The CBS Murders deals with a story that is almost too dramatic to be believed. At the heart of it is Irwin Margolies, a jeweller who had a business in New York’s Diamond District during the 1970s. Realising he could commit fraud by taking advantage of a factoring corporation, he made millions of dollars in the the early 1980s without turning any significant profits, in what was tantamount to a Ponzi Scheme. In order to help him and his wife Madeline run the scheme, Irwin hired Margaret Barbera, a woman with bookkeeping experience to help him fabricate his records, and then a second woman, Jenny Soo Chin, on Barbera’s recommendation.
Initially, Margolies intended for Barbera and Soo Chin to take the fall if he was ever investigated by the FBI. When it became clear that Barbera and Soo Chin had kept records of the fixed books, however, he hired an associate, Donald Nash, to assassinate them. First, Nash murdered Soo Chin outside Barbera’s home, although the location of her body was never found. Then, he shot Barbera in a Manhattan parking lot on the Hudson River, as well as shooting and killing three other witnesses, all of whom worked at CBS, which was nearby – Leo Kuranuki, a studio maintenance manager, Robert Schulze, a videotape maintenance manager, and Edward Benford, a broadcast technician.
Richard Hammer’s book follows the police and FBI effort to convict Nash and Margolies, both in terms of the financial fraud and the five murders that followed. Part of what makes the case so unusual is that it took a great deal of time for the police to follow up on Margolies’ involvement. Even after Soo Chin had disappeared, and when Barbera was contacting them daily to raise questions about her disappearance, and her own (accurate) sense of being watched, they didn’t do anything rapid – a lapse even more dramatic for the fact that by this stage Margolies himself was under surveillance and on the verge of prosecution.
As Hammer frames it, that’s because the CBS Murders radically reconceptualised what white-collar crime entailed. Time and again, the possibility of Margolies’ involvement in the murders was dismissed – even when there was compelling circumstantial evidence – because white-collar crime and murder were considered to be two separate categories of crime. As both police and FBI agents insisted, brutal murder didn’t fit the profile of a white-collar criminal, even one whose actions demonstrated that he was prepared to throw anyone and everyone under the bus to make money.
The CBS Murders is therefore a bit different to many other true crime writing in that the main antagonist is not a psychopath – or at least is not presented first and foremost as a psychopath. Instead, Margolies is characterized as being driven by greed, as well as by spite, especially in the first part of his prison sentence, when he tried to arrange hits on people who had crossed him during the investigation. One of these apparently came quite close to fruition – the assassination of David Blewjas, one of the key officers on the case, who Margolies was prepared to have killed in front of his children, and along with his children, if necessary.
Obviously, those actions reflect some of the psychopathic traits that are such a fixation of true crime writing. Yet The CBS Murders takes these traits away from the abandoned highways, brief encounters and dysfunctional families where they are typically presented, and instead situates them within the American corporate sector, and the wholesome American ideals of upward mobility and property acquisition. When the investigators weren’t able to conceptualise Margolies as a murderer, it wasn’t simply because he was a white-collar criminal, but because psychopathy, in the popular imagination, was a quite distinct mindset from the world he inhabited.
Almost forty years down the track, and after the GFC, the psychopathy of the free market economy feels less novel. In Hammer’s hands, however, it feels fresh again, as you sense investigators making their way through the connections between the upper echelons of American business life and the underbellies that are more common in criminal investigations. For that reason, connectivity is a prominent motif throughout the book, especially connections between unexpected or improbable experiences and professions.
That sense of connectivity is especially clear in the opening chapter, which outlines three quite distinct institutions – the Diamond District, the New York Police, and CBS – and then situates them all in the Midtown district that forms the main backdrop to the action. Time and again, Midtown is used as a cipher for the unexpected connections that the case exposed, as well as the departure or dropoff point for a series of driving sequences, and trailing sequences, that weave their way in and out of the narrative, on and off Manhattan.
So improbable was the idea of white-collar crime as entailing brutal murder that many of the main breaks in the case came from coincidences, which adds to this sense of looming connectivity. Of course, contingencies are always a big part of true crime, but they’re especially foregrounded here, in a case that often seems to involve nothing but contingencies. The three CBS technicians were only shot, for example, because the space that was always empty next to Barbera’s car – Nash had spent days scoping out the lot – was full on the day of the murder, meaning he had to pull her body around her car and out into plain view.
Other equally unsettling contingencies come to the surface over the course of the book. Before taking the assassination contract on Barbera and Soo Chin, Nash was working with a cloned taxi, and was only forced to cease business after the very taxi driver whose number plate he had cloned recognized the number plate in the middle of a crowded street. At another point, a car is retained as crucial evidence after it survives vandalism after being dumped in a neighbourhood in the Bronx that is renowned for car vandals. Most remarkably, the FBI are only able to place Nash outside Barbera’s apartment because they were doing a completely separate drug sweep of the surrounding blocks, and keeping a note of any cars that drove in and out on a regular basis.
Both the murders and the detection are also driven by contingencies of time that are considerably tighter than those in most true crime. Despite the unexpected car parked next to Barbera’s car, Nash was forced to do the hit that day because he was about to serve a short prison sentence, which he considered would put him beneath notice. Similarly, the FBI only traced Nash to Newark Airport fifteen minutes before he headed south, resulting in yet another trailing sequence.
These contingencies all amount to more than mere narrative embellishment, since they reflect an establishment so unwilling to accept the full violence of white-collar crime that they discarded it as an option even when one lucky break after another was staring them in the face. Eventually, they did recognise it, and gave Margolies the longest sentence ever handed down at that time for a white-collar infraction, but there’s still a slight incredulity, in Hammer’s manner, that the crime was ever capable of being reconstructed as meticulously as it was, so drastically did it challenge both police and FBI assumptions.
And reconstruction is very much the approach of The CBS Murders, which refrains from a dramatic prose style in favour of a clipped, journalistic approach that made this one of the shorter true crime reads I’ve experienced. In some ways, the deftness of the book lies more in the structure, as Hammer starts by recreating the minutiae of the CBS slayings, and then moving to a police investigation so dissociated from Margolies’ intentions that you constantly wonder how this reconstruction could ever have occurred – and indeed, it does often feel like fiction at times, so improbable is the amount of detail it finally yielded.
That improbability made me a bit surprised that The CBS Murders was never turned into a film, since these kinds of cases – cases that force investigators to challenge their own assumptions – are often the most powerful on the big screen, as are cases where the fact of reconstructing the crime is a kind of miracle of ingenuity and inventiveness in itself. I must admit I was also fascinated by Barbera and Soo Chin, who were eventually discovered to have been carrying on a lesbian affair, despite the fact that Soo Chin was married.
This affair proved critical to their survival for so long, since their discretion around it meant that, while Soo Chin often stayed over at Barbera’s house, the two rarely left the house together at night, or went out together at night at all – a fact that meant that Nash was unable to execute the hit on them as quickly as Margolies demanded. That delay was arguably the reason why the CBS executives were caught in the crossfire, as well as the reason that the police and FBI had enough time to mount a case against Margolies.
In other words, a closet epistemology lurks beneath the surface of the case, shrouding Barbera and Soo Chin – the two intended targets – in a privacy that no amount of forensic reconstruction seems capable of exhuming, especially since Soo Chin’s body was never found. In these kinds of cases, cinema tends to conceal as much as it reveals, augmenting the closet outlook as much as traversing it, which is perhaps why I felt as if a film adaptation would have been remarkably true to this haunting case, which was itself stranger than fiction.