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July 29, 2005

Section One Letters 3Columns

Hot Type 4What kind of journalist is Jamie Kalven?

The Straight Dope 5How the toast falls

The Works 8Standard procedure, eh?

Chicago Antisocial 10The pepper spray was the last straw.

Our Town 12Danny Postel adopts a bookstore.

ReviewsMovies 24Jia Zhang-ke’s The World

Music 26Missy Elliott’s The Cookbook

Theater 28Rogue’s Oresteia at the Athenaeum

Books 30Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

PlusInk WellThis week’s crossword: Whodunit?

Immediately after a tornado demolisheddownstate Utica last spring, around 30ambulances and fire trucks from across the state

raced to the aid of the little town. Among them, ared-and-white 1975 Mack fire truck marked LOSTCREEK FIRE COMPANY ENG. 886 stood out. Its driverstopped for directions at the North Aurora FireStation, which had already dispatched a crew ofemergency workers, then sped toward Utica. Statepolice were manning a roadblock in front of a vehicle

staging area set up about a mile north of town. In situations like this emergency workers are

summoned by the Mutual Aid Box Alarm System,or MABAS, the statewide emergency responsesystem for large disasters, and a password is givento responding departments when they’redispatched. No one on the Mack knew thepassword, according to Ottawa Fire Departmentchief Richard Scott, the incident commander at thescene. So the troopers stationed continued on page 18

Jay M. Katz, seated, with his 1975 Mack fire engine at the 2004 Chicagoland Emergency Vehicle Show

ON THE COVER: MIKE BROWARSKI (FIRE TRUCK), SHEILA SACHS (MISSY)

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Playing FiremanWhat prompted Illinois to pass a law against impersonating

emergency personnel? Meet the men of the Lost Creek Fire Company.

By Mike Sula

18 CHICAGO READER | JULY 29, 2005 | SECTION ONE

at the roadblock radioed himand asked him what to do. Scotthad rubble to clear—there wasno time to do a backgroundcheck on a company he’d neverheard of. He estimates that about10 to 15 other people withoutpasswords showed up at Utica,some in personal vehicles. Heordered the officers at thestaging area to separate them allfrom the main group and tellthem to wait.

“We let them sit there forabout five hours,” Scott says. “Iguess they got a little upset atthat point and demanded to beallowed to go down. We refusedand asked them to go home orwe would have them escortedout by police.”

The interlopers hadn’t beencalled to the scene by MABAS.Official personnel had no ideawho they were or where they’dcome from. But in the days afterthe tornado an e-mail circulatedamong Illinois fire departmentsthat offered some clues. Signedby a J.R. Matta, chief of the LostCreek Fire Company, it thankedthose who’d responded to theUtica emergency and boasted ofhis company’s good work: “Whenthe call went out by Division 25for all available Fire Company’s &Rescue personnel. Hundreds ofpublic and private Fire, Rescueand Ambulance services weresummoned to the scene. We atLost Creek Fire Co. were morethan happy to respond to theirrequest.” It went on to describe a

late-night journey from LakeCounty to Utica and extol thecamaraderie among the many fire-fighters at the scene. And therewas a fair bit of cinematic narra-tion: “Debris was everywhere andwe took everything into mind andperformed our tasks without hesi-tation. Radios crackling in the air,Emergency vehicles of all typesrushing into and out of the town.It was a very eerie site to behold.One that you need to experienceto feel what we felt trying to lendassistance to a small town inneed. So once again, I thankthose people who responded lastnight in our caravan ofEmergency vehicles with Engine886 leading the way to render aidto a small rural community ofabout 1000 people of Utica, ILL.”

Some firefighters were amusedby this work of fiction, but thebrass wasn’t. Jay Reardon, chiefof the Northbrook FireDepartment, is president ofMABAS. The Utica operationwas the system’s largest mobi-lization to date—around 63 firetrucks, engines, ambulances, andheavy-rescue vehicles were putinto action before the week wasover. Over the past five years onReardon’s watch MABAS hasbeen overhauled, partly inresponse to the threat of terror-ism. A breach of its protocolscould put the lives of emergencypersonnel and civilians at risk.

Reardon wanted the LostCreek Fire Company busted. Hecontacted the state police andthe Lake County sheriff ’s office

and asked them to investigate.“They both called me back andsaid, ‘We can’t find a law on thebooks,’” he says. “Which amazedall of us, because we all pre-sumed it was illegal to imperson-ate a firefighter.”

Jeffrey R. Matta is a slight,mustachioed 44-year-old bus

driver who lives in Deerfield.When I met him at a diner inWheeling he was dressed in thenavy blue utility clothes favoredby emergency workers. His earsjutted out from under a stiffbaseball cap, and on his jacketwere a commemorative “9-11WTC” lapel pin and an Americanflag patch. Under his coat hewore a portable radio of the sortpolice patrol officers carry, itsspeaker whispering softly. Hisbelt buckle was made from aLake County sheriff ’s badge.

In the parking lot his massivemidnight blue Chevy pickup hada pair of long yellow stripes run-ning down the side. “Can you tellI used to work for the sheriff?”he asked, explaining that thestriping was once used on Lake

County sheriff ’s vehicles.Matta didn’t actually work for

the Lake County sheriff, but for11 years he was a volunteer in thesheriff ’s reserve deputy unit.That’s a group of civilians whoprovide traffic and crowd controlat public events, search for lostchildren and old folks, helppolice with evidence searches,and assist them at natural andman-made emergencies.

Matta said he has 27 years ofexperience working in emer-gency services. “You talk to any-body who’s in their 40s or 50snow, they’ll say they’re firemenor policemen because of theshow Emergency!,” he said.“When I saw the show in 1973, Isaid, ‘That’s what I want to be.’”

He got his start as a volunteerfirefighter in Mundelein from1979 to ’82, then went to Floridaand took a job as a paramedic,working his way up to supervi-sor. He later returned to Illinoisand worked for Salata Ambu-lance, a private ambulance serv-ice in Lake County, and for atime he was a dispatcher for theLincolnshire-Riverwoods Fire

and Police Department. Both ofthese employers praise his per-formance. He also volunteeredwith the Lake Zurich ExplorerPost 2, a unit that provides policeand fire training to Boy Scouts.

“You gotta understandfiremen,” said Matta. “Onceyou’re a fireman, and once you’rea cop, it’s always in your system,no matter if you’ve been out of itfor 30 years. It’s always in yourblood. If you smell smoke, you’relike”—he tilted his head up andsniffed the air in the diner—‘Somebody’s got a fire going.’ Noone else can smell it, but you cansmell it. And you have thistendency of wandering over to goand watch the fire.”

Matta told me he’d retiredfrom the reserve deputy unit in1999 but was now an honorarymember occasionally called uponto teach new recruits.

John Crilly is a sergeant in theLake County sheriff ’s marine unit,but for four years he supervisedthe reserve deputy unit, which puthim in charge of interviewingpotential recruits. Overall, hesays, the reserve deputies under

Playing Fireman

continued from page 1

“They wouldn’t approve charges. They said there’s no such thing as anhonorary deputy, which is what he said hewas, and as such you can’t impersonatesomething that doesn’t exist.”

CHICAGO READER | JULY 29, 2005 | SECTION ONE 19

him were a solid group. But in afew cases he was forced todiscipline or even fire someone.

“I found people falling intothree categories,” he says. Somewere “people that had an interestin police work at one time intheir life and life’s path tookthem somewhere else. Thesewere guys that owned their ownbusinesses—I had some attor-neys, I had salesmen. Those aregreat people to have on board.The other group of people I raninto were people who want to bepolicemen and are using this as astepping-stone. I loved to haveguys like that. It was perfect.And the other group of peoplethat would come out of thewoodwork had no business beingpolice. They would never bepolicemen; they’d never pass anyof the testing to become police-men. These were the people we’ddiscourage from applying, and ifsome did get in, they became dis-cipline issues. Because they can’thelp themselves. They would justdo strange things.”

Reserve deputies aren’t issuedbadges or guns, and they don’thave police powers. But a fewhad badges made up and would

flash them around, Crilly recalls.In a couple cases volunteers tookit upon themselves to curbcarloads of teenagers ormotorists they deemed reckless.

Crilly says Matta—who’dachieved the rank of sergeant bythe time he arrived—had somediscipline issues. Once hemouthed off to a superior officer,and occasionally he chewed outreserve deputies of lower rank.Another time he raced off in asheriff ’s towing vehicle, lightsand sirens blaring, to respond toa report of a domestic dispute.Often he’d just show up withoutan assignment, take a car out ofthe motor pool, and drive around.Crilly says he wrote Matta up forthese infractions. Eventually, fedup, he told Matta he could eitherretire or be kicked out.

“He continued to be very dis-ruptive of the unit, because hestill had contacts there,” saysCrilly. “He still had friendsinvolved, and he would delugethese e-mails—very dramatic flairwith goofy grammar and busted-up sentences—he would sendthose out all the time.” Crillyrecalls one in which Mattaclaimed to be receiving firearms

training from the Lake ZurichPolice Department, infuriatingthe other reserve deputies.Finally, Crilly says, Matta’s stand-ing with the reserve deputy unitwas revoked, and he was told tostop coming to county functionsand stay off county property.

Crilly occasionally ran intoMatta, and though they remainedcordial, the sergeant was keepingan eye on him. Matta had anemergency light bar mounted ontop of his truck, and the lettersLCS were stickered on the truck’sbody. Once, Crilly says, he spottedMatta in Long Grove “dressed in afull uniform, minus a weapon. Hehad these fatigue pants on and aduty belt and a uniform shirt ofsome sort, and he had PUBLICSAFETY written on his hat.”

Last February an attorney forLong Grove sent Matta a ceaseand desist letter in response to adocument they’d received fromhim, titled “Long Grove PublicSafety Program, General Orders.”In it Matta represented himself ashead of a public safety unitapproved by the village. The letterthreatened Matta with prosecu-tion under the state law againstimpersonating a peace officer.

Crilly himself contacted a LakeCounty state’s attorney to findout if Matta could be chargedwith anything. “I told anyonewho asked me, ‘Look, it’s not apersonal thing with this guy. He’sgonna keep doing things untilhe’s told he can’t, and he’s gottabe told by having handcuffs puton him and taken to jail.’ Thesecease and desist letters and theseroundabout tactics and things—Isaid, ‘The guy needs to be arrest-ed and shown that there arerepercussions to his actions. Andthey wouldn’t approve charges.They said there’s no such thingas an honorary deputy, which iswhat he said he was, and as suchyou can’t impersonate somethingthat doesn’t exist.”

Matta blames his problemswith the reserve deputy

unit on personality conflicts withhis commander. “He took it uponhimself to rid the unit of peoplewho could think for themselves,”Matta says. The letters LCS stoodfor Lighting Control Systems; atthe time, he says, he worked sell-ing emergency lights and sirens,and the light bar on his truckwas simply for demonstration.

He says he impersonated no oneand his intentions were neveranything but honorable.

The Long Grove public safetyprogram was just a proposal, hesays, and the village blew it out ofproportion. In the summer of2003 he and some friends withsimilar volunteer backgroundshad the idea of starting a groupthat would contract with munici-palities to assist in the kind oftraffic and crowd control LakeCounty’s reserve deputies do.“You look at the 9/11 stuff and thethreat level,” says Larry Teschner,who worked with Matta in thereserve deputy unit and was oneof his recruits. “I mean, when wasthe last time you saw it below yel-low? Our initial thrust was tohelp out local communities.”Matta says they approached sometowns in Lake County and a fewliked the idea. He gathered agroup of 13 or 14 guys, all withvolunteer experience, some infire, some in law enforcement.

In the winter of 2003 Matta gotin touch with an acquaintance,Jay M. Katz, a 42-year-old dealerin fire equipment who lives inLindenhurst. Katz, who some-continued on page 20

20 CHICAGO READER | JULY 29, 2005 | SECTION ONE

times went by the name Mike,owned an old Skokie FireDepartment engine and anotherfrom Elm Grove, Wisconsin.

Collecting fire trucks isn’t suchan unusual hobby. Fire buffs,many of them active or formerfirefighters themselves, restoreold emergency vehicles, showingthem off at parades and othergatherings for enthusiasts. TheSociety for the Preservation andAppreciation of Antique MotorFire Apparatus in America hasmore than 3,000 members in 50chapters all over the world, whocollect, trade, and buy and sell oldrescue equipment. Dave Weaver,who organizes the annualChicagoland Emergency VehicleShow, says there are about 25guys in northern Illinois who ownout-of-service fire trucks andengines, including House speakerDennis Hastert, who owns a 1955Mack ladder truck.

“We used to go to fire musterswhere everybody comes togetherand they play with hoses andwater and things,” says Matta.“And we got down to thesesouthern towns and they’re like,‘We need help doing this. We

need help doing that.’”Matta thought Katz’s trucks

could be put to use in his newoutfit. “I said, ‘What would hap-pen if I could borrow one of theengines and use it for, like, aparade, and see if we do some-thing with it other than just aparade?’” Matta says Katzdemurred, saying the liabilityinsurance would be too expen-sive. “I said, ‘Let me massagesome numbers around.’”

Katz, like Matta, has EMSexperience. Unlike Matta, he hasa criminal record. In 1987, fivemonths after starting as aparamedic with the Chicago FireDepartment, he was arrested byHighland Park police forcarrying a concealed pistol in hiscar and pulling it on a mannamed Lino Trapani. Trapanisays he was out driving with hiswife when he tried to pass Katzon the road. “I didn’t know theguy,” says Trapani. “I was tryingto pass him, and he would speedup. I slow down, and he wouldjust stay in front of me.” He saysKatz followed him into hisdriveway and confronted him. “Isaid, ‘OK, wait a minute,’ recallsTrapani. “And I went into the

garage and I got a bat. I told himthat I’d bust his head, and hepulled the gun on me.”

Just over a week later Ban-nockburn police arrested Katzfor flashing a firearms owneridentification card at a differentman and claiming to be a policeofficer. Katz’s firearms chargewas dismissed, but he pleadedguilty to an impersonationcharge. He was fined $500 andplaced under court supervisionfor a year, after which the con-viction was erased from hisrecord. In 1992 he was dis-missed from the Chicago FireDepartment (a departmentspokesman would not say why).

In 1999 Katz was charged withmolesting a ten-year-old friendof his daughter’s duringsleepovers at his house. Hepleaded guilty to two charges ofaggravated criminal sexual abuseand was sentenced to four years’probation and 30 months’periodic imprisonment, duringwhich he was released only forwork and counseling. He didtime at Taylorville CorrectionalCenter, which has a counselingprogram for sex offenders.

Matta says that one day he was

hanging out at Katz’s house nearthe Wisconsin border when theyheard about a barn fire inKenosha County. Katz knew somefirefighters in that area, so theyjumped in his van and headednorth to check it out. “They had agood fire going,” Matta says.When one of the firefighterscomplained that they didn’t haveenough hose, Katz told him hehad 5,000 feet of it back at hishouse. “And he goes, ‘Can you godown and get it?’” says Matta.“And I turned to [Katz] and Isays, ‘Hey, we oughta start acompany doing this.’”

“You talk to firemen, you talkto policemen,” says Matta. “Youfind out what their weaknessesare, what they’re lacking. Andwhat was lacking was immediateresponse with something spe-cial.” Matta says the idea was tostock things like uncommonextinguishing agents or unusual-ly large hoses for fire depart-ments that couldn’t budget forthem. Part of their plan was tofight grass fires in Wisconsin,and at some point Katz acquireda one-ton Dodge brush truckwith a 300-gallon water tank forthat purpose. Matta and

Teschner say they each spent afew thousand dollars of theirown money buying gear.

Katz also bought the 1975Mack fire engine, which a fewPennsylvania fire companies hadowned before him. Lost Creek isa small village outside ofShenandoah, in the eastern partof the state. It bought the truckused from another company for$41,000 and still owed moneyon it when its volunteer firecompany was shut down in2002. The nearby Altamont FireCompany assumed Lost Creek’sdebt but never used the truck.

Altamont fire chief DennisProsick says his company tried tosell it through a trade magazinebut had a hard time finding abuyer. Then in late 2003 Katzflew in from Chicago. He paid$1,500 for the rig, plus around$400 for some spare hose, thendrove the pumper back toChicago. “That had to be someride,” says Prosick. “Probably hadhemorrhoids by the time he wasdone. They ride rough. They’renot like Cadillacs.”

According to a pamphlet putout by the Illinois Lost CreekFire Company, the group was

Playing Fireman

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CHICAGO READER | JULY 29, 2005 | SECTION ONE 21

incorporated in June 2004 andMatta was named chief. Thesecretary of state has no recordsfor the company, but Teschnerand Matta say they filed as alimited liability corporation.

While they waited for thepaperwork to go through, theyspent time driving around inKatz’s trucks, attending paradesand familiarizing themselveswith their equipment. Matta saysthat the company wouldoccasionally get calls fromcontacts in various departmentsinviting them to respond to fires,but that until they were officiallyincorporated he always refused.

Then around 11 PM on April20, 2004, after the Utica tornado

struck, Matta says, he got a callfrom Katz, who told him he’dgotten a call from someone atMABAS Division 25—whichincludes Ottawa and Utica—inviting the company to helpwith the search and rescueoperation. “Katz said, ‘Do youwant to go to Utica?’ and I said,‘No, that’s too far to go this timeof night.’ And he’s like, “Oh, comeon, come on—they’re inviting us.When are we going to getanother invitation like this againto a major disaster?’”

Matta called the Lost Creekmembers, but only two, one ofthem Teschner, were willing togo. They caravanned in Matta’spickup, the fire engine, and an

Isuzu Rodeo. Matta says that atNorth Aurora they were given amap to Utica with a passwordwritten on it, and that they wereexpected there. They made itpast two checkpoints at the sceneand then were directed into astaging area. In addition to allthe fire departments thatresponded, Matta says, there wasa “crackerload” of people—somein fire coats—who showed up butdidn’t seem to be affiliated withanyone else. Teschner remem-bers there were exactly seven,some of whom clambered aboardthe Lost Creek engine. “Theyasked if they could go with us ifwe got called in,” he says.

Teschner says the company

didn’t do anything but checktheir generator for power, thensit in the truck all night.Eventually they were told to gohome. “We went back down tothe checkpoint,” says Matta. “Andthey said, ‘Thank you, thank you.Good seeing you. So glad youcould make it.’”

Matta insists he didn’t send thee-mail boasting of his company’swork (though the headers on thee-mail show it originating fromhis account) and says the LostCreek Fire Company never heardany complaints about theirshowing up in Utica. “We werethere for equipment,” he says.“We had pry tools. We had all theextrication stuff. That’s all wewere basically there for. Weweren’t there to fight a fire.”

“Everybody treated us as if wewere expected,” Teschner says. “Ifwe weren’t on the list then theywouldn’t have let us in. If we didn’t have the password, why’dthey let us past the checkpointswith the state police?”

“Things were happening sofast,” says Chief Scott of theOttawa Fire Department. “Wejust wanted to isolate them. Wefigured it was easier to isolate

them in the staging area becausethey can’t get out of there unlesswe direct them out of there. Ifwe’d have had more policeofficers there’d have been morecredentialing. And if there’sanother statewide disaster, Iguarantee there will be. This wasall really a learning experienceon our statewide disaster plan.”

MABAS head Jay Reardon saysit’s impossible that Lost Creekwas summoned to Utica. “If youare not told to respond by aMABAS division dispatch center,you are not to respond,” he says.“We do not condone freelancingor self-dispatch, and that’s exactlywhat these guys did. Nobody callsup on the phone and says, ‘HeyBilly Bob, grab your fire truckand come out and give us a hand.’That’s not how the system works.”

Matta regrets that there wereno brush fires in Wisconsin

that summer, but Lost Creek didtry to pitch in where they could.In mid-May they went to Salem,Wisconsin, to help the local vol-unteer department fill sandbagsafter heavy spring rains causedflooding in the area. “That wascontinued on page 22

“Katz said, ‘Do you want to go to Utica?’and I said, ‘No, that’s too far to go thistime of night.’ And he’s like, ‘Oh, come on,come on—they’re inviting us. When are wegoing to get another invitation like thisagain to a major disaster?’”

22 CHICAGO READER | JULY 29, 2005 | SECTION ONE

very nice of them,” says SalemFire Department chief MikeSlover. “They also made them-selves available for calls and soforth. However, we’ve got cer-tain liability problems withthat. But we were very gratefulfor the help.”

Once, Matta says, they wereinvited to Franklin Park’s fire-training facility and were taughtbasic firefighting by a statecertified fire instructor, whosename he doesn’t remember. “Heheard through the grapevine thatwe went to Utica and said, ‘Weheard you did some great stuffdown there,’” says Matta.

“Although we did nothing,”Teschner interjects.

“No, we didn’t do anythingbut stand around. And he says,‘Let’s get you trained becauseyou could be an asset downhere too.’” This same instructor,Matta says, would occasionallycall them out to fires (includingone in Berwyn), though theynever went to any.

Meanwhile, the groupproduced a brochure. “Lost CreekFire Co., Volunteering to FightWhat Others Fear,” it says.“Dedicated to preserving the oldschool way of firefighting.” Inside,the pamphlet touts the group’sresponse to the tornado: “Theunit’s first official call out was toUtica Illinois. The four-memberteam responded by personalvehicle and by Fire Engine thatnight, thus putting the LostCreek Fire Company on the map.”

It’s true that fire chiefs acrossnorthern Illinois were aware ofthe company by last summer.Some began compiling LostCreek sightings and incidents toreport to the Lake County state’sattorney. John Crilly beganconducting an investigation.He’d heard reports that LostCreek was operating illegally onstate police radio channels.

Last Memorial Day firefightersin northern Lake County report-ed that someone identifying him-self as the chief of the Lost CreekFire Company had radioed in afatal traffic accident near Route45 and Sand Lake Road in Lin-denhurst. The broadcasterallegedly requested a Flight forLife helicopter to assist. “He’stelling them they’ve got entrap-ment, they need helicopters,” saysCrilly. “And he was right—it was areally bad wreck. People got

killed. But right away all the littlealarm bells were going off on thefiremen. Right away they’regoing, ‘Who the hell is this callingin this thing?’” Gary O’Rourke ofthe Illinois State Police Emer-gency Radio Network governingboard says the matter was inves-tigated, but when the board triedto send a cease and desist orderto the company, they couldn’tlocate an address.

Crilly also heard that Katz hadshown up with his truck duringthe Lake County Fair and againat last year’s ChicagolandEmergency Vehicle Show inAurora. There’s nothing illegalabout that, but it gave Crillypause that someone with Katz’scriminal record was hanging outat events popular with children.

In late August, WinthropHarbor police sergeant JamesVepley was briefed about Katz’srecord by that town’s fire chief,Michael Stried, who according topolice documents had heardreports of his visiting schoolswith his fire truck “for show-and-tell-type events.” (It’s illegal for

child sex offenders to go within500 feet of a school unless theoffender is a parent, step-parent,or guardian of a child enrolledthere.) Asked to keep a lookoutfor the Lost Creek truck, Vepleybegan his own investigation.

Last September 6, theneighboring town of Zion held itsannual Jubilee Days parade.Vepley got a call from Striedtelling him that the Lost CreekFire Company had two vehicleslined up in the convoy, eachbearing the same license plate.Vepley went to the paradegrounds and spotted the trucks.He followed them when they left,and as they turned into a gasstation within Winthrop Harbor’sjurisdiction he hit his lights.According to Vepley, Mattaidentified himself as a LakeCounty sheriff ’s deputy and Katzsaid he was a retired Chicagofirefighter. Two other groupmembers were wearing LostCreek Fire Company T-shirts.

“At first they were surprised,”says Vepley. “They said, ‘We’re afire company and you’re the

police. This is post-9/11. We allwork together. Why are youstopping us?’” Vepley pointedout the license plates, and Katzexplained he must have grabbedthe wrong one by mistake.

“Throughout the conversationthey continued stressing that theywere doing this to help thecommunity and they wanted toget along with surrounding policeand fire departments,” Vepley says.

Vepley radioed an investigatorfor the secretary of state’s officefor advice on what he could writethe trucks up for. He cited Matta,who was driving the Mack, withfailure to display a front licenseplate, possession of redemergency lights, and lack of avalid safety sticker. Katz, drivingthe brush truck, was cited forpossession of emergency lights,lack of proof of insurance, andunlawful use of registrationplates. Vepley confiscatedhandheld radios from Matta andKatz that he discovered werecapable of transmitting overstate police and fire frequencies.He also impounded the brush

truck until Katz could prove he’dhad it insured. While the truckwas in the pound, he and aWinthrop Harbor assistant firechief took an inventory of theequipment on board. Among theassorted medical gear they foundnew supplies like air packs, butalso IV bags that had beenexpired for about ten years.

Vepley says that when he toldthe group that Katz was aregistered sex offender theyseemed surprised.

Matta says the group wasinvited to the Zion parade, andKatz had run his truck in it theyear before. But when theyarrived they were confronted bya fire official who noted that theyweren’t a municipal firedepartment and demanded thatthey go to the end of the line.Matta says the situation wasresolved when a parade officialrecognized Katz and gave themthe OK. But he was still miffed.“It just didn’t feel right,” he says.“You invite us and then you giveus crap? I said, ‘I think it’s timefor us to leave.’”

Playing Fireman

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Fire chief Jay Reardon, president of the Mutual Aid Box Alarm System, the statewide emergency response system for large disasters.

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CHICAGO READER | JULY 29, 2005 | SECTION ONE 23

He says that when the WinthropHarbor police pulled them over,they kept them for nearly threehours while they looked forsomething to charge them with.The question of the duplicateplates was moot, he says, sinceemergency vehicles are exemptfrom having license plates.

Days later, the lawyer Katz hadhired to file the incorporationpapers told them that they’dbeen misfiled and had never gonethrough. The company decided to disband, and Katz said he’dsell the trucks. “I was really ticked off,” says Matta. “I have areputation in this county—a good reputation—in fire, medical,police. I can walk into any hospitaland they know who I am becauseI’ve done so much good in thecounty. I said, ‘Something iswrong here. Obviously we’vestepped on a lot of toes.’”

Later that month Katz andMatta appeared before a LakeCounty judge to answer for thetickets. They were each fined$100 for failure to display a frontlicense plate and given sixmonths’ court supervision. Therest of the tickets were dismissed.

S trangers show up at disastersall the time, says Jay

Reardon. “Any time there’s amajor incident there’s a coupledifferent people that come out ofthe woodwork,” he says. “Thosethat just want to be involved andare not trained. Some of thesefolks will say and do anything toget into the site—gawkers thatget in the way—but they’re prettybenign. The others, especiallythose at major disasters, arethose that have illegal motives tomake money and becomeopportunists.” Reardonremembers the DC-10 crash atO’Hare in 1979, when a mandressed as a priest attempted toget onto the disaster site to lootthe bodies of the victims.

After Reardon learned there was no law againstimpersonating a firefighter inIllinois, MABAS and various

other fire and policeorganizations began lobbyingSpringfield for one. In late Maystate representative Mike Bolandof East Moline got a bill passedmaking it a felony for anyone to“knowingly and falsely” representhimself as a firefighter oremergency management workeror do so while committing acrime. Impersonation of anemergency worker is nowpunishable by up to six years inprison and a $25,000 fine.

Jay Katz was determined to laylow after the Lost Creek FireCompany disbanded last fall. Buthe broke his silence late lastmonth after Boland held a pressconference in Lake Countyannouncing the new law and theWaukegan News Sun ran anarticle calling the Lost Creekgroup “wannabes.”

“We don’t feel we did anythingwrong,” Katz says. “We don’t feelwe impersonated anybody. Theremay have been some confusionas to who we were, but it wasn’tour purpose to go to Utica after adisaster and to impersonatefiremen. We never said we wereanybody else but Lost Creek. . . .We’re not wannabes. We weretrying to be do-a-bes.”

Katz calls the first 35 years ofhis life a “complete disaster.” Butafter his conviction heunderwent counseling, and hesays he became determined tolead a respectable life. Headamantly denies ever visitingschools with his fire trucks.“That is absolute bullshit,” hesays. “The law says I cannot. Ihave not, and I will not.” He saysthe Lost Creek Fire Companywas his way of giving back tosociety. “I looked in the mirrorfinally and said, ‘Hey, you are areal piece of shit. Do you want tolive the rest of your life like this?’And I said, ‘No.’”

The other members of thecompany had no knowledge ofhis record, he says, and he regretsthat his past may have tarnishedtheir reputations, because “theywere a lot of really good guys.”

The group practiced everyweekend, he says, using manualsfrom the International FireService Training Association, andits members were motivated bynothing more than a desire to“make a difference afterSeptember 11.” They adopted theLost Creek name to honor thefirefighters who were in thePennsylvania company.

Katz says Lost Creek reportedto Utica after he saw coverage ofthe disaster on TV. He won’t talkabout why the group stopped atthe North Aurora Fire Stationbefore arriving at Utica, sayinghe doesn’t want to get anyone introuble. No one at thecheckpoint asked the group forpasswords, he insists—in factthey were thanked for showingup and offered fuel for theirtruck. “They never came to usand talked to us about it,” hesays. “They never said boo to us.”He also denies having stockedout-of-date medical supplies.

Last Memorial Day, Katz says,he came upon the fatal trafficaccident while on his way backfrom driving his fire truck in aparade. He says a man whoidentified himself as a paramedicwith a local fire departmentordered him to call for help onhis radio. Katz says he didn’t usethe state police frequency, but adifferent one used by local firedepartments. “You see this 14-year-old child dying—what areyou supposed to do? Not pick upthe radio because they’re gonnabe angry that you used a radiofrequency? Or worry about itlater? I told them exactly whatthey had. I told them how manyvictims they had and how theywere injured. Two people died,and they’re gonna harass usbecause they’re worried abouttheir precious radio frequency?”

Katz says the Lake County FireDepartment never gave the LostCreek Fire Company a chance.“They crushed us before wecould even tell them who wewere,” he says. “Maybe the confu-sion is that we misunderstood

the purpose of this relatively newstatewide disaster system. Wewere actually going to approachMABAS and explain to themwho we were. And maybe wejumped the gun.”

Katz, Matta, and Teschnerbelieve they were harassed out ofbusiness. They say municipal firecompanies felt threatened by theidea of a private company work-ing on their turf.

“They don’t realize that thededication is there,” says Matta.“We’re putting our lives on theline to help them out. Andthey’re like, ‘Oh, no. You’re gonnatake my job away.’”

In Illinois about 37,000 of thestate’s 42,000 firefighters workfor MABAS-affiliateddepartments. Reardon saysthere’s no need for a companylike Lost Creek. “Why should webe threatened by them?” he says.“If they were an authentic,condoned fire agency, they’d bepart of the Lake County FireChiefs Association. They’re not.”

MABAS needn’t worry aboutthe Lost Creek Fire Compa-

ny anymore. Katz won’t say whohe sold his trucks to, though thebrush truck is somewhere inMichigan. “I am completely outof any type of fire anything,” he

Jay Reardon: “Nobody calls up on the phone and says, ‘Hey Billy Bob, grab your fire truck and come out and give us a hand.’ That’s not how the system works.”

says. “I don’t want to go to shows.I don’t want to go to parades. Ijust want to move on with my life.And I don’t want to cause any-body any problems, nor do I wantto incur any on myself. Thisshould be the last time any firedepartment has to make mentionof me because I’m gone. I’m outof it.” At least until he sues: Katzsays he has a “team of lawyers”working on a lawsuit against var-ious Lake County agencies.

The other members of thecompany have dispersed. A fewof the older ones—friends ofMatta—are so disillusionedthey’re no longer speaking tohim. As for Matta and Teschner,they say they never would havebeen involved with Katz if theyhad known about his record.The way it stands, they saythey’re finished doing volunteerwork. Teschner is near retire-ment, and Matta just wants tobe left alone, though he says he’s lawyered up too.

“I’m hanging it up,” he says.“I’m so sick of the crap fromLake County, from the police. Idon’t listen to fire-radio crapanymore. I don’t listen to policestuff anymore. If somethingwas to blow up tomorrow, Idon’t care. I’ll sit at home andwatch it on TV.” v