safer. He didn't know how to just be cool
about it. He couldn't chill out. He was working 80 hours a week in the
strangest city in America and he was always worrying. He won $150.000
betting college basketball in 1979-80, but it was a terrible way to
live.
He gave betting one last try for a football month in the fall of 1980.
Exhausted, with no alternative but to go home, he says he placed a call
to
Dr. Ivan Mindlin. He had met the doctor once before. In 1979, while
playing
tennis with fellow gambler Billy Nelson, Michael Kent had mentioned his
use
of a computer in betting. Nelson had said that Kent should meet this Dr.
Mindlin. "I thought they could help each other," Nelson said in a
deposition
year.
They seemed to understand each other. When Kent arrived at Mindlin's
house
on Ottawa Drive, the doctor explained that. quite ironically, he had
been
attempting to forecast major league baseball games by use of a computer
program. When Michael Kent heard this. in 1979, he felt almost as if Dr.
Mindlin was a brother. In 1980. when they began to work as a team. he
came
to think of Dr. Mindlin )as a father. Later Dr. Mindlin would place his
arm
around Michael Kent and say that they were, as gamblers, married to each
other.
Years later, Kent's attorney marvels at the hypnotic grip Dr. Mindlin
maintained over his brilliant yet woefully naive client. Says Steven
Brooks,
"I would sit down with Michael for hours, discussing different parts of
his
arrangement with Dr. Mindlin. and I would say: 'Why did you do this?'
And
he would say, 1 don't know.' It was incredible. He didn't know why they
were
doing anything. He just trusted Ivan completely."
In 1982 Michael invited his older brother John Kent to mow-to Las Vegas.
Michael taught John how to feed data to the computer, training John to
work
for the Computer Group. Later, Michael would invite another brother, and
even his mother, into the betting pool. Michael's success provided
wonderful
experiences for all of the Kents. Michael was earning hundreds of
thousands
of dollars each season. and he wasn't even paying taxes on it. He was
depositing his winnings with banks in the Bahamas and Switzerland, the
same
banks that Dr. Mindlin was using, according to Kent.
Only in the last few years did Michael Kent begin to understand the full
extent of his creation. As far as he knew, the Computer Group consisted
of
himself, members of his family. Dr. Mindlin and a few others who helped
them
make bets. From 1980 through January 1985, he figured that his group
had
wagered close to $140 million and turned a profit $14 million. The idea
that
his information was earning two or three times that much without him
getting his fair share ... well. he never really came to grips with the
possibility that anything unethical could come of his work.
While other regular players in Las Vegas schemed and flattered Dr.
Mindlin
in their vain attempts to gain access to the Computer Group's
information,
Michael Kent walked freely through town, blissfully anonymous,
unaffected
and ingenuous, the neon reflecting from his glasses.
The Doctor
His enemies, who are many, exult in spreading rumors that portray Ivan
Mindlin as a doctor ruined by his gambling. They say that he would
listen to
baseball games while performing surgery to the detriment of his
patients,
and that he would leave the operating room to gather up the scores. In
reality, Dr. Mindlin enjoys an excellent reputation as an orthopedic
surgeon
, according to three respected Las Vegas attorneys who specialize in
medical
cases - all of whom approved Mindlin to give objective medical
examinations
for use in court cases. "A doctor would have to be highly thought of to
be
approved by both sides in a case," says attorney Bruce Alverson, who
lauds
Dr. Mindlin. Attorney Neil Galatz expresses sadness over Mindlin's
recent
legal troubles with the Computer Group. "It's a shame," he says,
"because he
was a fine doctor."
Lem Banker, the famous sports bettor, says he has been a friend of Dr.
Mindlin's for 30 years, since he served as house physician for hotels on
the
Las Vegas strip. "He was my doctor," says Banker. "I actually showed
him
some of the finer points of handicapping. Sometimes we'd stop into the
hotels and go partners, shooting craps. I had a lot of respect for his
mind."
Though the doctor reportedly had a good run playing the horses, one of
his
partners says that Mindlin was a loser betting on ballgames - that
by1980,
the doctor had run up a $100,000 debt to a pair of New York bettors,
Stanley
Tomchin and Jimmy Evart. Dr. Mindlin was able to work off that debt in
October 1980, when Michael Kent dropped by (like manna from heaven) to
discuss his computer program for handicapping football and basketball
games.
As he spoke, Michael Kent could not have been very impressive to a man
like
Ivan Mindlin. Kent was something of a Lt. Colombo in that regard. He did
not
speak elegantly. He wore drab clothes. He said he had grown up in
Chicago
as a Cubs fan. And he looked like a Chicago Cubs fan, just in from the
bleachers. To Dr. Mindlin he must have looked like a pigeon, with a
beard
and glasses.
Kent said he had grown weary of betting the games himself. What really
tired
him, he said with all sincerity, was having to deal with such large
amounts
of money. The chores of betting were wearing him out. He says he and
Dr.
Mindlin agreed: Kent forecasts the games, Mindlin makes the bets, and
they
split the winnings 50-50.
With their handshake, the Computer Group was formed. And from that day
forward, Dr. Mindlin took it upon himself to insulate Michael Kent from
the
outside world, just as Kent had wished. Kent was left alone to work with
the
numbers, while Mindlin took care of the streets. Mindlin apparently
loved
the streets, where he was deemed something of a Renaissance man, a
street-
smart manager who knew how to move truckloads of money and an
intellectual
genius as well. As time went on and the group's profits soared, he began
to
take more and more credit, until it was common knowledge throughout Las
Vegas that he - Dr. Ivan Mindlin - was the inventor of the Computer
Group's
invaluable program.
In March 1986. Sports Illustrated became the first national publication
to
report the story of the Computer Group. Dr. Ivan Mindlin explained to
the
magazine that he had taught himself computer programming while serving
on
the faculty at Monmouth Medical Center in Long Branch, N.J., the first
hospital in the country to have an IBM computerized record-keeping
system.
Mindlin told an intricate tale, of how he'd run 25,000 past college
basketball games through computer services from coast to coast so see
how
accurate the pregame spreads were against the final score. The magazine
reported that Mindlin "devised his own programs to make a number' on
each
game, and that he serves as the alleged mathematical mastermind behind
the
mysterious Computer Group, which just might be the biggest known sports
betting ring ever established anywhere."
The name of Michael Kent was mentioned nowhere in the story.
Though many members of the Computer Group might have thought that Dr.
Mindlin was the grand inventor, there is very little to support that
view.
Those partners of Dr. Mindlin's who agreed to give interviews all
maintained
that Michael Kent invented the group's program for handicapping
football
and basketball games. The only program Dr. Mindlin produced was for
betting
on major league baseball, and they say it was a failure.
Dr. Mindlin has declined to comment on this and all other matters. His
attorney, Morris Goldings, is evasive when asked who invented the
group's
programs. "We're not getting into the vanity of it," he said recently
from
his car phone. Last February, however, Goldings said bluntly: "What does
Kent say? That he was the brains and Mindlin was the beard? That's our
position too."
Each day Kent and his brother John collected the statistical data for
every
team, fed it into the computer, updated their program. fine-tuned all of
the
forecasts and then dumped them into a computer file to which Mindlin
had
access. From that point on. Kent -who was either too busy or too
gullible to
notice the fence that Mindlin was constructing around him - abdicated
all
responsibility to the doctor.
Dr. Mindlin's responsibility was so relay the information to Stanley
Tomchin
and a few other beards (or betting agents), who would survey the market
and
make the bets. Those phone calls and his accounting duties for the
group
were the extent of Mindlin's workload, but other matters kept him busy.
To the doctor's credit, the Computer Group grew very quickly under his
direction. As they were beginning to earn millions each season, Dr.
Mindlin
was injured in a 1981 car accident in Florida, which left him unable to
perform surgery. He applied for disability insurance, and his practice
was
limited to giving expert testimony in medical cases.
As his reputation as a gambler grew, he was able to strike up an
acquaintance with Irwin Molaksy, mighty Las Vegas developer with whom
Mindlin reportedly shared "his" computerized information in exchange for
Molasky's friendship and all the avenues it might open up to him.
Now street-famous for his work with the Computer Group, Dr. Mindlin
entered
into the commodities business. Once more he turned to Michael Kent and
Kent'
s friend, Mark Ricci who began work on a program for predicting the
price of
commodities futures. Based on their efforts, Dr. Mindlin farmed a
private
commodities firm he called Commend, which may have served him in several
ways. For one, he allegedly was able to launder money through Commend.
Michael Kent's brother, John, in a sworn deposition last year. testified
that he received $112,695 from Commend for his work on the Computer
Group's
sports data base. John Kent testified that he never did any work for
Commend.
Dr. Mindlin also found that commodities could serve as another point of
contact with Irwin Molasky, who invested with him through Commend,
according
to Molasky's attorney Stanley Hunterton.
Mindlin also established a relationship with Dominic Spinale, who
reportedly
was a smalltime hoodlum with ties to Chicago mobster Tony Spilotro.
Spinale
happened to be under investigation by the FBI at the time his name was
being used by Mindlin to open a betting account at the Stardust Hotel.
If
Mindlin could change one thing, he would probably never have become
friendly
with Spinale, which might have averted all of the troubles that engulf
him
today.
The Feds
Special Agent Thomas B. Noble has developed quite a reputation in the
FBI
for his six-year investigation of the Computer Group. Quite sad, really.
"He
got himself in a jam," says a fellow special agent. "He was a rookie
when
this thing started. Everybody was saying, Forget about it, you haven't
got
anything.' But, somehow, he convinced one of his superiors that it was
bookmaking, and got him to go along with it. He (Noble] is always saying
how
every case he's working on is the greatest thing. In the end, it never
works out."
Thomas Noble says that joining the FBI was "just something I had always
wanted to do." He was made a special agent in 1982 and was assigned to
Las
Vegas a year later. He had not been there long when a gambling
investigation
of Dominic Spinale led him to Dr. Ivan Mindlin, who had opened a
betting
account at the Stardust Hotel in Spinale's name. A muted alarm began to
ring
between the ears of Thomas Noble. This had the look of a betting
operation
run by La Cosa Nostra. The Mafia. Organized crime.
Soon after he had been questioned by the FBI about Spinale, Dr. Mindlin
began to spend more time at his house in Vail, Colo. A second alarm went
off.
The subject seemed to be distancing himself from Spinale, his LCN (La
Cosa
Nostra) contact. Noble traced a check endorsed by Spinale to an account
maintained by Michael Kent Kent referred the FBI's inquiries to his
attorney
. Another alarm. Michael Kent had the same attorney as Ivan Mindlin
Spinale was next observed by FBI operatives associating with a young
blonde
subject named Glen Walker, who walked with a pronounced limp (the result
of
a high school football injury). Walker was trailed to an establishment
called "C&B Collection Agency." Further investigation indicated that the
"C&
B Collection Agency" was not actually a collection agency but was in
fact
the front for a gambling operation. Informants led special agent Noble
to
believe that Walker represented the Computer Group, the most successful
gambling ring in the city, the gambling ring in which Dr. Mindlin was an
admitted member. The alarm in Noble's head was now whistling like a
steaming
tea kettle.
Noble respectfully informed his superiors that he believed he had
discovered
one of the largest illegal bookmaking operations in the nation.
The distinction between bookmakers and mere bettors is an important one.
Though federal prosecution of illegal bookmakers declined in the 1980s.
the
government still enjoys good legal footing in such cases, because it can
easily be proved that bookmakers are in the business of illegal
gambling. It
is much more difficult to prosecute the mere bettor, because the laws
weren
't clearly written to apprehend him. In a 1981 case in Rhode lsland
(U.S. v.
Robert Barborian and Anthony Lauro), the U.S. District Court ruled that
the
use of telephones or other wire communication for interstate gambling
"does
not cover an individual bettor, even if the bettor wagered substantial
sums
and displayed sophistication of an expert in his knowledge of odds
making."
But special agent Noble was certain that he was chasing bookmakers. More
agents were assigned to aid Thomas Noble. Surveillance was increased.
Wire
taps were approved in December 1964. Every day was a new adventure. Two
years with the bureau and he was about to crumble the LCN's finest
bookmaking ring with one squeeze of his fist. Had it all started so
quickly
for J. Edgar Hoover?
"Through legally intercepted conversations," wrote Noble, forcing
himself to
sit at his desk long enough to compose this sworn affidavit in January
1985
while bookmakers were making book outside, "this investigation has
determined that Ivan Mindlin directs William Thurman Walters on the
placing
of what are believed to be layoff' bets for the Computer' group. Walters
operates a large bookmaking operation which be uses to place bets on
desired
games..."
This allegation was the keystone of special agent Noble's investigation.
Layoff bets, by definition, are made exclusively by bookmakers wishing
to
protect themselves against large losses by making bets with other
bookmakers.
"Besides this operation," Noble continued, "Walters controls a
bookmaking
operation under the guise of C&B Collection Agency. This second
bookmaking
operation is run by Glen Andrews Walker who uses the premises and
facilities
of C&B Collection Agency as a bookmaker's wire room...
The big day was January 19, 1985, the eve of Super Bowl XIX, in which
San
Francisco would crush Miami, 38-16. The weekend would prove to be even
more
momentous for special agent Thomas Noble. He had requested 43 separate
raids
to take place in 23 cities in 16 states - perhaps the largest series of
coordinated gambling raids in history. "Historically," wrote Noble in
requesting the raids, "(during) the weekend wherein the National
Football
League holds its Super Bowl' championship, the betting volume for
bookmakers
is very high."
He was right on. The members of the Computer Group were caught
redhanded.
Betting ledgers and hundreds of thousands of incriminating dollars were
seized. All that remained before Thomas B. Noble could ascend toward the
top
of the FBI like a rocket toward the stars was this matter of legal
paperwork. He simply had to prove that the Computer Group was an illegal
bookmaking operation, that it was in fact a strong arm of the LCN.
"He said that to me once," recalls Billy Walters. "Noble said to me
'We're
closing in on your friends in La Cosa Nostra.' I'm telling you, the
guy's
read too many comic books.'"
The Raids
Michael Kent and his brother, Bill, had been invited to spend the Super
Bowl
weekend at the home of Dr. Mindlin in Vail. Colorado. Before he left
Las
Vegas, Michael Kent was asked to run a couple of errands for Mindlin.
First,
he received cash and checks from Billy Nelson, the gambler who had
originally brought Kent and Mindlin together and who now served as an
aide
to Billy Walters in the Computer Group. Next Kent visited the cashier's
cage
at the Horseshoe Casino, where he showed the cashier a dollar bill
scrawled
with a series of handwritten numbers, a password of sorts. The cashier
handed Kent cash from the account of Billy Walters. That week Michael
Kent
carried some $500,000 in cashier's checks and perhaps $100.000 cash to
Vail,
for delivery to Dr. Mindlin.
Kent says his brother Bill happened to be sitting on the doorstep of
Mindlin
's home in Vail on Saturday, Jan. 19. when he was approached by three
men
identifying themselves as FBI agents. "One guy tried to kick the door
in,"
Michael Kent says. "Bill said. What did you do that for?' The door was
unlocked. Bill reached over and opened it."
The FBI took down the names and addresses of the Kent brothers, and then
Michael Kent sat and watched television while the FBI rummaged through
the
house, confiscating money, records and gambling paraphernalia. An FBI
agent
was careful not so obstruct Kent's view while he was watching
television. "I
thought that was rather polite," Kent says. "They let us come and go as
we
pleased. I remember we went out for lunch - Ivan too. Ivan seemed to be
taking it very well. He didn't seem to be too overly concerned." Indeed,
the
doctor simply turned around and began his own investigation of the FBI.
Sources say that Mindlin, in his uniquely audacious manner, hired a
private
investigator to follow special agent Noble.
But Michael Kent wasn't taking it very well at all. He had been detained
by
police only once before, he says. for driving with a loud muffler. "It's
a
bad crime in Goldsberg, Pennsylvania," he explained in a deposition. The
night of
the Vail raid he would return to Las Vegas so find she FBI raiding his
condominium as well as the homes of his partners. Vacationing in
Florida,
Billy Walters and Billy Nelson were also raided that day. Clearly they
were
all in some sort of trouble. He says it struck him then how very little
he
knew about the group he had created.
One year earlier, special agent Thomas Noble had contacted Michael Kent
about the check that had been endorsed by Dominic Spinale. At that time
Kent
had listened to Dr. Mindlin, who advised him not so worry. But, this
matter
of FBI raids was much more serious. At the advice of special agent
Noble,
Kent says he hired his own lawyer, separate from Mindlin. Kent was
referred
to attorney Steven Brooks in Boston. As Brooks learned more about she
gambling operation, he urged Kent to take precautions that would protect
him
from Mindlin. "I would tell Ivan that I wanted to do things differently
on
the advice of my lawyer," Kent says. "Ivan would say, Oh, don't listen
to
him. What does he know? He's a schmuck.'"
Kent says he finally came so understand Mindlin's priorities. But Kent's
attorney believes his client might still be loyal to Dr. Mindlin to this
day
, if not for the FBI's frightening raids five years ago. "Remember,
Michael
thought everything was fine back then." Brooks says. "He had no idea
that he
should suspect Mindlin of anything."
The Beard
Dale Conway says he was sitting as his desk, placing a bet over the
phone
from his Salt Lake home, when he stood to answer a knock at the door. In
his
driveway he could see a postal service truck. Conway opened the door to
receive his mail and a man shouted, "FBI!" Suddenly, he claims, several
G-
Men came surging into his living room.
"They ran upstairs so where my boy David was playing in his room, Conway
remembers. "He was just 12 years old. He's sitting on the floor playing.
They knocked on the door and I guess he didn't answer quick enough,
because
they just busted the door down. The door's still all busted. I just left
it
like it was."
FBI records show that Dale Conway's telephones had been wiretapped prior
to
the Jan. 19, 1985 raid of his home. He says he had been making bets of
$1,
000 and less for Billy Walters, whom he met at a poker tournament in Las
Vegas. "I don't see what's the big deal about betting on a ballgame,"
says
Conway, 61, who has since been indicted for his part in the Computer
Group.
The government seemed to believe that Dale Conway was much more than a
simple gambler. In fact, Las Vegas Strike Force attorney Eric Johnson -
who
was acting as lead prosecutor in the case - flew to Salt Lake in May
1985 to
plead that the government be allowed to retain as evidence $75,179 in
cash
seized in the January raid of Dale Conway. Johnson noted that Conway's
money
had been hidden in coat pockets and inside a box tied so a rope behind
the
furnace wall. "I don't think this is normal operating procedure for
individuals who are trying to use their money in a legal manner,"
Johnson
told the judge.
Johnson also said, "This is not your typical bookmaking operation, your
Honor." And he said: "You're talking about over a thousand hours of
tapes
that have to be listened too. You're talking 216,000 pages of computer
printouts that have to be reviewed." And he said: "We believe that
bookmakers from coast to coast in a number of states have been involved
in
this. It's set up like a corporation. If your Honor would like, I can
even
show a chart demonstrating the vast complexity of this case."
The judge declined to view the chart. Is was obvious that the strength
of
Eric Johnson's argument that day - and the strength of the case itself -
was
that the government was going to expose and arrest a national network
of
illegal bookmakers. Too many times to count, Eric Johnson referred to
Dale
Conway as a bookmaker. He said Conway was just one of the many
bookmakers
involved in this investigation. He made it sound as though, once the
government had learned so make sense of all she information is had
seized,
it would become easier to apprehend and bring to justice all future
bookmakers.
"This case is complex and mammoth in proportions," Johnson told U.S.
District Judge Bruce S. Jenkins in Salt Lake that day.
The judge asked many questions, and listened to Eric Johnson's answers,
and
then he ordered that the $75,179 be returned, along with stock
certificates
and other seized monies. Five years later, Dale Conway wonders when the
rest
of his "bookmaking evidence" will be restored so him. "They even took
my 12
-year-old's Dungeons & Dragons game," says Conway, "I guess because
there's
dice in that game, they called its gambling device.'"
When this matter is settled, he'd appreciate it if someone from the FBI
would come by to fix the door.
Project Layoff
Some new bookies were in town, and they wanted to meet Billy Walters. So
he
came to the Desert Inn for lunch. The year was 1984. Waiting for him at
the
Desert Inn were Walters' top associate, Glen Walker, and a common
gambler
known in town as Matius (Fat Matt) Marcus. There were also two other men
whom Walters had never seen before. They introduced themselves as Danny
Donnigan and John Cleary, though Glen Walker still wonders if those were
real names. "I remember Danny Donnigan sitting there in his Brooks
Brothers
sweater," Walker says. "It didn't seem right. These guys just didn't
fit
in."
The two men turned their attentions to the kingpin Billy Walters, asking
him
many questions as they buttered their bread. Which is the most
efficient
method so establish a betting line? How does a fellow handle layoff
bets?
Basically they wanted Billy Walters to tell them how to become
bookmaker.
Walters says he began by saying:
"I'm not a bookmaker, but..." He gave them advice and drew them into
further
conversation, which is how he generally handles his suspicions. Later
he
asked to speak with Walker privately. Says Billy Walters: "I told
Walker, I
said. These guys aren't bookmakers. They don't know what they're talking
about.' I told Walker I would have nothing so do with it."
In the parking lot Billy Walters says he found a Lincoln Mark IV with
Louisiana plates. The two men had mentioned that they'd recently moved
from
Louisiana. Walters wrote down the license number and passed it onto a
private detective. "Of course he couldn't trace it anywhere," Walters
says.
"So that was it for me. I had no association wish them whatsoever."
But Glen Walker could only envision pigeons and soft point spreads, easy
money. He bet with the new bookmakers, and he was not the only one. Fat
Mat
and his preppy bookies were quickly able to establish business all over
town
. For all of their dumb innocence, they were very sure of themselves.
Fat
Matt could be found hanging out (literally) at Gary Austin's sports book
on
the strip, passing out business cards. He was so brazen that, had the
thought had occurred to him, he might have placed an ad in the
newspaper: "
Fall Malt's Illegal Bookmakers! We Take Bets From Anyone!" Indeed, he
and
his partners showed no fear of the law whatsoever.
It is amusing now to imagine the strategy sessions held at FBI
headquarters
in Las Vegas in January 1985, after 11 phone conversations between Glen
Walker and the Marcus Sports Service had been intercepted. Special agent
Thomas Noble sprang into action! He assigned other agents to investigate
the
illegal bookmaking operation; intelligence filtered in. The Marcus'
group
had swelled into one of the largest illegal bookmaking operations in the
country, grossing as much as $2 million a week in bets. Their clients
included associates of New York Mafia boss "Fat Tony" Salerno, and
Chicago
racketeer Tony Spilotro, who was betting them for upwards of $50,000 per
week. But Noble's chief interest in Matt Marcus was his association with
the
Computer Group.
"Intercepted conversations indicate that the Waiters-Walker bookmaking
ring
operation uses this [Marcus] bookmaking operation on a regular basis to
place what are believed to be layoff bets in violation of Title 18.
United
States Code. Sections 1955, 162(c) and 1952(d)," wrote Noble in the FBI
affidavit, before his men went after Matt Marcus and tried to shut him
down.
And so, on Jan. 19, 1985, on the eve of the Super Bowl, several FBI
rents
raided the Marcus Sports service. Perhaps they even broke down some
doors.
Certainly their firearms were loaded and ready. They raided the illegal
bookmakers like they had never been raided before. Meanwhile, the men
who
worked with Matt Marcus sat in chairs and crossed their legs, perhaps
smirking to each other from time to time.
Undaunted by the FBI, the Marcus Spans Service continued to accept bets
for
several months more. Then one day a pair of angry bettors marched into
the
office and demanded money they thought they had coming. They might as
well
have tried to get a refund from, say. the Internal Revenue Service. In
other
words. they did not come away with their money. Nonetheless, they had
guns.
Real guns, loaded with real bullets. The men behind the Marcus Sports
Service were scared almost to death. They closed down their office
shortly
thereafter and went back to the Foley Federal Building at 300 Las Vegas
Blvd
., where they resumed their normal duties as agents for, yes, the
Internal
Revenue Service. The Brooks Brothers colleagues of Fat Matt Marcus had
been
nothing more than governmental meter maids. The Marcus Sports Service
was
their brilliant "sting" operation, with which the IRS had hoped to catch
Billy Walters and other gamblers.
It seems now that the IRS probably should have shared its plans with the
FBI
. Perhaps then this peculiar business of the FBI raiding the IRS could
have
been avoided. "We knew upfront about that," special agent Noble says
today.
"We knew what it was. If you look carefully at the warrants, you'll see
that
we knew. We don't operate in a vacuum."
The FBI now says that it went forward with the raid in order to give the
IRS
bookmaking operation more credibility in the streets. In layman's
terms,
one government agency raided another government agency in order to
convince
the criminals that the other government agency was not in fact a
government
agency, but was rather an illegal operation that happened to be run like
a
government agency.
When the Las Vegas Sun broke news of the IRS scheme, more than four
years
after its demise, Nevada's U.S. Senators, Harry Reid and Richard Bryan,
asked to see the records and reports of the undercover bookmakers, to
learn
what good had come from the sting. In his reply. IRS Commissioner
Frederick
Goldberg informed the senators that the records of Project Layoff, as it
was
named, were no longer available. They had been "disposed of." Destroyed
would have been a stronger term, and just as accurate. Goldberg was able
to
inform the senators that the project had operated at a loss of $577,770,
which in 1985 amounted to the federal income taxes paid by 350 average
Americans.
Among the losses were $75,000 in uncollected gambling debts. The rumor
in
Las Vegas is that these were accrued by the notorious Tony Spilotro who
- as
it turned out was simply continuing his career of stiffing the IRS. A
few
months later, Spilotro was found buried in an Indiana cornfield,
although no
one believes the IRS would have anything to do with that - at least not
as
long as Tony was in red to the government for $75,000
The IRS is facing two Congressional investigations, and its Nevada
office
has been shaken up severely. But it's not as if the 1R5 is going to have
to
go through a terrible punishment, like, say, an audit. "The IRS owed me
something like $10,000 when I was done betting them," Glen Walker says
sadly
. "I asked if I could get it written off of my taxes."
The Gambler
Billy Walters moved to Las Vegas eight years ago with his family and his
immense ego and very little else. He was worth more dead than alive, as
they say. For too many years he had been operating a used-car
dealership in
his home state of Kentucky, and then gambling away the profits. In
1982 he
plea-bargained to a misdemeanor bookmaking charge - possession of
gambling
records, it was called - and was sentenced to six month probation and a
$1,
000 fine. He was in debt to several bookmakers, and he could not
command
credit. At 35, into his third marriage, with an ill son who was
supposed to
have died years before, Billy Walters believed he had no alternative
but
move to Las Vegas, to be a full-time professional gambler, to lay all
that
he had on this one final hand.
Walters can pinpoint his problems from those days, now that
he
is worth millions of dollars. As recently as 1982, when he was
preparing to
leave Kentucky, he had lacked focus. He was a gambler, that was
definite,
but he had no idea how to gamble professionally. He wanted to win every
single day. When he lost at the race track or when he lost betting
games or
when he lost playing poker or when he lost playing golf, he always felt
compelled to get down another bet, to retrieve what he had lost that
very
day. He recalls an evening in Kentucky when he was pitching nickels
with a
friend. The wagers grew until Billy Walters had lost his house - his
house,
from pitching nickels.
Then he had to come home and tell his wife. "I'm not one to
beat around the bush," he says. Standing now in his kitchen, head down,
hands in pockets, he seems to be recreating the scene. "I just came
home
and said to her, Look, honey, I was pitching nickels with a guy today,
and I
lost the house. And we might have to move.'" They didn't have to move
but
it took Billy Walters a year and a half to pay off the mortgage
incurred by
the revolution of the five-cent coin. He kept the house, but he lost
his
wife. She left him. That was his second wife. "She couldn't take it.
Fifteen times I've come home where I've lost every single penny we've
got,"
he says, as if revealing a scar.
His father died when William Thurman Walters was not yet 2
years
old, and his mother ran off, and his grandmother, who was a maid in
Mufferville, Ky., left him under the supervision of his uncle each day.
His
uncle ran a pool hall. Billy Walters estimates that his first bet was
made
at the age of 5, when his uncle would assemble islands of Coke cases
around
a pool table so that the boy could reach the felt. As soon as he began
to
work, his grandmother charged him rent. He hustled pool, betting his
rent
money. He was not yet a teenager.
At 13 he moved back in with his mother, in Louisville. At
16 he
had fathered a child and married the mother. Some morning he worked
4:30
till 7:30 at a bakery, some nights it was 3 to 11 at a gas station.
Most
days he went to school. Sometimes he ran a poker game - he was still
just a
teenager - in a house adjacent to Billy's Lounge. That marriage lasted
one
year. It's been much longer than a decade since he's seen his
daughter.
His occupations have included newspaper boy, farmhand, shoe-
shiner, baker, tobacco worker, foundry worker, painter, car dealer,
realtor.
To him, these were mere side jobs. In his mind he was a professional
player - of pool, gin rummy, poker, blackjack, roulette, golf, the
horses,
whatever. He remarried and with his second wife had two sons, which has
since led Billy Walters to decide that his own childhood was not so
desperate. His oldest son, Scott, should have been dead at the age of
5.
"They said he had 30 days to live," Billy Walters says. "He
had
the tumor back behind the left eye, where they couldn't operate. After
radiation they told us every day he was going to die. I stayed drunk
the
whole time. I was 26 at the time. It was the only thing in my life I
wasn'
t able to handle. I neglected my business and my family and stayed
drunk.
After nine months I went back to running the business."
The business, he says, was a wholesale auto dealership in
Louisville. "I earned $400,000 or $500,000 a year," says Walters, "but
I
never accumulated one dollar." Three years after his son had been
diagnosed
, Billy Walters was wed to his current wife, Susan, and she has been a
wonderful partner. They will celebrate their 14th anniversary in
September.
She moved with him to Las Vegas in 1982 and served as his accountant
when
he began to move money for the Computer Group. She was indicted with
him in
January 1990 and expected to go to trial with him in November 1990, if
the
case got that far.
Walters says he went to work for Dr. Ivan Mindlin in 1983,
making bets in Las Vegas and a few other territories. By then the
Computer
Group was four years old and churning out millions in profits each
season.
In return for his work, Walters received free use of the group's betting
information. Because he didn't have to share his profits with others,
he
might have been earning more from the Computer Group than Michael Kent,
the
computer wizard who so naively trusted Dr. Mindlin.
For the first time in his life, Billy Walters was winning
consistently and holding onto the money. He invested in real estate,
fast
food franchises and other ventures. His confidence was such that he
could
play golf matched for thousands of dollars. He even captured the 1986
Super
Bowl of Poker in Lake Tahoe. There has been recent talk that he won
more
than $3 million in one day of roulette in Atlantic City. Apparently,
Walters hired agents to take notes at the roulette tables, in attempt to
locate "biases," or patterns, in the wheels. Sources at Caesars Palace
say
that after Walters beat them for more than $1 million in one sitting,
the
wheel was sent to NASA for an examination and dissection that revealed
specific biases - but no for the numbers Walters had been playing.
Nobody
knows his secret, and he isn't saying, though he admits he has been
barred
from playing roulette in the major casinos.
Late in 1984, Walters' reputation had risen so high that he
was
invited to join the Computer Group on a percentage basis. In other
words,
he would share in profits with Michael Kent, Dr. Mindlin and other core
members of the group. Walters continued to place additional bets for
himself until January 1985, when the FBI raided the group of its records
and
cash, shutting down Walters for the remainder of the college basketball
season. He complains about harassment by the FBI, saying it confiscated
funds and refused to transfer them to the IRS to pay his taxes. He
claims
he is persecuted in part because the government loathes his attorney,
Oscar
Goodman, a colorful Las Vegas lawyer who has represented many mob
figures.
"You've got to understand my position," he says. "After the
government went through all the evidence, they decided not to prosecute
us.
For three years they tell us the case is dead. Then all of a sudden,
two
weeks before the statute of limitations is going to run out, they come
back
with these indictments. The day before we were indicted, my attorney (
Goodman) tried to contact the Strike Force to say we would be willing to
turn ourselves in. The Strike Force wouldn't return his calls. The
next
day they come barging into my house, drag me out of bed, put my wife in
leg
irons. I'm telling you, you don't believe it until you've gone through
something like this, what the government can do to you."
Walters says he agreed to give this, his first interview,
out of
a feeling of desperation. He perceives himself to be a rare gambling
success story - a man who was in debt before he came to Las Vegas. At
43,
he wonders why he isn't put forth as a role model. "People look at us
gamblers and say, You don't have a job like we do, you don't work 9 to
5,
you have to be doing something wrong," he says. "I came to Las Vegas
because it's the Wall Street of gambling. If you can get arrested for
betting games here...well, let me just say I never would have dreamed
that
the things that have happened to me, with the FBI and the rest of it,
could
happen here."
Then he admits that his life could be much worse. Inviting
a
reporter upstairs, he visits with his son, Scott, 22, is no bigger than
a 14
-year-old, and outside the house he wears a cap or wig to cover the hair
loss caused by his cancer treatments. He recently got his first job, as
a
busboy at the Horseshoe casino downtown. His father says he could be no
prouder of his son. In this relationship the gambler is called "sir."
"Let's see those autographed baseballs of yours," Billy
Walters
says, and the two of them sit on the bed, reading the signatures of
Scott's
heroes.
The Mogul
At one time Irwin Molasky was vice president of Lorimar-Telepictures,
which
produced television shows ranging from "Dallas" to "The Waltons."
Today,
surrounded by his vast real estate holdings, he settles for being one of
the
most powerful men in Las Vegas. There he lives atop the Regency
Towers,
which stands like a castle overlooking Irwin Molasky's kingdom. At one
time
the Regency Towers was known as a high palace for the mob. Irwin
Molasky
would surely argue that this no longer is the case. Indeed, he
commenced
another debate over a piece of real estate in 1975, when the subject was
his
California resort Rancho La Costa. At that time, Penthouse magazine
reported the La Costa was controlled by "mobsters," that it served as
their
"power center," and that it used "illegal profits" from "the mob's
worldwide
operations."
Molasky and his co-owner at La Costa, Merv Adelson, who at
one
time was chairman and chief executive at Lorimar, did not appreciate
such
unsavory allegations. So, they filed a $490 million libel suit against
the
magazine. The legal proceedings were drawn out over 10 years at a cost
of $
25 million, until Molasky and Aelson finally settle for an apology. A
major
booster of UNLV basketball, Molasky at 62 is highly image-conscious.
It is
important that he be recognized as a sober and legitimate businessman.
And
in fact, Molasky has never bee charged with a crime.
Molasky's attorney, Stanley Hunterton, readily admits that
his
client enjoys betting on ballgames, as do thousands of his fellow
residents
Las Vegas, where is can be a legal and rather social activity. However,
Dr.
Ivan Mindlin was not interested in currying favor with thousands of
legal
bettors. He was interested mainly in Irwin Molasky.
For years, Dr. Mindlin had been pretending to be the brains
behind the Computer Group, claiming to be the inventor of its unbeatable
program for forecasting ballgames. It appears that Dr. Mindlin was
never
much more than an intermediary for the group, as his own attorney admits
today. But Mindlin surely knew how to maximize his position. By
sharing
the group's betting information with Irwin Molasky, and making a winner
out
of Irwin Molasky, he became a friend of Irwin Molasky. When Dr. Mindlin
needed help in the commodities business, who did he look to? Irwin
Molasky,
with whom he became partners in the purchase and sale of commodities,
according to attorney Stan Hunterton.
Michael Kent, the mathematician who established the Computer
Group's forecasts, recalls hearing Dr. Mindlin speak of Molasky in 1983-
84.
"From what I remember," says Kent, "let's say it was a situation where
we
had taken a team with 4 points. Well, for some reason that day, the
team we
took had jumped up to 5 points - which almost never happened. Usually
when
we took a team, the points went in our direction."
"I remember saying, Shoot, it's too bad we didn't wait and
get
that team at 5.' And Mindlin said to me, Don't worry - I'll go ahead and
give the 4 to Molasky, and we'll go up and take the 5.'"
That day they sold their bets on the underdog at 4 points to
Molasky. "It was a good deal for us," says Kent. "Molasky didn't know
any
better, so he wouldn't mind taking the 4 . And we were able to use the
money to bet on the 5, which was a better bet."
As the Computer Group investigation lay dormant from 1986-
88,
Molasky and everyone else using the group's information appeared safe
from
prosecution. Then, in 1988, the government began to resurrect its case.
Molasky hired Hunterton, who says he had served as a special attorney
within
the Organized Crime Strike Forces for 10 years, until 1984. Hunterton
acknowledges that he was involved in the early stages of the
government's
case against the Computer Group, approving requests made by FBI special
agent Thomas Noble. But Hunterton denies the assertion, made by others
in
the group, that representing Molasky was a conflict of interest.
Using his contacts - which the attorney admits were the
reason
Molasky hired him - Hunterton reportedly was able to win immunity for
Molasky, in return for his testimony before the grand jury. However,
Molasky's testimony seems to have been a mere formality. "I've seen the
(
Computer Group) indictment," said Molaksy's longtime attorney Sam
Lionel,
who worked with Hunterton on this case, "and it doesn't appear that
anything
he testified to had anything to do with what is contained in the
indictment
." Whatever the substance of his testimony might have been, his
appearance
before the grand jury ensured that he would be excluded from any
indictment
the panel might hand down.
Irwin Molasky's record as a law-abiding citizen was thus
preserved, and his good name has been spared. However, some of the
indicted
members of the Computer Group think he may not be entirely finished
with
this business - not yet, anyway. If their case goes to trial in
November,
as scheduled, they plan to subpoena Molasky and question him vigorously,
not
only about his betting with Ivan Mindlin, but also regarding his
attorney,
Stanley Hunterton, who played both sides as effectively as anyone in the
Computer Group ever had.
The Fall
After he had been raided by the FBI in January 1985, Michael Kent began
to
ask the kinds of questions he should have been raising long ago. So
began
the end of the Computer Group. He wanted to know how the group was run,
and
what became of his information after he gave it to Dr. Mindlin, and how
much money his program actually was generating. His partners in the
computer group informed Kent that his precious information was being
shared
with the outside world in ways that could only profit Mindlin. Here was
Michael Kent, the mastermind, still living in his humdrum condo in Las
Vegas
, while Mindlin had homes in Vegas, Colorado and California.
Dr. Mindlin even seemed to profit from the FBI's raids.
Kent
alleges that when the raids shut down the group's activities six weeks
into
the 1984-85 college basketball season, Mindlin claimed the group had
simply
broken even on its bets to that point. Therefore, no profits would be
paid
to any members of the group. But when the FBI allowed Kent and others
to
review the seized records, Kent says he discovered that his group had
earned
a total of $1.6 million in those six weeks of basketball.
By 1986 Kent had hired a lawyer of his own, Steven Brooks of
Boston, who advised him that many of his current practices with Dr.
Mindlin
were either illegal (such as Kent's failure to pay taxes) or
inexplicable (
his failure to oversee Mindlin's handling of the money). Kent says he
tried
to change the way he conducted business with Mindlin, but had little
success.
Wary that he could not account for the actions of his
partner,
Michael Kent nonetheless kept trying to deal with Mindlin. He says he
offered Mindlin exclusive rights to the computer forecasts for the 1987
college football season at a fee of $700,000. In return, Kent would
tell
Mindlin which teams to play and how much to bet, and Mindlin could keep
all
profits. However, Kent says, the forecasts lost money for Mindlin in
the
first week, at which point he canceled their agreement. Kent says he
never
received payment for his one week of service, which he valued at
$35,650.
At this point Michael Kent was at the end of his rope. He
had
placed all of his trust in Dr. Mindlin. In return Mindlin had seemed to
treat him like a son. The truth of their relationship, Kent now
believed,
was that he had been playing the fool to Mindlin for all these years.
In 1988 Michael and his brother John Kent filed a joint suit
against Ivan Mindlin, demanding $589,719 in Computer Group profits and
payment for services. They suspect that he owes them more, but in all
likelihood they will never be able to prove it. At the same time,
Michael
Kent went tot he FBI, admittedly to punish Mindlin. Kent agreed to
explain
what he knew about the Computer Group and turn over evidence. In
exchange,
he was granted immunity from prosecution.
Dr. Mindlin's attorney, Morris Goldings, was also
representing
Michael Kent when the FBI began its investigation in 1984. Today he
accuses
Kent of extortion. "Kent has admitted under oath that he told Dr.
Mindlin,
If you don't pay me the money you owe me, then I'm going to the feds
with
you.' That's the kind of guy Michael Kent is."
Indeed, Kent's lawsuit revived the government's interest in
its
dormant case against the Computer Group. "I don't blame Mike Kent at
all
for turning over to the government," Billy Walters says. "This was the
only
way he knew of to get even...Kent is a bright guy in mathematics. He
knows
numbers like nobody else. But he's absolutely dumb from a common-sense
standpoint. Mindlin would tell Kent that he was betting, say, $5,000
when
he was really betting $20,000. And Kent had no idea."
Yet Billy Walters admits that he too was fooled by Mindlin.
Walters says he quit the group in the spring of 1986 when Mindlin
refused to
honor a $110,000 debt. "I knew from day one who I was dealing with,
but
never for a moment did I think the guy could steal money from me,"
Walters
says. "I thought I was too important to the operation. I was the guy
who
moved the money."
By 1987, the Computer Group was dead, victim of a human
virus.
Vanity and greed had infected its affairs. The computer wizard, Michael
Kent, was refusing to supply his information, and the gambler, Billy
Walters
, was refusing to move the money. Yet Dr. Mindlin was still in
business.
He hired Kent's friend, Mark Ricci, of all people, who in the 1970's had
worked with Kent at Westinghouse. Mindlin's new group had its run of
modest
success, but it could not begin to compare with the impact he had made
with
the Computer Group. Indeed, the doctor was something of a tragic
figure,
broken by his own greed, devastated personally as well as
professionally.
While trying to recoup his relationship with Michael Kent, the doctor
had
engaged in a worldwide, yearlong search to find a cure for his only son,
Gary Mindlin. In the end, he succumbed to a cancerous brain tumor, the
same
type from his Billy Walters's son had been so miraculously spared. The
another tragedy struck the Mindlin household. In 1988, the doctor's
wife,
Georgia Mindlin, died from respiratory failure consistent with an
allergic
reaction. The coroner found that she was probably allergic to
penicillin -
penicillin that she apparently received from her husband, the doctor.
The autopsy report indicated that Georgia Mindlin, 56, was
suffering from a sore throat on March 19, 1988. Dr. Mindlin admitted to
giving her 500 to 1000 milligrams of penicillin, which she took orally,
after her evening meal.
Some 25 minutes later she told her husband that she wasn't
feeling well. She got out of bed and collapsed, falling into
cardiorespiratory arrest. The doctor called for an ambulance. The
police
arrived at 11:52 p.m. to find an emergency crew trying to save Georgia
Mindlin. Police say that Dr. Mindlin attempted to revive his wife with
a
shot of adrenaline after her airway had closed off in reaction to the
penicillin. "It's easily reversible with things like adrenaline if it
happens before the airway closes," says Eagle County coroner Donna
Meineke,
who requested the autopsy of Georgia Mindlin. "But it (the injection)
has
to happen in minutes. Once the airway closes off, oxygen can't get to
the
brain."
Vail police lieutenant Corey Schmidt says he conducted his
investigation of Georgia Mindlin's death without interviewing her
husband.
"I think he left town," says Schmidt, who declines to make his report
public
. "I didn't have a lot to go on, other than friends' and relatives'
hunches
that it (her death) was purposeful, but we couldn't nail it down."
Special agent Thomas Noble says that the FBI is looking into
the
death of Georgia Mindlin. "Once you read the coroner's report, it will
be
clear why we have an interest," he says. When Michael Kent was deposed
last
year for his lawsuit against Mindlin, the doctor's attorney questioned
him
repeatedly about the death of Georgia Mindlin. Kent admitted that the
FBI
had indeed asked him about it, but said he'd known little of her death -
as
little as he had known about Dr. Mindlin's betting activities with the
Computer Group.
Lt. Schmidt is surprised to hear of the FBI's interest in
Georgia Mindlin, considering that the Bureau never asked him for his
report.
"If they're doing something, why wouldn't they have contacted me?" he
wonders.
As for his own probe, Schmidt says he found nothing more
than
the hunches of relatives to make him suspect foul play. He declares the
investigation inactive. "We haven't had one since 1979," he says,
referring
to murder in Vail. "Not that we've been able to prove, anyway."
The End
His former colleagues say that Ivan Mindlin still has not given up.
They
say he works with a beard in Miami, using the same program Michael Kent
developed 10 years ago.
Kent himself would be the first to warn his successors that
the
business is no longer so easy. Kent has formed a legal sports betting
corporation with two partners - his brother John Kent and their friend,
Mark
Ricci, who stopped working for Mindlin in 1988. Their attorney, Steven
Brooks, boasts that all profits of MJM Inc. (it stands for Michael,
John,
Mark) are reported to the IRS and that all bets are placed in full
harmony
with the law. In a recent deposition, Ricci estimated that their three-
man
betting group won $800,000 last year, which would have represented two
good
weeks for the Computer Group.
When Michael Kent was a mere centerfielder, trying to
decipher
the strengths and weaknesses of his softball team at Westinghouse 18
years
ago, there was no real computer science in sport. Kent was at the
leading
edge of all that. Today every statistic is calibrated, measured. Every
human decision can be backed by numbers. Michael Kent was among the
first
to find reason within the numbers.
In November, if all goes as planned - and there is nothing
in
the history of this case to suggest that it will - his partners will be
reunited in the courtroom once more (Kent himself was granted immunity.)
Though Assistant U.S. Attorney Eric Johnson was the lead prosecutor in
the
government's investigation of the Computer Group five years ago, and
though
his name is listed atop the Jan. 4 indictment, he will not be in charge
of
the case when it comes to trial. At that critical point, the six-year
case
will be handled by Jane Hawkins, even though she has been an Assistant
U.S.
Attorney for less than two years. As a matter of fact, when Eric
Johnson
was leading the Computer Group investigation in 1985, Jane Hawkins was a
humble clerk for Judge Lloyd D. George, before whom - and a fine
coincidence
this is - she will be trying the case.
"That may have been the smartest thing Eric has ever done,
getting himself away from this thing," admits FBI special agent Thomas
Noble.
Abandoned now by all the others who have worked on this
case,
Noble seems to be hanging out to dry. He works for the FBI out of
Chicago
these days, his reputation stained. For six quixotic years he led the
chase
after the Computer Group in the belief that it was the largest
bookmaking
operation in the country. Following Noble's lead, the FBI obtained
wiretaps
on the group's telephones for five months, until there existed more
than 1,
500 hours of taped conversation, which then had to be laboriously
reviewed
and transcribed. He requested and was granted the aid of special agents
to
follow the group's actions all over the nation. He provided information
that resulted in raids of 45 homes or offices in 16 states. He
requested a
raid of the Internal Revenue Service. (But he knew what he was doing!)
He
oversaw the seizure of evidence by the truckload: bank checks, the
origins
of which had to be traced, hundreds of thousands of dollars with serial
numbers that demanded verification, gambling ledgers that had to be
interpreted, not to mention 216,000 pages of computer printouts,
incomprehensible to all but Michael Kent. There were 89 boxes of
evidence
in government storage, much of it still there today. Then there was the
matter of dealing with this vast array of people. Every man and woman
raided had a lawyer demanding appeasement. The government sent Eric
Johnson
and other attorneys to various sites, defending the FBI's right to
retain
evidence, including large amounts of cash. It is no easy thing to
capture a
group of criminals these days.
Thomas Noble still maintains his firm belief that the
Computer
Group was a criminal enterprise worthy of prosecution. But at what
cost?
If a bill could be brought before the taxpayers, the price of this
investigation might total $1 million, which does not include the
$577,770
lost by the IRS in its parallel attempt to capture the group.
Then, in January, after six years of investigation and
review,
after the case had been opened and shut and opened again, the
indictments at
long last came down in Las Vegas. Nineteen men and women were placed
under
arrest. Each was charged with up to 120 counts of conspiracy, gambling
and
racketeering, related to their obvious use of the telephone to place
bets
and exchange betting information across state lines.
There was no charge of bookmaking.
No bookmaking.
So the government admits, at last, that the Computer Group
simply was betting on games. If not for Ivan Mindlin's careless
association
with a petty hoodlum, there might never have been a FBI inquiry. But
the
inquiry began, and it was extended into the next decade by innuendo and
intrigue, and by Thomas Noble's desire to understand how these people
were
earning so much money.
Six years with Big Brother has not cured the Computer Group
of
its addiction to gambling. Of the 19 who were indicted in January, most
are
still gamblers. Like deposed heads of state, they await trial while
the
system grinds on without them. In Las Vegas, all the top betting
operations
now have access to their own Michael Kents. They hire their Billy
Walters
to move the money on a national level. Aided by their Glen Walkers and
Dale
Conways and Arnie Haaheims, they flood the market and try to manipulate
the
line. In all of the Vegas sports books there are agents for the
betting
combines, soldiers armed with cellular phones and beepers, waiting for
instructions. For all their vast organization, these modern brokers of
sports bets will never match the sensation created by their forefathers,
who
, not 10 years ago, were sophisticated enough to beat the linemakers at
their own game.
Their legacy was to ruin the game for all who might try to
duplicate their success, including themselves.
"Next year," says Michael Roxborough, an official linemaker
in
Las Vegas, "we've got a new computer program that's going to help us
make a
better line."
The following information was drawn from two sources:
(1) the betting ledgers of Dr. Ivan Mindlin, seized by the FBI on
January
18, 1985;
and
(2) a chart compiled by Michael Kent, using the seized ledgers and
other
records of his own. Both sources hove been identified as exhibits in
Kent's
civil suit against Mindlin. It should be pointed out that these figures
account for the activity of the main Computer Group, and thus represent
only
a fraction of the total profits earned by Michael Kent's computer
forecasts.
Year Credit Line Amount Bet Profits Betting/Profit ROI
'80-'81 $370,000 $5,280,000 $700,000 $7.54 13.3%
'81-'82 $920,000 $20,900,000 $3,400,000 $6.15 16.3%
'82-'83 $1.790.000 $29,640,000 $3.721.000 $7.97 12.6%
'83-'84 $2,230,000 $141,830,000 $4,810,000 $8.70 11.5%
'84-'85 $3,590.000 $37,410,000 $1,298,000 $28.82 3.5%
TOTAL: $8,900,000 $135,060,600 $13,929,000 $9.70 10.3%
*Betting/Profit = the amount wagered in order to profit $1
The Best of Times, The Worse of Times
The Computer Group reached the height of its powers in 1983-85. The
national
betting network was operating at its peck of efficiency, which freed
Michael Kent to further fine-tune his computer program. The 1983 seasons
represented the lost windfall year for the Computer Group, which had
enjoyed
a great run of three years against betting lines created by the
inexperienced linesmakers in Los Vegas. By 1984-'85, the linesmakers
were
beginning to improve appreciably, as were other bettors competing in the
market against the Computer Group.
THEIR BEST WEEK
The 1983 college football campaign was the best season the Computer
Group
ever had. Though the group began the season with a relatively low credit
line of $1.1 million, it placed $23,440,000 in bets and won $3,850.000.
It
was only fitting that the group capped its best season with its best
week
ever, the last week of the 1983 season, which included the New Year's
Day
bowl games. It tamed out that Michael Kents's computer program was at
its
best in the post season. While other handicappers had trouble rating the
rare match-ups found in bowl games, the computer was as efficient as
ever.
Amount bet Wins Losses Ties Net Profit %
of
Games Won
$2,907,300 $1,977,000 $912,000 $18,100 $974,000 68.4%
In order to earn $1 that week, they bet (2.99. The return on their
investment that week was 33.5%
THEIR WORST WEEK
The following football season was the worst in the group's five years of
betting on college sports. Laying $21,240,000 in bets, the group
finished
the season with heavy losses in 7 of its lost 9 weeks, including Week
No. 7
below, which happened to be its worst week on record. Facing a deficit
o1 $
545,000 in the final week, the Computer Group won 85% of its wagers on
bowl
games, netting $628,900 and rescuing its members from red ink. The group
finished with a small profit of $83,670, but a profit nonetheless.
Amount bet Wins Losses Ties Net Profit % of
Games
Won
$2,184,700 $655,800 $1,133,400 $395,500 $(590,940) 36.7%
http://pregame.com/forums/blogs/johnny-detroit/archive/2008/02/
walters-and-the-story-of-the-computer-group.aspx | b**j
发帖数: 20742 | 3 wow such a fascinating story.. what law did they break? i can only think of
probably not paying taxes on their winnings.. anything else?
【在 H****w 的大作中提到】
: Billy Walter and the computer group:
: The Arrests
: He was in the bed sleeping when the two men walked into his bedroom.
: Billy
: Walters sleeps in a big clean bed in Las Vegas, in a small but elaborate
: home renovated to his liking, with palm trees and white flowerpots and
: two
: satellite dishes in the yard, and four large televisions in the den, and
: a
: security guard who sits just out of sight behind the shrubs across the
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