Kuhlmann, then 35 and newly in charge of Deak-Perera's Canadian operations, became CEO after Deak's death. Conspiracy was never part of the trial.Īrkadi Kuhlmann has long scoffed at the court's conclusion. She was sentenced eight years later, in 1993, when a state Supreme Court justice convicted her on two counts of second-degree murder and sent her to the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility upstate, where she remains.
SENATOR OF MIND CONTROLS MALE HYPNO PACK TRIAL
The first judge to hear Lang's case ruled her unfit for trial and sent her to Kirby Forensic Psychiatric Center.
SENATOR OF MIND CONTROLS MALE HYPNO PACK CRACKED
According to state psychiatrists, she targeted Deak because of random delusions, and her handlers were figments of her cracked imagination. Lois Lang was tried, convicted and institutionalized under the assumption that she was mad. As he jarred the revolver free, she turned into a cowering child - "like a frightened animal," one of the officers later testified. A second cop grabbed her arm as the first hammered her hand with the butt of his gun. She emerged shortly and headed for the elevator bank, where three NYPD officers had taken position. The bag lady then grabbed the banker by the legs, dragged him into his office, and shut the door. A witness later claimed she took out a camera and snapped photographs of her victim's expiring body. The bullet ricocheted off his collarbone and shredded his organs.ĭeak crumbled onto the floor. She fired once next to Deak's ear and missed wide, before pushing him away just enough to bring the gun into his body and land a shot above his heart. Deak seized the pause to lunge and grab Lang's throat with both hands, pressing his body into hers. "It was as if she'd finally found what she was looking for," a witness later testified. When she had Deak in her sights, she froze, transfixed. Lang saw him and turned the corner with purpose, aiming the pistol with both arms. The second struck the secretary between the eyes and exited out the back of her skull.ĭeak, fit and trim at age 80, bounded out of his office. Frances Lauder let out a fearful "Oh-" shortened by two bangs from a. Deak merely shrugged and was settling into his office when he heard a commotion in the reception room. They took the elevator to the 21st floor, where Lauder informed Deak about the odd visitor. Lois Lang had been watching 29 Broadway for two hours when a limousine dropped off Deak and his son Leslie at the building's revolving-door rear entrance. Deak-Perera declared bankruptcy in December 1984, setting off panicked and sometimes violent runs on its offices in Latin America and Asia. Deak's former CIA associates did nothing to interfere with the public takedown. Deak-Perera had been decimated the year before by a federal investigation into its ties to organized crime syndicates from Buenos Aires to Manila. But on this day in November, the offices were half-empty and employees few. From humble beginnings as a spook front and flower import business, the firm grew to become the largest currency and precious metals firm in the Western Hemisphere, if not the world. For more than three decades the company had functioned as an unofficial arm of the intelligence agency and was a key asset in the execution of U.S. Nick Deak, known as "the James Bond of money," founded the company in 1947 with the financial backing of the CIA. From her seat by a window, she kept close watch on 29 Broadway, an art deco skyscraper diagonal from the Bowling Green Bull.ĭeak-Perera had been headquartered on the building's 20th and 21st floors since the late 1960s. "I'll be in touch," Lang said, and left for a coffee shop around the corner. Trying to defuse the situation, the receptionist led the unkempt woman down the hallway and showed her Deak's empty office. Lang became agitated and accused Lauder of lying. Deak-Perera's receptionist, Frances Lauder, told the woman that Deak was out. She had arrived at Port Authority that morning, the final stop on a month-long cross-country Greyhound journey that began in Seattle.
The 44-year-old drifter's name was Lois Lang. Carrying a backpack with an aluminum baseball bat sticking out of the top, her face partially hidden by shocks of greasy, gray-streaked hair falling out from under a wool cap, she demanded to speak with the firm's 80-year-old founder and president, Nicholas Deak. 19, 1985, a wild-eyed and disheveled homeless woman entered the reception room at the legendary Wall Street firm of Deak-Perera.
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