I have always been an early riser. From the time I could walk—or even before—I was up early in the morning. My parents talk of the days when they would wake to the Star Spangled Banner. This was before 24/7 cable TV, 30-minute infomercials and the like. For those of you who don’t remember these times, I assure you they existed. Networks would literally sign off for a period of time, and then you would only get the dreaded TV snow and awful hiss out of the speakers. Then, the station would begin its broadcast day with the national anthem. And I was there to greet them.

No matter what time I fall asleep at night, I am usually up before 7 a.m. Even after a long night of revolution, my eyes are open when first light cracks over the horizon. Maybe this is why I have always loved fishing—it’s never been a problem getting out of bed and to the water before most people greet the day. I have always loved these early hours because they really are mine. I have seen the sun rise countless times from a jetty, beach or boat and probably missed some fish for the purpose of just standing there and being alone when the sun begins to paint the water purple, red, orange and every other color imaginable on some days.

The early morning has allowed me to find time to read and meditate in my unconventional way. I have watched full movies before 8 a.m. With the advent of cable, anything is possible. Last year I found out the originalStar Trek runs at 6 a.m. on TV Land, and although I am a Comic-Con type of fan I have always loved the campy nature of the original series. Shatner can be such a tool. These are the hours for infomercials, too, and thankfully I have never fallen victim to one.

However, I want to give props to my favorite. It is for a male enhancement pill. The set is a living room. A smarmy, creepy guy is sitting in an easy chair talking to a few women seated nearby. They all giggle nervously as they praise the pill, which has presumably acted like an air pump to their partner’s, um, balloon. The best are the man-on-the-street interviews they do to bolster the show. Each man looks proud, while the woman gives the old wink-and-nod treatment to the camera.

(Note: This paragraph took over an hour to write, since everything could have been a double entendre. Plus, in my sleep-deprived state, I always debate the question—if I knew it worked, would I pick up the phone?)

The most beautiful mornings I have ever spent were in my daughter’s earliest days, when I would take her from her bassinette or crib and feed her in the pre-dawn, looking at her most beautiful face as she settled in to the crook of my arm, her little fingers exploring my hands and grabbing on for dear life. As she grew older, we still enjoyed the mornings. These days, she can be a bit of a pill on school days, but on weekends the earlier she is up, the happier she is. Sometimes it works for me, too.

I can’t say I leap out of bed with a jump in my step, ready to greet the day with a smile. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. I am extremely envious of people who can sleep as long as they would like, provided they needed the sleep—which I desperately need as I write this column. Some of my saddest moments have come in the morning, after a fitful sleep fraught with worry and concern. The point is, the bad also gets to me in my sleep, so I might as well face the day.

In my waking hours, I have the chance to fix things. I can spend some time gathering myself and my strength. I can walk along an ocean or strum a chord. To me, the mornings are a blank slate, uncrowded and serene. And since most people want to sleep them away I will keep them to myself.

I will always be a morning person.

My family: Giustina, Julia, Michael and Angela.

I have had a prayer heard and answered. I can tell you exactly when, too.

August 22, 2003.

That prayer was for my daughter. My love and gift in this life. I have tried to explain it, write it and expound upon the joy of her, but it is all so trite and cliche. I see her in my dreams and hear her voice in my head throughout the day. She is getting older, and I hate it, but this is the circle. The ride is just beginning.

It is the great tragedy of my divorce that I do not live with my little girl–who is not so little anymore. She lives about 30 miles away. Usually it’s one or two days per week, and every other weekend when we get her or visit. Not enough, really. I try to make the time count but it is difficult to quantify such a thing. I wonder if she will resent the time not spent with her, or hold that against me. I don’t think so, actually. She has lived most of her life without her parents being together. It is pretty much all she knows.

She is also the reason, however ironic it may be, that I am now remarried. For you see I met my wife Angela because our daughters were in the same kindergarten class. After a few fits and starts to our relationship, we have both decided that marriage is worth another try. There was much to consider along the way, and the most confusing part of starting this new life for me has always been one of the great internal debates of my adult life, yet one that has brought me immeasurable love and joy.

For two years, I have lived with a child other than my own. I am a stepfather.

She is a brilliantly alive child whose brain is filled with big dreams and a bigger imagination. Although tiny for her age, her heart and attitude fill a room to overflowing. She demands attention, and all of it. When the room is crowded, she’ll find her way to the middle and start the show. We’ve found a way to communicate, which is not to say we ever had difficulty at all. When her mom–my wife–is on the warpath, we team up. There’s safety in numbers.

I am sure she loves me and I love her. She is my child now, too. Make no mistake, here. She has a dad and a good one at that. I suspect he feels some of the same emotions I do, and perhaps more. He had to hope that his daughter was not living with some lunatic. He put his trust in her mother, confident she would protect his little girl. Sure, I am a lunatic, but not the kind he will have to worry about.

What I can tell him is I love his little girl and I will protect her as he would want me to. I will help her mother raise her. I will never try to usurp him. I know my role. I will cherish her life the way he does. I will help provide for her.

I can only hope that if another man is one day in the life of my Julia, he will do the same.

And I miss my own little girl every single day. We all do. Her stepsister wants her here as much as possible. Her stepmother wants her here everyday. We are a family through and through and life is really better when we are all together. Soon summer vacation will start and we will have more time together.

My girls and me...

A sense of peace comes over me when both girls are in the house, playing or sleeping. They fight like sisters and love like sisters and have known each other since they were five years old. Now in their ninth year, I can see where this is going. It terrifies me to know that in no time I will be the only man in a house of three women. I already feel it.

At our wedding ceremony, we joined our two families. I have carried great guilt over the lost time with my daughter, and I was told once that guilt is one of the most wasteful feelings a person can live with. I can only do my best to show my little girl that she is my jewel. But I cannot stop there. There is another little lady who now depends upon me, and she deserves my best too.

The days are going by all too quickly. The kids in the family are growing up, and I am suddenly my father. How surreal it is to live sometimes, to mark the passing days without taking them for granted.

I love being a dad. I love being a husband. I love being a  father. No, I love being a stepdad.

This is my life, however imperfect it may be sometimes, and it is good.

EL James is doing you a favor, fellas....

Dudes…not sure if you are aware of it, but that book 50 Shades of Grey is like a 250-page Spanish Fly-laced coconut martini. If your lady is reading it, take full advantage. It’s that powerful.

Put it this way: if I were a single guy I would bring a copy to the bar and try to slip it into a ladies drink.

I am not sure if E.L. James, the author of the now-famous and best-selling trilogy about a sweet young college grad and a bondage-happy businessman imagined so many women breathlessly reading her erotic passages, but that is what has happened.

James has seemed stunned at the popularity of the books and almost embarrassed by the attention. This week, hundreds of Long Island’s ladies stood on lines to meet her. The parking lots were filled with mini-vans as James’ adorers showered her with praise and probed her with questions about the tortured Christian Grey and his reluctant love slave. There were not a lot of answers from James.

They are not calling this genre of erotic fiction “mommy porn” for nothing, since that seems to be the demographic of the readers. I have been very entertained by the Facebook posts of women announcing they were reading the books, and then updating their posts with complete admission that their, um, buttons were pressed.

Now here’s the tragedy that has come along with this phenomenon. While our ladies are lying next to us in bed at night, reading these steamy paragraphs, most of us men are doing what we normally do when the woman is reading a book: snoring.

Huge mistake. Big. Hideous failure.

Want more stupid sports analogies to help you understand??

It’s like a lob pass into the end zone and the nearest defensive back is twenty yards away looking up at the Jumbotron.

It’s a puck sitting on the red line of an open goal with every other player sitting on the bench.

Come on, man...don't let this happen to you...

It’s dunking a ball into one of those Fisher Price basketball hoops the kids get when they are 20 inches tall. And the ball is no bigger than a marble.

That easy.

It’s not fair to paint with such a broad stroke of the brush, but the book has somehow provided many women with an acceptable piece of porn that they are not ashamed to hold in public. The ones holding the print copy are easier to spot, of course. But the tablet and reader users, you have to look a bit harder. You’ll find them, though. It could be the glazed look while they stare down at the screen, or the tiny smirk that comes across their mouths when they get to a good part.

Since it is the thing to read at the moment, there is solidarity and an absence of judgement. It’s fine to be outed as a reader of a little bit of suburban smut, although in some places the book has been banned. The faces only turn red as they live through the protagonist who is also struggling with her own moral tug of war.

It’s pretty cool.

But does the interest belie something else, fellas? I hate to be the guy to point it out, but maybe the books would not be so well received if we were a little more Christian Grey and a little less Larry the Cable Guy. Yeah, that was stupid, but I am trying to keep it clean. I think you get the point.

Tell you what. If your wife, girlfriend or whatever has not read any of the books, make the purchase. There is no need for wine, candles or any of that. You can go watch the game or whatever you want. Just don’t go too far.

And don’t fall asleep. You’ll never forgive yourself.

My girls....

On a beautiful April day, on a deck next to the Peconic Bay on the North Fork of Long Island, I married for the second time in my life.

I stood between two wine barrels adorned with flowers, holding my breath as I waited for my new wife, my daughter and step daughter come to meet me. Our closest friends and family were on hand for our day, and they sat or stood in the warm sun anticipating the moment when the bride and her maids would walk down the small aisle we created between the rows of chairs.

Reverend Allan whispered some encouraging words to me as I waited for her to appear. Small breezes swept over the deck as my friend began to play the processional song we chose, George Harrison’s “Here Comes the Sun.”

It was fitting, as the weather was supposed to be less than perfect and all week we held our collective breath. Most of our guests made our wedding a full weekend. We commandeered a hotel in Southold and provided a little vacation for our people. If the weather had not cooperated the weekend might have turned out just a little different. But at around 10:00 a.m. on the day of the wedding, the sun broke through and got brighter with every minute that passed.

She thought of everything. Left to me, the guests would have been eating McDonalds and the flowers would have been purchased along the LIE service road.

The night before, we held court in the back room of a beer and tapas place in Greenport. As our guests arrived at the hotel on Friday afternoon we hoped that all the work and planning would pay off. Late Friday night we all gathered with guitars and drinks and played late into the night.

Playing a tune for the bride to be at Biere in Greenport

I kept looking at her thinking about why were there in the first place. What we were planning to do and most importantly, why we were going to do it all.

This is the second time around for both of us. We did not arrive at this day easily, either. The last two years were not without many of life’s dramas. But when things started to get smaller in the rearview mirror she was still next to me. She didn’t go anywhere. She stayed.

I thought about what it would mean for our family, the four of us. We both have children from our first marriages. Two girls. They are the reason we met at all, having been in kindergarten together. I hit on her at a kid’s bowling party. Classy, right?

Our girls are all important. The most important, actually. This wedding was not just about us. It was about joining all four of us as a family. We have much to deal with. Her daughter lives with us. Mine lives some miles away with her mother. We relish the time when we are all together and we relish the time we are just a couple.

She retired to her room and we kissed goodnight. It was after midnight but we didn’t really care. Those silly superstitions didn’t work the first time, we said.

I went back to my room and some of the guys were still there. We played some more, had a few more cocktails and laughed about being middle-aged dudes. That’s what we are now. Dads and husbands. When my friend Marc left, I read the vows I had written over again. They seemed too plain, too simple. But they also seemed perfect.

Sleep did not come easily. They day started with me again reading my vows, wondering what I should do. I left a few gifts for the girls at their door step and we traded some text messages.

We rode off into the sunset on a tandem bike. Fun to ride after a few Kentucky Sangrias.

Having everyone around from early in the morning provided a real celebratory atmosphere. Some of us saw each other before showers were taken, coffee in hand and eyes puffy and tired from a late night. It would be another long day, but everyone was up for it.

Suited up and ready to get hitched, I walked next door to the restaurant and prepared for the wedding. And in the blink of an eye, after all of the guests had arrived and filled the seats, I found myself in front, between the two wine barrels.

All of my girls turned the corner, their smiles brighter than the beautiful sun. Angela, my new wife, stared up at me. I was transfixed, transported and amazed.

We held hands tightly as Rev. Allan began the ceremony. I could stop staring into her eyes. I could not find the words. This is the case, still. We exchanged vows.

Hers was a poem of promise that spoke of forever. The words and sentiment continue to swirl in my head.

The girls came up to join us and we lit unity candles, symbolizing the family becoming one. At first, the main candle would not stay lit in the breeze. I called on my father’s spirit to make the flame burn. He heard me.

And suddenly, we were married. Not just Angela and Michael, but Julia and Giustina.

A family, just like that, for the rest of our days.

We celebrated our new life, holding every moment closely, into the wee hours. The next morning, the weather gave out and rain fell from the sky, sending a message that the weekend was done. Over. Put it in the memory banks.

Mr. and Mrs. Martino

Few of our guests wanted it to be so. We had immediate wedding hangover. It was better than we hoped, more magical than we’d envisioned.

It will fuel us for many years to come. And in the hard times, we can reach back and just remember a little bit of the love of the day, the friendships and family we celebrated, and use it to get over the next mountain.

And we’ll climb them all together.

There is no way Francis Ford Coppola could have known what he was making.

No chance in a million Al Pacino knew what his career would be like after it.

And as far as the studio executives who doubted the vision and tried to fire Coppola and Pacino, I wonder if they hang their heads in shame every six months when the movies play continuously for 24 hours on cable.

Forty years ago this weekend The Godfather premiered. It is considered one of the greatest American films ever made and I will not argue. Even better, the first sequel, Godfather 2, rivals its predecessor and is clearly a masterpiece. (Sadly, Godfather 3 is as much of a tragedy as the killing of Santino on the Causeway.)

I mean when Coppola was giving screen life to Mario Puzo’s novel of the same name, do you think he envisioned some three year old kid on you tube saying “I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse” some four decades later? Or professors in business schools uttering the phrase “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer”?

Someone even wrote a book about what these movies have accomplished.

Not a chance in the world. Nobody could have known how deeply embedded into the fabric of pop culture these movies would become, and over the past four decades the influence of the films has not lost any strength. Instead, it has grown stronger.

Perhaps because the real message of the films—that the system is given to corruption, and only the side of the equation you live on dictates your righteousness—never gets old.

Even four decades later the dialogue seems to remain relevant, and 2012, it is not always easy to figure out who the bad guy may be. For example, as Michael Corleone said to Senator Geary in Godfather 2: “We’re all part of the same hypocrisy, Senator, but don’t ever think it applies to my family.”

How’s that for a line?

Often, the Godfather movies become ties that bind. I have a personal example: two former colleagues and current friends were really made one day when The Godfather came up in a business meeting. They were the new clients and kind of imitated the whole “never take sides against the family” motto. I remember them telling me that once a year they would gather to watch the movie on DVD, going straight through the first two movies while “using the Godfather 3 as a coaster.”

The meeting was going well, but a little strained. Trying to get into the heads of these guys was tough back then. Probably right before it was squirm time, one of them uttered a lead in to a Godfather line, maybe to test me. I answered the call. The friendship has lasted better than 10 years now.

These movies don’t know the boundaries of gender, either. And when they are on television, everything else waits. I love those weekends when AMC is running the Godfather and/or The Godfather 2 straight through for two consecutive days. If you land on the channel during of those magical days, no doubt it will be at a “great” part of the movie and you have to watch the scene, even if you are running behind and need to get in the shower or get out of the house.

The most awesome ass kicking ever: Sonny takes care of Carlo in The Godfather.

These tales so captivate that even when one of the 250 commercial breaks AMC will play during the movie starts to roll, chances are you will sit through it to see the next brilliant scene because every scene in the first two Godfather movies is great. Seriously, every scene is as close to perfect as can be.

I am not sure I will have the time to watch this weekend as a personal homage to what the American Film Institute considers the second greatest movie of all time. I readily admit that Godfather 1 and Godfather 2 remain my number one, tied with each other. I know I am not alone.

It started out as a mob movie. The studio execs wanted Robert Redford or Ryan O’Neal to play Michael. They wanted Ernest Borgnine to play Don Vito. (Can you even imagine that for one second? Ryan O’Neal sitting with Borgnine in the backyard talking about who the traitor in the family was? Who was going to play Fredo, Flip Wilson?)

Even as Coppola fought for his vision, fought for his job and made his movie it would have been impossible to see how deeply his film would borough into pop culture and cinematic history. And if he did, would it have been a blessing or a curse? Would it have stymied his resolve, made him tinker even more? If he did mess with the formula, would it have wound up the masterpiece we know it to be?

Probably not.

So as not to waste any more words, I say Buon Compleanno to The Godfather and leave you with the incredible last scene of the movie….

Michael: All right. This one time I’ll let you ask me about my affairs.
Kay Adams: Is it true? Is it?
Michael: No.
[Kay smiles and walks into his arms]
Kay Adams: I guess we both need a drink, huh?
[Kay goes to the kitchen to fix a drink, but sees Peter Clemenza, Rocco Lampone and Al Neri enter Michael's office]
Clemenza: Don Corleone.
[Clemenza kisses Michael's hand, and Neri shuts the door in her face... ]

Remember Tom Hanks in Bachelor Party?? Mine was completely different.

Not sure what was weirder: turning 44, having a “bachelor party”, or getting home after 6:00 a.m.

As far as I am concerned, you can take any one of those and call it strange. It is quite another to have it all happen in the same night.

No, this will not read like The Hangover. Nobody lost a tooth (except my daughter, who had one pulled that morning), and we all remember everything that happened in great detail. If you need a story involving seedy, alcohol-soaked elements, prepare yourself for crushing disappointment. Instead, this is a tale of being awoken to the reality of my station in life and happily admitting that it is where I want to be.

Let’s work on some context.

I am getting married for the second time in short order. Never say never. I am firmly in my forties, which is not a big deal per se. I’m a dad, a soon to be step dad and generally a suburban oaf.

When I became separated from my ex-wife, or at least when it became obvious that it was time to find a new life, I set out as a “single” guy again. I think most people live under the ill-conceived notion that it is the marriage that defines being single, and legally it does. But the kids, well, they are the big key. The kids are the ones who make you think twice about doing something you should not do. Once you are a parent you are never again single. You can shed the spouse but the kids are always there.

So in essence, I have not been single for many years and I don’t care. I can only speak for myself when I say it is fleeting moments of freedom that satisfy. A couple hours playing guitar or a night with the boys two times within a fiscal year fills that cup to overflowing.

Anyway, with my wedding fast approaching it became clear that there were no free nights for a gathering with the fellas. It was decided that we would do something on the same night as my 44^th birthday.

A dual celebration of Mikey.

The night was routine: drinks, a great dinner, and then a local Uptown bar. I was carefree and loose. I had the blessing of my fiancée, did not drive in and was having a ton of good laughs. The night was moving quickly, and then daylight savings robbed us of an hour. Instead of it being 2:00 a.m. late it was 3:00 a.m. late.

On another night I would have been a little more panicked. Getting on the Long Island Rail Road after 2:30 a.m. is a Fool’s Journey littered with drunks who very often are screaming, fighting and expelling the evening’s evil potions in projectile fashion throughout the train. But on this night there was no panic. We were going to get a car back to Long Island. I was very, very much in control of my surroundings.

And then my brother in law Tommy, 15 years my junior, expressed his desire for a corned beef sandwich. And really, when you are in Manhattan, the only place to get a sandwich is Katz’s Delicatessen—although I opted for pastrami. In the spirit of the evening, my friend Frank and I agreed. Sure, we thought, let’s be crazy and get a late night sandwich. Really nuts. Insane.

We got in the cab and Tommy told the driver “Katz.”

The driver was confused. Frank explained, “Not the Broadway show. The deli.”

Katz's, the most famous deli in New York City

Eventually the language barrier was hurdled and we began an odyssey from the Upper West Side to the East Village. About a week ago, I read a story about how the residents of the East Village were up in arms over the crowds and drunken buffoonery that besiege their neighborhood on the weekends. I thought it to be uptight Manhattanite whining. Let the kids have fun, I thought. It’s NYC.

When we got out of the cab, I saw very clearly what they are complaining about.

Thousands of people in their early 20s here and there, stumbling and screaming. There was a cop on virtually every corner, blocking the side roads off of Houston Street. Frank and I, friends since we are six years old, could not hide our wide-eyed gazes. We were 1,000 miles from our warm beds in the ‘Burbs, and we reeked of uncool. Stunk of it.

Entering Katz’s Deli is disorienting. It is a loosely-organized machine that has worked since 1888. I have not been there since the 1990s, and it felt like the first time. A cursory glance, then a more thorough inspection, revealed that indeed Frank and I could be the parent of any person in the place except for some of the employees and the sharkskin-suited guy in front of us who wanted to fight Tommy over corned beef.

My sandwich was awesome, piled high with the famous Katz pastrami and complimented nicely by sauerkraut and mustard. I looked around at the young faces and realized that these kids were closer in age to my Julia or Giustina or Frank’s son Daniel. In fact, there is a better than good chance that it will be them who will be at Katz’s at four o’clock in the morning before Frank and I ever will. (I can’t speak for Tommy. Three weeks ago he was working out in a Speedo on a Brazilian beach. He’s got some years of silliness left.)

After the deli we called car several companies for a safe haven, an airlift home. We watched people come and go at an after-hours club. One dude was dressed in a full-body skeleton suit. I love what surprises Manhattan brings.

The streets were still teeming with people. Finally, we got a car to come and get us. Tommy searched for a cab, promising to “friend” drivers on Facebook if they took him back to Queens. When Frank I and jumped in, we looked back to see Tommy heading away in search of his own ride. Our driver got on the Williamsburg Bridge and put the pedal to the floor.

Frank and I laughed at ourselves the whole way home. I feel young in my mind and heart but nobody wants to be the old guy at the club. Sometimes you cross the bridge without ever realizing it. There are other places to get a pastrami sandwich, and better times to eat one than 3:00 a.m. My heartburn taught me the latter lesson.

The silence of my suburban cave and the feel of my fiancée taught me the former.

Kelly Ann Tinyes and her dog Brutus.

Sometimes you don’t get answers to life’s questions, no matter how many times you ask. That is not what the Tinyes family wants to believe. Somewhere out there are the answers to all of the questions surrounding the brutal murder of daughter and sister Kelly Ann Tinyes. Twenty years ago this week, Kelly went missing from her seemingly perfect suburban block in Valley Stream one afternoon, and turned up dead in a neighbor’s house the next morning.

The day before her 14th birthday.

The murder became a landmark case in New York State as the first to see DNA used to win a murder conviction and became nationally known when the trial of 22-year-old Robert Golub was televised on the young cable network Court TV. Local media outlets covered the story with ravenous energy. It had everything. The shocking killing of a sweet young girl by a brooding male neighbor. A suburban street ripped apart. Brutal fights between the parents of the murdered girl and the accused killer.

“Nothing was ever the same,” says Jackie DeLuca, who grew up across the street from the Tinyes family. “After all of this, just going outside to play was not simple anymore.”

In the end, Robert Golub was found guilty of First Degree murder and sentenced to 25 years to life in prison. Former Nassau County Prosecutor Dan Cotter won the case against Golub. But there was something else bubbling under the surface, and despite the victory against Golub’s defense, the Tinyes family always wondered why former Nassau County District Attorney Denis Dillon did not seek a case against Golub’s younger brother John Jay. He was in the house that afternoon. That much is certain. He was also with two other young boys. That is a fact, too.

The biggest question, though, is why did Kelly Ann go to the Golub house?

John Jay Golub said he never saw her that day. So did Robert. So did Glen McMahon and Steve Bataan, John’s two friends who were upstairs in the house smoking weed. And now, two decades later, the Tinyes family and Nassau County District Attorney Kathleen Rice have one question: Who made the call that sent Kelly into the hands of her killer—or killers?

If Rice finds out, that person could be charged with murder, since the statutes for all other related crimes have expired. And maybe it is not a stretch to think that a jury would respond well to such charges, given the ferocity of Kelly’s murder and the evidence that would need to be produced for the case to have a real shot. To produce that kind of evidence, a mountain of files would be climbed and then another mountain made by newly acquired information. In the end, it would look like a scale model of the Rockies, comprised of accordion folders. The answer is there, somewhere.

Relentless

Richard Tinyes, his wife Vicky and son Richard Jr. have told the story before. “Thousands of times,” says young Richie, himself now married with one child and another due any day. He has come to the family home on Horton Road on March 3, 2009, the 20th anniversary of Kelly’s disappearance. The family is expecting a deluge of media attention since it was revealed that DA Rice has been looking into the case. Although the headlines would have readers and viewers believe that Rice was kicking open the doors on the 20th anniversary itself, it was old news in the DA’s office—where the case has been active for about three years.

Robert Golub is serving a 25-years-to-life

“Within a few weeks of me being sworn [in Jan., 2006], I was contacted by the Tinyes family and asked to fully explore if justice was really done,” says Rice.

Tinyes, Sr. sits at his kitchen table, a legal pad at the ready with notes scribbled on several pages. At times, two telephones are ringing at once as he tries to answer the media’s questions. ABC is calling. Dateline NBC is on the line. WBAB calls. He gives them all the time he needs to get out the most important fact of the day: Rice’s office has established a hotline (516-870-2813) for tips about the case.

He gives the same answers over and over, and recounts the pain of his family time and again, but is sure to say the hotline number. Tinyes has a bit of media savvy at this point, and he successfully juggles the multiple calls and queries well. As long as he gets the number out there, he seems happy.

On the table a picture of his murdered daughter stares up from the cover of a newspaper. In the corner a news station plays on a TV, its sound muted. Occasionally, a picture of the outside of the Golub house pops up, and then a picture of Kelly, and then a picture of Robert. Like a nightmare on an endless loop, the Tinyes’ live it every day. But today is worse. With the news of the investigation being opened, the 20th anniversary of the murder upon them and Kelly’s March 5 birthday this week, there is a lot to deal with.

“I have so much anger, the only thing to do is try to get her justice,” says Tinyes.

He wants to know who called Kelly that day. And he wants to know who opened the door. To get those answers, he cannot waver. “I have to be relentless. I have always been relentless. We won’t stop until we have the answers.”

By now, the stories of the Golub and Tinyes families feuding in the streets since Kelly’s body was found in a closet in their basement on March 4, 1989, are legend. Tinyes says there have been well over 100 incidents. Neighbors say the block has been torn apart.

“This used to be a wide-open block. We had block parties and everything. Not since then,” says one neighbor who asked for anonymity. Although he supports the Tinyes family, as do many others, there are some neighbors who wish that Rich and Vicky Tinyes would stop drawing attention to the murder. The Golubs have never moved from their home, where the bloody, mutilated body of the 14-year-old girl was discovered. John Golub Sr. refused to comment at his house, and his wife Elizabeth declined a phone interview.

With so much emotion in the air, Rice was facing a tough decision. After all, someone is in jail already for the crime. Sometimes a family cannot let go, says Rice. She has seen it in her career as both a prosecutor and as DA. Maybe Richie was the kind of father who would never let go, no matter what any investigation or trial found. However, when she met the Tinyes family she felt that they had legitimate reasons for coming to her office, at least in the personal sense. Legally, says Rice, the work would have to be done before she made a decision. Rice told her office to go ahead and look into the case.

So Charles Ribando, chief investigator of the Investigations Bureau assembled his team and began to look into the possibility that someone else was involved in the murder of Kelly Ann Tinyes. Working closely with Nassau County Police Department detectives, Ribando began an investigation that would include thousands of personnel hours, the testimony of dozens of people, travel to at least five states and importing someone from the Midwest.

John Golub Sr. dodges questions

“It takes a lot of work to do this on a 20-year-old case,” says Ribando, a tough-talking former detective and member of the Joint Terrorism Task Force for the NYPD. But Ribando has seen it all before. He knows that in 20 years, there is a good chance someone said something to someone, somewhere, that would give them the answers they needed.

About one year ago, as detectives began questioning his friends and family, John Jay Golub, who now lives in New Jersey and is a restaurant manager, hired Farmingdale-based criminal defense attorney John Lewis. To Lewis, it had quickly become apparent that the detectives still had a lot of questions about his client’s comings and goings the day of the murder.

“After they spoke to his ex-girlfriend and then a friend of his who is his ex-roommate, he knew he needed counsel,” says Lewis.

Consequently, Golub has never spoken to the DA’s office this time around. Through Lewis, he has denied to be interviewed. One source in Rice’s office says that Lewis demanded immunity for Golub to speak.

“Why does he need to talk about things he spoke about 20 years ago?” says Lewis. “Nothing good could come of it for my client.”

Who Made the Call?

Steve Bataan and Glen McMahon told authorities they were not even that friendly with John Jay, but decided to take him up on his offer to take the bus home from school to his house to smoke pot on March 3, 1989, when they were 14 years old, Kelly Ann’s age. When they arrived at the Golub house, John’s then 21-year-old brother, Robert, was there, going through the mail. John asked if anything was for him. He was always on the lookout for cut slips sent home from the school. There was something, and Robert gave it to him.

Being inside of the Golub house might have been shocking to McMahon and Bataan, unless they were used to living the way the Golubs did. A videotape tour of the house made on March 7, 1989, by the NCPD reveals a home in disgraceful disarray, seemingly abandoned. As soon as someone walked through the front door into the living room, they were confronted by mountains of clothing and trash all about the room. The kitchen counters are full of dishes, as is the sink. The master bedroom does not look fit for slumber, and the master bathroom looks unusable, especially the bathtub which was filled with clothes piled higher than the tub’s walls.

As the camera moves upstairs, there is a room obviously inhabited by a young man. A barbell sits on a filthy floor. A crossbow hangs from the ceiling. The walls are adorned with posters of famous female pinups of the time, like Heather Thomas and Heather Locklear. This is Robert’s room, and from here music played as John, McMahon and Bataan went to a pink room, vacated by the oldest sister who had moved out. The room is in similar condition, with clothing and trash littering the floors and spilling from the closet. A bed on one side is covered with refuse, as is a mattress on the floor that the boys allegedly sat on after John got a joint and lit it up.

According to the statements of both Bataan and McMahon, John did leave the room, allegedly three times. Lewis points out that even though his client did leave, “It was only for moments at a time.”

It was during one of these moments that a phone call was made to the Tinyes house and Richie Jr. answered the phone.
That afternoon, Kelly was supposed to be keeping an eye on her younger brother. Eight years old at the time, Richie took a phone call at 2:51 p.m. that he says was John Jay’s voice that simply said, “It’s John. Get Kelly.”

Like most teenage daughters, Kelly must have had a little rebellion in her because she went to the Golubs, but first lied to her brother and said she was going to her friend Nicole’s house, which is next to the Golubs at 81 Horton Rd. She lied because she knew her parents would not approve. She was not allowed to associate with John Jay. Several sources interviewed by the Presssaid that the Golub house was that one in the neighborhood nobody wanted their kids to go to. It was dirty, they say, and John Jay was the neighborhood bully.

One source said that John wanted to be called “The Great One.”

“He had no problem beating up a little kid, even if they were younger,” said one neighbor. “He would tie kids up, scare them, give them Indian burns, everything.”

Another source s aid that when John Jay came down the block, the kids would head inside, or into the backyard. But another source said that John Jay had a soft spot for Kelly Ann, and she could get him to act nice. That same source also said that John and Kelly did have a close relationship, but nothing over the top.

Jimmy Walsh, who was 6 at the time, claimed he saw John Jay open the door for Kelly after she came over to his house.

“Then I see Kelly walking down the street. I know her all my life,” Walsh said in his statement to police, under the supervision of his parents. “[She went] up to John Jay’s house and ring [sic] the doorbell. John opened the door. I know John Jay Golub from living on this street. Sometimes, he plays rough with me.” Walsh could not be reached for this story.
Lewis says that Walsh’s statement was never considered in court because detectives ruled that because of Walsh’s position on the block, “There was no way he could have seen who opened the door.”

Another neighbor, Kelly’s friend Donna Callahan, saw her go in to the Golubs’ house alive and well. But from Donna’s vantage point, all she saw was an arm and the door, and Kelly going into the house. That was the last time anyone outside of the Golub house ever saw Kelly Ann alive again.

The Tinyes family came to the Golubs later that day and asked them if Kelly was there. Robert was asleep when they arrived, and John and his mother denied Kelly being in the house. A call was placed to the police to file a missing persons report.

The original report says that Kelly may have disappeared on her own accord: “Parent indicates that missing person confided to girlfriend Amy List that she was running away.”

“That’s what some of the kids had told us,” says Rich Tinyes, remembering the day.

The next morning Elizabeth—who, according to Tinyes, was known to wear the same clothes for days—took John to some neighbors’ homes, demanding to know what they saw. At one point, they went back home and woke Robert, who also denied ever seeing Kelly. Robert eventually got up and left the house. In the middle of one of Elizabeth’s visits to a neighbor, detectives from the NCPD Juvenile Aid Bureau found her and asked her if she would come back to her house.
When they requested to search the house, Elizabeth called her husband, John, a gas station owner, who was at his yacht club. He told her not to let them search until he returned. When John came home, Elizabeth and John Jay accompanied one officer, a newly minted member of the unit, upstairs, and John Sr. went downstairs with the other officer. Within minutes a call came upstairs that the house was now a crime scene. The veteran officer told the rookie to go next door and use the neighbor’s phone to call for the medical examiner and some backup.

According to sources, when John Jay heard something was found, he asked “Was it a girl?”

Instead of using the neighbor’s phone, though, the call went out over the police radio, say sources. And down the block Richard Tinyes, who at the time was the owner of a collision shop and outfitted with a police scanner, heard the call go out.

The Tinyes family: from l., Richard, Victoria and Richard Jr.

“What could I do?” he says now. “I had to comfort my wife and my son. But I heard them call for the medical examiner. I knew it was bad.”

It was beyond bad. Kelly’s body was found hidden in a small storage space in the basement that was filled with trash. Her body was savaged and placed in a green sleeping bag. The extent of her injuries were brutal. She was sexually mutilated, her torso slashed open and her throat slit. In the sleeping bag was a 19-inch bayonet. In contrast to the mystery of the few who saw Kelly enter the Golub home, too many people saw her leave—in a body bag.

Playing Games

It became important right away to John Jay, according to statements and sources, to get his story right. “My friends and I played Nintendo in the living room,” John Jay claimed in his statement. “We stayed until 3:45 playing Nintendo. No one came to the house during that time and I don’t think anyone called.”

Robert Golub told cops that his brother wanted him to tell them about his playing video games. Bataan told cops that Golub called his house while Bataan was in the shower. Bataan’s sister took a message, though: Tell him to tell the cops that we were playing Nintendo.

John Jay also went to Bataan’s house with his brother-in-law Robert Walker, but Bataan had already been taken by the cops for questioning. According to reports, John Jay was irritable and nervous, demanding to see Steve Bataan. When Bataan’s mother said that he was not there, Golub yelled out, “Tell them we were playing Nintendo,” in hopes Bataan was within earshot.

“Why would he go through the trouble of covering his tracks like that?” asks Tinyes.

Within two days of the murder and arrest of his older brother, John Jay Golub was gone from Horton Road. He was never charged. Testimony from Jimmy Walsh was never entered into the record. Using DNA, former Nassau County Prosecutor Dan Cotter won a conviction against Robert Golub, who is now in Green Haven Prison, and who has to this day denied his involvement. Nobody is buying it.

“If we did learn one thing in this investigation, it is that Robert Golub is guilty of murdering Kelly Ann Tinyes. Guilty to the nth degree,” says Rice.

John Jay went on to attend school at LaSalle Military Academy. According to Richard Tinyes, the last time he was seen on Horton Road to John Jay in about 10 years. When asked why a rift had developed, Robert answered, “Ask him.”
Sources close to the current investigation say that Daniel Schiffer, a close friend and former roommate of John Jay’s, initially told investigators that Golub once confided to him that he had made the phone call to Kelly that day. But Schiffer changed his story some time later, claiming it was not John Jay who said it, but rather another person.

“For the DA to reopen this case, she is going to need either a John Jay confession or a witness,” says Lewis. “She has nothing new.”

Neither Golub nor Schiffer could be reached for this story.

There is also the question of why a white board near the phone in the Golub house that had Kelly’s number written on it went missing, courtesy of John Jay, according to sources close to the investigation. The phone is right near the basement stairs, a piece of “testimonial evidence that means nothing,” says Lewis, who also claims that the board was not taken by John but rather erased by someone else.

Sources also said that when one of John’s friends who was there that day went to go to the basement, John Jay flipped out.
John Jay has not steered clear of trouble. In the late 1990s he was arrested on drug charges in Nassau County. Sources have also said that three employees of a New Jersey Hooters sued Golub, who had been the manager there, for sexual discrimination after he promised them better work shifts in exchange for sexual favors. Hooters corporate offices in Atlanta could not confirm the allegation.

The Golubs never moved. They have tried to sell the house with no luck, but Richard and Victoria say that John Golub still drives by when Victoria is outside and smiles or gives her the finger. He will not do this to Richard. Only Victoria.

“In 20 years, there was never one ‘I’m sorry,’” says Victoria.

And because this world can seem awfully small sometimes, prosecutors are hoping someone is going to come forward with something. “[John Jay] had to have said something at some point over all these years,” says Victoria. “I believe he knew more about it. He was involved. If he is innocent, why didn’t he ever come forward and say nothing happened?”
Although they are full of pain, they will not act out, says Richard. Over the years they have had prisoners offer to “take care” of Robert for some cigarettes. They have gotten harassing phone calls. When Richard found out that a body was discovered in the Golub house, he vented his pain by going to his garage and destroying everything he could touch. But he wouldn’t attack the Golubs physically. He says Kelly would not have wanted him to do such a thing.

The phone rings again with another media request. Richard answers it as Richie Jr. checks the Facebook page that was set up for Kelly’s birthday on March 5, when dozens of friends and family members are expected to come to the house and release balloons into the sky and remember her.

“It doesn’t bother me that it’s crazy like this,” says Victoria. “Today is rough. Kelly would be having her own babies now. But I’m excited they are pursuing the case.”

Outside, the snow covers the quiet street. Soon it will be buzzing with TV vans and reporters, much like it did 20 years ago when Kelly Ann left her house for the last time. Before the media arrives, Richard Tinyes stands in front of his home, smoking a cigarette. He looks down the block and sees John Golub plowing snow in front of his house. Golub gets out of his brown pickup and walks slowly to the front door to the house that 20 years ago became the most infamous location on Long Island. Tinyes grimaces.

“I can’t believe they are still there,” he says as a frigid wind blows down Horton Road.

Author’s Note: Since the original publish date of this piece, the  Golubs sold the house where the murder was committed and moved off Horton Rd.

Kelly Ann Tinyes and her dog, Brutus.

I was in Morrisville, NY attending college in March, 1989 when I heard the news of a brutal murder committed in Valley Stream, the next town over from mine on Long Island.

Now, 23 years later, it remains one of the more infamous crimes in Long Island’s lengthy history of crime. Kelly Ann Tinyes, one day shy of her 14^th birthday, left her home after receiving a phone call. The next day, her body was found in the home of a neighbor. She was brutally murdered and lay in a crawl space in a basement. The killing tore the sleepy little suburban street in two, created a media circus and has never gone away for anybody involved.

(Here is the 2009 Long Island Press story.)

Of course, it has been the hardest on Richard and Victoria Tinyes, Kelly’s parents, and her little brother Richie.

I drove by the block a million times on my way to get my haircut or visit my college girlfriend. Like untold thousands I slowed my car and looked down the street, filled with both morbid curiosity, sadness and fear.

About a year later I was the editor of the now-defunct weekly paper Valley Stream Maileader. One day the phone rang and I was stunned to hear the voice on the other end.

His name was Richard Tinyes, Kelly’s father. He was having a fundraiser at a local restaurant to make money for the purpose of buying the Golub home and destroying it so a park could be built in Kelly’s honor.

He was polite, and matter of fact. Of course, I agreed to cover the event.

I arrived as promised and just melded with the crowd. There were other media outlets there, a couple of TV cameras. I saw some notepads in hands, too. There were pictures of Kelly Ann around the inside dining room and the back lot, where a barbecue was set up.  Balloons adorned the entrances and booths.

I saw Richard Tinyes speaking on camera. He was, and still is, a burly man with a deep voice. The rage of losing his little girl was just barely suppressed enough to not come off like a vengeful maniac on camera. He was good.

I introduced myself and he graciously shook my hand. He suggested we find a seat so he could tell me what the family wanted to do. And with a calm demeanor and a laser focus, he told me about the day he found out his child had been murdered, and that the sight of the home in which his life had been forever changed was too much to bear. He needed it gone.

I don’t remember alot of the conversation now. I have also spoken to Richard since then and his most recent words are freshest in my mind. What I do remember, though are his eyes.

I was not prepared for the experience of looking into the eyes of a man whose child had been taken from him so violently and suddenly. I was a young guy, fresh off a few years of college and following the Dead. If eyes are the window to a soul, I saw his rage and pain. I saw the fear. I saw tears just below the surface and the frustration of not having been able to shield his little girl from such a fate.

He never lost his temper or his cool. Now, 20 years later, I have a child of my own. I have no idea how this family survived the grief and loss.

None at all.

In 2009 I wrote an article for the Long Island Press on the 20^th anniversary of Kelly’s killing. Once again, Richard Tinyes kept his cool. So did his wife and son. They were dealing with the pain of rehashing the events of that March day in 1989 in the hopes of jarring memories and helping the District Attorney in her quest to find more answers to the many questions that linger. Did John Jay Golub know? Who else helped cover up the killing?

Robert Golub is still in prison, hopefully until he takes his last breath. John Jay is allegedly somewhere in New Jersey. The Golubs sold the home in the last few years. It was not turned park.

Last week, I received this email:

Hello Mr Martino,

I would first like to compliment you on the article you wrote about
the Kelly Tinyes murder. I would imagine since you are working for
Nassau County, you will not be writing any more articles about the
case.

If you have the time, please look at the following websites, I
think that you will find them interesting. Take care.

The Last Boy Scout

http://www.justice4kelly.com
http://blog.justice4kelly.com

For the Tinyes family, it will never go away.

We used to have great hook for tickets to New York Giant football games.

In the beginning of the season we would have the chance to pick the games we wanted to attend, if any at all, and buy the seats.  The 2000 Giants were an odd team. Just then it looked like the season was going to go south coach Jim Fassel guaranteed they would make the playoffs. The team got hot, ended up 12-4 and the road to Super Bowl XXXV would have to go through the Meadowlands. After taking out the Eagles the Giants then hosted the Minnesota Vikings for the NFC Championship and a shot to play in the Super Bowl. It can hardly get better for a fan, but it did for us.

Giant fan in a gorilla costume. Awesome day.

A few days before the game, my dad told my brother and me he had something for us. What that turned out to be were three tickets to the NFC Championship game. When the Giants had beaten the Eagles and made it to the next round, dad got to our guy first. My brother and I could barely contain our excitement. To show our gratitude, we saw dad’s three tickets and raised them with one tremendous stretch limousine that actually had a hot tub on the back. (I’ll kill the suspense here and tell you that we did not go into the tub. Sorry to disappoint.)

On game day we pulled up to the house in this white monstrosity on for wheels.

“You gotta be kidding me,” he yelled from the front steps. Mom had prepared a load of food for us, we had a cooler filled with beverages and off we went.

The air was electric, unlike any other sporting I have ever attended. As we made our way to the seats we waded through thousands of pumped-up Giant fans. Near the entrance we saw the guy in the gorilla costume. This was funny for two reasons.

First, it was a guy dressed in a gorilla costume wearing a Giants jersey while being chained to the bed of his pickup. Second was one of my father’s main jokes throughout the years was if he had to entertain people he would complain, “I have to put on the gorilla costume again.”

The Giants got the ball to start the game and in four plays scored the first of five touchdowns in their 41-0 drubbing of the Vikings.

My equivalent to the Wonka Golden Ticket

All the while, the three of us smiled, hugged, cheered and reveled in the moment. I can say without question it is one of the best days I have ever had. The only bummer was the fat limo driver ate our chicken wings and lied about it. A small price to pay for such elation, however.

These are the memories I run through my head to keep me smiling during life without dad. I still have my ticket stub.

I sent him off with his.