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Once, during a family barbecue, Harold flew up into some trees, and the fire department had to come retrieve him. Rather than pay off his credit cards, Porambo sent letters to the banks pretending to be an attorney. Eventually, he wrote that his client had died. At work, Porambo began taking small payoffs from stringers at the TV station in exchange for guaranteeing that their clips were broadcast.

Soon after, the station discovered that Porambo had been cooking his expense reports. Once again he was fired. Maybe he genuinely believed that his family needed the cash. It only pushed him deeper into vice. One day in March , Porambo dyed his hair a garish red—or donned a wig that color, no one can remember for sure—and drove to the parking lot of Toronto International Airport.

Porambo approached a parking attendant, demanded money, then ran away with the cash. A few days later, police tracked him down and arrested him. One theory, now shared by Carol and Glenna, is that Porambo intended to get in trouble with the law, or at least flirt with the prospect. The seed of this theory is a book. It was about sex workers, pimps, and pushers, and it was hailed for its raw honesty.

His vivid prose and personal story wowed readers and the literary world. Howard Street sold a million copies. Porambo kept a copy on his shelf, where it became an object of envy for him. No one ever read the draft—Porambo was protective of his work, and the manuscript was later lost—but his family gathered that the plot centered on a criminal enterprise. Perhaps, Carol and Glenna told me, No Cause for Indictment had made him realize that, despite his reporting chops and ear for gritty, untold stories, he lacked the profile to launch a book about urban life into the commercial stratosphere.

In which case, maybe he thought that crossing the line into criminality would give his writing authenticity. The idea sounds farfetched. Then again, Porambo was notoriously rash. And the theory brings to mind the first story he wrote for the Daily Journal, about the robbery at the candy store. On its face, the article reads like a remarkable feat of empathy with the thief.

But could its perspective have been a sly confession about how Porambo got the story? Following the stick-up at the airport, Porambo was found guilty of armed robbery. Carol packed up the family car and headed back to Newark. Porambo kept working, taking inspiration from his circumstances. After nine months, he was released and deported to America, where he reunited with his family in Newark. He commuted into Manhattan for long dinners with book publishers at Italian restaurants in the West Village, with Carol by his side.

He was so pushy when promoting his work, so sure of his brilliance, that she was sometimes embarrassed for him. Without a book deal or steady work, Porambo began leading a double life. By day he worked on his novel and pitched freelance articles. Glenna, with whom Porambo was close, helped him. She rode with her stepfather to nice neighborhoods and cased potential marks. He ranted to Carol about how the rich never spent their money where it was needed.

Or maybe, Carol added, her husband was just unwell. He seemed more vindictive than benevolent. Porambo made friends with street criminals willing to team up with him on jobs. Their stomachs full of surf and turf and two-dollar glasses of wine, a couple named the Kilpatricks were walking to their car when Porambo and Norman approached. One of them pistol-whipped Mr. Fifteen minutes later, the police pulled them over in a car matching the description the Kilpatricks had provided.

Once again the weapon he used was a toy gun. Porambo was sentenced to seven years for robbery and assault and shipped off to Leesburg State Prison, a medium-security lockup that employed inmates in good standing on a working farm. Porambo did well inside, and he even gave his investigative career another go. He tried to mail it to a newspaper, but prison authorities discovered the draft and confiscated it.

Despite the provocation, he earned early release to a halfway house in less than two years. As a parolee, looking for a job was a legal requirement. Asking Newsday to hire him was ballsy. The Long Island daily was cherry-picking writers and editors from bigger, better-known outlets.

Murray Kempton, the former editor of The New Republic, came on board as a columnist in and won a Pulitzer four years later. Breslin jumped ship from the Daily News and worked at Newsday until he retired in Over the years, in phone calls and at dinners when the men found themselves in the same city, Bruning had been a calming influence on his friend.

Personal demons had done their worst; the conversation was brutal. Over the next few weeks, Porambo appeased his parole officer by picking up work at the Atlantic City Press.

Then, in January , he missed his nightly sign-in at the halfway house. He was charged with attempted escape and shipped back to prison. Porambo rubbed spirit gum along the contour above his upper lip and pressed the flimsy mustache into place. He pulled the wig, selected from the Headstart Hair for Men line, over his scalp. The wig made him look like Barry Gibb of the Bee Gees. He glanced in the mirror to make sure he was unrecognizable.

Then he grabbed his brown overnight bag and stuffed his supplies inside: She pleaded with him not to go. They had money; they would make rent. And there were consequences to the dangerous game Porambo was playing. Since getting out of Leesburg the second time, Porambo had settled into a new line of crime: It was a high-risk, high-reward business. The upsides were cash and other items—cocaine, marijuana, jewelry—with serious street value.

But there was little room for error in robbing hustlers. One mistake and you could wind up dead. There was Eddie Crawford, who supplied Porambo with information about targets—where they lived, what they were carrying, when their shipments came in.

Larry Page and Bob Windsor, two men Porambo had met in prison, helped him do the dirty work: While he held a dealer at gunpoint, they would shake the target down. After making their getaway, the team would divvy up the spoils. Windsor was from south-central New Jersey and had been in and out of jail for the past decade.

He was 38, white, and a little overweight. Porambo sometimes scolded him for being a junkie. Page was black, a few years younger, and imbued with a cruel streak. There was no better proof than what happened on April 10, It was a rainy spring day. Water dripped from trees and gutters as Porambo and Page walked toward a five-story redbrick apartment building in Newark. They had to pass the entrance a few times before someone who lived in one of the units came out.

Porambo, wearing a blue uniform jacket, smiled and tipped a fire-marshal hat toward the tenant. Then he stuck his foot between the door and the frame; he and Page slipped inside.

Just after 2 p. Still, he threw on a robe and opened the door. These guys were no firemen. Then Page barged in, and the robbers forced Davis to lie facedown on a couch.

Porambo kept his gun trained on Davis while Page scoured the apartment for money and drugs. In the bedroom, he found a few thousand dollars, diamond-studded watches, and Betsy. She was trying to hide from the intruders. Page started to force her into the living room, then changed his mind. He pushed her back onto the bed and raped her. When Page finished, he dragged Betsy out to the couch and threw her on top of Davis. Then he shoved a pillow over her head and demanded that Porambo shoot them both.

Davis roared up from the couch and lunged at Porambo. Betsy did the same, clawing wildly at the faces of the two surprised robbers. In the ensuing fight, bottles were smashed, furniture was flipped, and skin was torn open. Then a crack of gunfire split the air. A downstairs neighbor heard it and stuck her head into the hallway. As Porambo and Page bolted from the building, Betsy called the police.

When they arrived, the officers found Davis laying in the hallway, his bloodstained robe trailing behind him. He had a gushing wound in his chest. Adrenaline and shock had kept him awake long enough to tell the cops that a white man had shot him. He was pronounced dead within the hour. Inside the apartment, there were blood smears on the floor and coffee table, and a long streak on the wall where a hand had reached for support.

In the bedroom was an extensive stash of cocaine and drug paraphernalia. Her husband stood in front of a mirror trying to pull off the gluey wads of wig hair matted together with dried blood. Someone had smashed his head with a vase, he replied. A seismic shift had occurred: His nerves were raw. Before long, though, he started lining up a slate of new jobs back in Newark. The pair made off with a briefcase of cash, jewelry, and drugs.

When Porambo delivered the jewelry to Willie Rabb, his longtime fence, Rabb had a choice to make. Porambo had been a reliable partner, but Williams was a fearsome guy. If the drug dealer found out that Rabb had flipped his possessions, it could spell the end for the We Buy Gold proprietor. Rabb picked up the phone, called around until he got Williams on the line, and told the dealer how the job had gone down. A few days later, on the night of May 19, Porambo was home with his family when the phone rang.

He answered it in his office and kept his voice low while he talked. After Porambo hung up, he told his wife that he was going out. By the time Porambo got in his Volkswagen and drove to Ridgewood Ave. Or maybe it was the same individual who lured Crawford out. Nobody knows for sure, because the next time Porambo spoke to anyone, he was under arrest in a hospital bed, with a bullet lodged permanently in his brain and little memory of how it got there.

The accessories linked Porambo to several unsolved crimes, including the murder of Sydney Davis. Nothing surprised her anymore. Sometimes he was chipper, like the day a detective visited him with a nurse to take hair and blood samples. I only wish it had been under different circumstances. Those are special to me. In other moments, Porambo was matter-of-fact. He assumed they did so because they were sure he would die of his gunshot wounds.

Some of these letters revealed another side of Porambo—a peculiar, perhaps delusional one. He claimed that Jesus Christ had been whispering in his ear since he woke up in the hospital. Why write the judge when you can tell [him] face to face. In one, Porambo offered to testify against Page in exchange for a plea bargain; it was a tacit admission of guilt. Davis with the dignity with which he deserves.

The corrupt system Porambo had exposed, the attorney argued, had finally found a way to silence him. There was no proof to support that claim, however. He was prone to bursting into tears unexpectedly. When he was called on to don the disguises allegedly used in his crimes, the moisture on his face rendered the glue used to attach them useless. Cheap beards and mustaches drooped pathetically off his visage as he stood before the jury.

Carol came to the hearings. Nervous that whoever had shot Porambo—a crime the police never solved—might come after her, she kept a low profile by sitting in the back row and avoiding the press. She never spoke to her husband.

On October 2, , a jury of eight women and four men found Porambo guilty. He was sentenced to 30 years to life. Though he never admitted to killing Davis, as the trial came to a close, Porambo made a statement before the court. I know that now. For the first few years of his sentence, as he passed through bland prison hallways on his way to eat or shower, Porambo bounced awkwardly on the balls of his feet.

Brain damage had spoiled his equilibrium. Below his black, thick-framed glasses, his chin jutted out at a strange, painful-seeming angle. Yet he kept in shape by jogging for an hour every day in the recreation yard, stopping to change into dry sweats halfway through. Prison officers were less enamored: Eventually, Porambo began to wither, emotionally and physically. Family members I contacted either did not reply or declined to comment.

His psyche took a major hit when, in , his daughter Ronda slipped into a coma during routine surgery related to rheumatoid arthritis. Doctors said she was unlikely to survive. Prison authorities told Porambo that he could either visit her in the hospital or go to her funeral. He chose to see her before she died. Then he trundled out. It was the last time Carol ever saw him.

In time he was relocated to a prison unit for people with permanent health problems. When he could no longer jog, he took to walking the yard. When speaking more than a few words at a time became difficult, he scribbled on a pad of paper.

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