We came up with the idea that I would be an orphan. Without a family it’s harder for people to check up on you. If you had a family, you would have to involve other agents to speak up for you as family members. If you’re an orphan, the only thing they can check on is if you lived in a neighborhood or if you have any knowledge of the particular neighborhood. I had knowledge of areas in Florida and California because I had done some work there.

We knew from our research people about an orphanage in Pittsburgh that had burned down, and there were no records left of the children raised there That was perfect for me. One of the agents had lived in Pittsburgh, and I had grown up in Pennsylvania.

Being a jewel thief was my idea. There are all kinds of crooks. I needed a specialty that allowed me to work alone and without violence. I couldn’t be a stickup man or a bank robber or hijacker or anything like that. We had an okay from the department to get involved in certain marginal activities, but you had to avoid violence. As a jewel thief, I could say I worked alone. I could come and go as I wanted, and come up with scores that everybody didn’t have to know about because I committed my “crimes” in private.

For a jewel thief and burglar, it was not unusual for a guy to work alone. And since if you pull off the job correctly you don’t confront your victims, there is a minimal chance for violence. That specialty gave me an out whenever anybody would want me to pull a violent job—that’s not my thing.

Given the nature of the operation, there was a likelihood that I would wander into gray areas regarding FBI rules and regulations. But we had to take some chances. We would face things as they came up. How far my role could go, what crimes I could participate in and observe and ignore, how far I could go in having a deal instigated and yet avoid the entrapment issue—such things were part of my preparation before I hit the street.

As a jewel thief, I would have appropriate expertise. I knew enough about alarm systems and surveillance equipment to assess prospective “jobs” that I or others might undertake. A prominent New York City jewelry company gave me a two-week gemology course, knowing only that it was for the FBI and not knowing anything about my operation. I spent time with a gemologist at a New York museum and bought books on precious gems and coins. This didn’t make me a top-flight expert, but at least I knew what to look for.

I had a name, a background, a criminal career. We had to budget the operation. I would need an apartment, car, money to bounce around with, and so on.

We started modestly. For the New York side of Sun Apple, we figured on a six-month operation with a budget of $10,000. That was low, but with a low figure we felt we had a better chance of getting the operation approved. The main thing was getting it launched. Once you’ve got something going and can show some results, it’s easier to extend it. We were confident. Then if we needed another six months, we could go in with an additional proposal.

Nobody dreamed of going for six years and getting where we got to.

We budgeted carefully because the Bureau audits carefully: apartment, phone, leased car, personal expenses, and so on. Our initial figure climbed from $10,000 to $15,000 because we decided to ask to have $5,000 on hand for any special, unexpected expenses, such as if I had to buy into a score.

When all the paperwork was completed, the proposal was sent to headquarters in Washington. They approved it.

Now I had to disappear. Only a handful of people knew about this operation. For their own protection my family knew only that I would be going undercover, not for what. Since the Bureau had no history with deep, long-term undercover operations, we had to make up guidelines as we went along. One of the things we determined was that my true existence as an FBI agent would have to be erased.

In my earlier undercover operation with the heavy-equipment theft ring, everything was treated within the office on a need-to-know basis. Now the security measures would be even more severe. At the New York office of the FBI—then on East Sixty-ninth Street—my desk was cleaned out. My name was erased from office rolls. My personnel file was removed from the office and secretly stashed in the safe of the Special Agent in Charge. Since I was off the office payroll, my paycheck was sent to me outside the normal system. With the exception of those few case agents and contact agents and higher-ups in FBI Headquarters in Washington, nobody in the office or field staffs of the FBI around the country knew what I was doing. If anybody called the office looking for me, they would be told there was nobody employed by the FBI under that name. As far as people inside and outside the Bureau were concerned, nobody by the name of Joseph Pistone had anything to do with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

We had started thinking about this in April. By the time I was ready to actually hit the street, it was September.

Once I walked out of my FBI office on that September day in 1976, I never returned, never went into any FBI office anywhere, for the next six years that I was undercover.

My coworkers didn’t know what had happened to me. My friends didn’t know. My informants didn’t know. I would utilize no informants in this new Donald Brasco job.

Having disappeared, I proceeded to build my new life. I needed an apartment, a car, a bank account—ordinary things. None of this would be gotten through the Bureau. I would do it on my own, as Donald Brasco, and no strings would be pulled.

I wanted to do everything myself. I didn’t want to go through contacts because I didn’t want anybody to know it was an FBI operation. You never know if somebody’s going to get into somebody else’s files, or if somebody will slip and say something. If nobody knows and nobody’s involved, nobody can slip. And we knew we might be rubbing up against mob guys through the fences we were targeting, and that any slip could be fatal, so everything I did was done by myself, just as Joe Blow off the street.

We created some references for Donald Brasco. We set up a couple of “hello phones,” just numbers people could call to check my references. One was my place of employment. I was a manager of Ace Trucking Company. The other was the building manager at my residence. I was the building manager. The only people who answered those phones were my supervisor or my case agent—or sometimes myself.

I leased a car that fit my role, a yellow 1976 Cadillac Coup de Ville with Florida tags.

Ordinarily I never wear any jewelry, and I don’t care about sharp clothes. For this job I had to dress up a little, some rings and chains and sport clothes. In our budget that was a onetime expense of $750.

I went into a branch of Chase Manhattan Bank in midtown to open a checking account. I filled out the forms. There was a space for prior banking, and I left it blank. The officer looked over my application.

“Where did you do your prior banking?” he asked.

“Why you asking me that?” I said.

“Because we have to verify your signature,” he said.

“I don’t have any prior banking account.”

“Well, that’s what we require for you to open an account.”

It was a quick glimpse into society when you’re not playing by ordinary rules. Here I was, looking presentable in new sport clothes, carrying $1,000 in cash for deposit in a new account, and I couldn’t open an account because I didn’t have any banking history. I wasn’t prepared for that. But I didn’t want to get into any argument, because I was caught off-guard by this guy.

So I said, “Thank you very much,” got up, and left.

There was a branch of Chemical Bank across the street. I decided to try there. But first I thought over what my answer would be if a bank officer there hit me with the same problem.