Jack Teich - Operation Jacknap: A True Story of Kidnapping, Extortion, Ransom, and Rescue

A BOMBARDIER BOOKS BOOK

An Imprint of Post Hill Press

Operation Jacknap:

A True Story of Kidnapping, Extortion, Ransom, and Rescue

2020 by Jack Teich

All Rights Reserved

ISBN: 978-1-64293-523-3

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-64293-524-0

Cover design by Cody Corcoran

Interior design and composition by Greg Johnson, Textbook Perfect

This is a work of nonfiction. All people, locations, events, and situations are portrayed to the best of the authors memory.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

Post Hill Press

New York Nashville

posthillpress.com

Published in the United States of America

I dedicate this book to my very courageous wife, Janet, and the rest of my family.

In addition, the F.B.I. and Nassau County Police Department, who were the most professional,
dedicated, compassionate individuals
that we have had the honor to know.

Contents

I spent years trying to lock away the memories, but the mind is a porous prison. Theres no way to forget. Even now, all this time later, the images flash through my mind, bouncing from scene to scenelike light ricocheting through a labyrinth of mirrors.

Mental triggers materialize without warning. Sometimes, Ill hug my wife Janetthe one who risked everything for my rescueand Im transported back to the hug I gave her that fateful November day before I left for work. Dates can do it, too. Around Thanksgiving, when our children and grandkids gather at our home, a pang of panic for their safety jangles my subconscious, sending my heart hammering. Or sounds. I hear a metal chain clink or rattle, and my mind zooms me back to the closetthe cell where my abductors bound my legs and neck with metal chains, handcuffed me, and held me prisoner.

Its always there, lurking.

Through the years I developed ways to mask the trauma, tricks to project normalcy. I had to. I ran our family business, a steel fabrication company that at its peak employed 550 workers in six facilities. Knowing people depend on you forces you to hold it all together, or at least pretend to. I did the only thing I knew how: I submerged the nightmare down deep and never spoke about it. John Paul Getty III was kidnapped the year before I was, and Patty Hearsts abduction came nine months before mine. When the media called (they still do) to discuss my case or theirs, I said, no comment. And when filmmakers sought my input on kidnapping scenes, I politely declined. I never even told our daughter, Jaime, what happened to me. I didnt want her to inherit a life of anxieties and fears. The stacks of newspaper clippings, FBI files, audio recordings, and police crime photosI boxed it all up and hid it away.

Later, in the early 1990s, author James Patterson published the bestselling novel, Along Came a Spider. The book went on to become a movie starring Morgan Freeman. Even though it was fiction, Patterson had included ripped from the headlines accounts of famous kidnapping cases, including mine and Paul Gettys. The phone started ringing all over again. And in 1997, I found myself still embroiled in a courtroom battle with one of my captors, sparking even more national headlines. Nevertheless, I respectfully avoided the media spotlight and remained quiet.

Then one day I was asked to discuss my kidnapping, ransom, and rescue with a small, private group. To my own amazement, I agreed to do it. Im glad I did. Voicing my story proved cathartic. More importantly, others were moved by what I had to say. Bringing encouragement and support to survivors and people whove endured traumatic experiences helped me reclaim a little inner peace.

My hope for you is that my story will serve as a reminder of all you cherish and hold most dear in your life. My wife, my brothers Buddy and Eddie, my father Joe, the FBI agents and Nassau County police who lived with us, and the hundreds of law enforcement officers who were assigned to operation Jacknap all put their lives on the line to achieve justice and ensure my safe return. Their bravery, love, and devotion are the reasons Im alive today. This book is my way of thanking them and God for saving my life.

R ain drizzled on the windshield of my 1971 Lincoln coupe as I drove home from work at dusk.

At the stop sign blocks from my Long Island home, my eyes darted to the rear view mirror. Headlights from a trailing car shined low through the droplets streaking my rear window. It was somewhat unusual. Id made that stop hundreds of times along the lazy route leading to my Kings Point house on Ballantine Lane. Seldom, if ever, was there a car behind me. I kept driving.

When I pulled into the leaf-strewn driveway of our brown, wood-shingled, craftsman-style home, I parked about three feet away from our white two-car garage. A basketball hoop hung above it. It was 6:40 p.m., Tuesday, November 12, 1974.

I killed the headlights. Something wasnt right. Id pushed the headlights off, but the face of the garage door still glowed. I wrenched my neck around. A car was behind mine, its headlamps beaming like a spotlight. I stepped out of my car and shut the door. A voice rang out.

Excuse me, you know how to get to Northern Boulevard?

I squinted. The voice came from an approaching silhouette, backlit by two blasts of bright light.

Excuse me? I said.

A man appeared in the driveway. He was about five feet, seven inches tall, black, wore a light tan jacket and gloves, a dark green ski mask, and had a silver long-barrel pistol.

Come on, youre coming with us. Get over here, or were going to blow your head off, he demanded. Now!

I froze.

Dart into the woods behind the house , I thought for a second. No, nohell go into our house. I couldnt let that happen. Inside sat my young wife, Janet, thirty, and our two small boys. Marc was almost seven years old; Michael was just twenty-seven months.

Go with himdraw him away from the home , I told myself.

He hustled me back to a small, two-door sports car. Beside it stood a taller, thinner black man, 510, also wearing a dark green ski mask, with a shotgun.

The man with the handgun unlatched the door.

Get in the back seat.

As my head breached the cars door frame, I noticed it had light-colored interior with piping on the upholstery. There was also a chrome trim on the windows.

Lay on your side. Down.

The taller man was the driver. In the driveway was the first and only time he ever spoke to me.

Get down! Well blow your head off!

I hurried onto my side and scrunched into a fetal position. My head was behind the passengers seat, my feet toward the drivers side.

In front of me on the floorboard lay a pungent metal gasoline can.

The men jumped in the car and slapped handcuffs on me, removed my glasses, and mashed two large patches of putty over my eyes. A different pair of glasses was then slid onto my face. They left my raincoat and brown suit jacket on me. They then pulled a large sheet of cardboard over my body as we rolled away from my home.