The real face of casino gambling in Pennsylvania

The real face of casino gambling in Pennsylvania
By Monica Yant Kinney
Inquirer Columnist

For history in the making, it didn't draw much of a crowd. Just the criminal, his family, a counselor, and a few supportive old-timers from Gamblers Anonymous.
The defendant, Mike O'Neill, sported a forgettable suit, scuffed Top-Siders, and a look of resignation. He had already surrendered his soul to the 12-step process. Last Friday, in a Norristown courtroom, the first area gambling addict sentenced for playing slots with stolen money had to give up his body.

O'Neill, 51, is walking proof that everything you thought about inveterate gamblers changed the moment Pennsylvania politicians bet the state's financial future on convenience casinos.

From 1989 to 2000, O'Neill served as Jenkintown's mayor. In 2002, he became its tax collector - a position of trust he abused after blowing his life's savings and realizing he could tap other people's money to stay in the game.

The new gambling addict could be you, me, the gal from church, the man at the grocery. People who never before played a hand of poker can get hooked quickly with this much action around the corner.

"Gambling changed me, who I was, who I wanted to be," O'Neill told me last year, the only time he's spoken about his self-inflicted, government-enabled demise. He succumbed out of weakness and also because the casino "was so close, I couldn't stay away."


Every last dime
He must stay away now because, for the next 10 to 23 months, Mike O'Neill will be tethered to the Montgomery County Correctional Facility in Eagleview. This, his prize for stealing $242,376.12 in taxpayers' money to chase triple sevens.

Judge William J. Furber Jr. also barred O'Neill from stepping foot in any casino until the end of his five-year probation, but the defendant already had that covered. Long before sentencing, O'Neill voluntarily banned himself for life.

"I just want to apologize," he said quietly to Furber during the hearing, "for taking up your time for something I brought upon myself."

Exceedingly repentant, O'Neill promised to make restitution - even though case law suggested he need not pay because the Jenkintown School District was made whole by its insurer, Travelers. O'Neill has already put $8,100 toward that debt with an additional $10,000 reimbursing Jenkintown for costs related to his scheme.

O'Neill can leave prison daily for his job as a church caretaker. Every last dime he earns will help the guilty man atone for his crime.

"And," the divorced father added, "I will make Travelers the beneficiary of my life insurance policy."


Bringing it home
O'Neill may be the first high-profile problem player to forfeit his freedom after losing his head, but he won't be the last. The nascent casino industry has already pumped $4 billion into the state coffers amid a bruising recession.
I have yet to hear from anyone pocketing big bucks or winners who donated their jackpots to charity, but more than 2,000 troubled souls have voluntarily put themselves on the casino self-exclusion list. Statistically, it's a given that some players steal their fun money, though gambling addicts hide it far better than alcoholics hold their liquor.

"I talked to all Mike's friends," O'Neill's lawyer, Steven Fairlie, told me, "and no one knew he gambled."

Admittedly, O'Neill showed signs of addiction years before during visits to Atlantic City. But as his lawyer explained, "it wasn't until he could go to a casino on a daily basis that he could lose all this money, his house, and his son."

Those losses, we now know, are the steepest cost of convenience casinos.

"The legislature and our former governor knew exactly what they were getting people into when they brought gambling into Pennsylvania," Fairlie added. "This is it."

If only a politician or casino regulator could have joined us in court to mark the occasion. Oh, well. Maybe next time?