In 1988, a storm brewed over Nebraska as state and federal authorities set their sights on allegations implicating both local bigwigs and some high-level U.S. politicians in a disturbing child prostitution ring. The claims alone were enough to send ripples of shock across the nation, involving stories of children in foster care allegedly being flown to the East Coast for heinous purposes.
At the heart of this whirlpool of allegations was Lawrence E. King Jr., a man whose prominence in the Republican Party seemed untouchable until this moment. King ran the now-collapsed Franklin Community Federal Credit Union in Omaha and was rumored to throw extravagant parties where minors reportedly fell victim to abuse. His life, marked by multiple properties in Nebraska and a notable house in Washington D.C., turned into a spectacle of controversy as the plot thickened.
In November 1988, the credit union he spearheaded was nabbed in a raid. This wasn’t just another financial slip – authorities were sniffing around for tens of millions swindled from the firm. Just a month later, Nebraska’s lawmakers rolled up their sleeves to dig deeper into King and his alleged dual crimes. They formed the Franklin Committee, an investigative body led by state Senator Loran Schmit with Ernie Chambers as his vice chair.
As investigations went on, the plot wasn’t shy of spiraling into wild conspiracy theories. Nebraskans and intrigued spectators nationwide whispered about it being linked to satanic rituals, cannibalistic practices, illegal business dealings, and undercover CIA operations. As if straight out of a crime thriller, the theory mill went far beyond just illegal money dealings.
But this wasn’t a neat story line with a clear villain. When private investigator Gary Caradori, hired by the Franklin Committee to untangle the knots of this case, met an untimely death with his son in a shocking plane crash, more fuel was added to the fire of suspicion. Recollections of his brother and Senator Schmit pointed towards foul play, though official investigations never confirmed this hunch.
As the drama unfolded, grand juries jumped into the mix. In July 1990, Douglas County’s panel let their gavel fall on the allegations, tagging them as a ‘carefully crafted hoax’. A fired Boys Town employee was suspected of stirring the rumor pot to settle old scores but remained unnamed. Two accusers were caught in legal crosshairs for perjury, reinforcing doubts about their stories’ veracity.
Yet, the echoes of the scandal would not easily fade. Although federal grand juries also dismissed the abuse claims, leading to Alisha Owen’s indictment and eventual conviction on perjury, the financial skeletons in King’s closet couldn’t be ignored. In 1991, King owned up to helping embezzle a whooping sum of $39 million, earning himself 15 years in the slammer.
Even with numerous verdicts delivered, the legacy of scandal persists. Paul Bonacci, another accused turned litigant, took King to civil court and came out on top with a default judgment due to King’s no-show in defending himself. This bit only stirred more boats in an already stormy sea of public opinion.
The Franklin scandal etched a complex chapter into American history, birthing ongoing debates and uncertainties about what truly transpired in Nebraska. Whether truth or illusion, it reminds us of how a mix of power, wealth, secrecy, and rumor can create a saga dormant yet explosive in its silence.
