Federal authorities in the United States revealed Tuesday that they will not seek the death penalty against three reputed Mexican drug cartel leaders, including an alleged former partner of the infamous “El Chapo” and the man accused of orchestrating the killing of a Drug Enforcement Administration agent.
Court filings showed decisions handed down in the trio of prosecutions, all being held in Brooklyn, N.Y.
The cases involve drug and conspiracy charges against Ismael “El Mayo” Zambada, 75, charged with running a powerful faction of Mexico’s Sinaloa cartel; Rafael Caro Quintero, 72, who allegedly masterminded the DEA agent’s torture and murder in 1985; and Vicente Carrillo Fuentes, 62, also known as El Viceroy, who is under indictment as the ex-boss of the Juarez cartel.
Prosecutors from the Eastern District of New York filed a letter in each case “to inform the Court and the defense that the Attorney General has authorized and directed this Office not to seek the death penalty.”
The decision comes despite calls by President Trump use capital punishment against drug traffickers and the U.S. government ratcheting up pressure against Mexico to dismantle organized crime groups and to staunch the flow of fentanyl and other illicit drugs across the border.
A White House spokesperson did not immediately respond to a request for comment.
It’s rare for the death penalty to be in play against high-level Mexican cartel figures. Mexico long ago abolished capital punishment and typically extradites its citizens on the condition they are spared death.
In Zambada’s case, the standard restrictions did not apply because he was not extradited. Zambada was brought to the U.S. last July by a son of his longtime associate, Joaquín “El Chapo” Guzmán. Zambada alleges he was ambushed and kidnapped in Sinaloa by Joaquín Guzmán López, who forced him onto an airplane bound for a small airport outside El Paso, Texas.
Zambada has pleaded not guilty to the charges against him and remains jailed in Brooklyn while his case proceeds. A court filing in June said prosecutors and the defense had “discussed the potential for a resolution short of trial,” suggesting plea negotiations are underway.
We’re going to be asking [that] everyone who sells drugs, gets caught selling drugs, to receive the death penalty for their heinous acts
— President Trump in 2022
Frank Perez, the lawyer representing Zambada, issued a statement Tuesday to The Times that said: “We welcome the government’s decision not to pursue the death penalty against our client. This marks an important step toward achieving a fair and just resolution.”
Federal authorities announced in May that Guzmán López, 39, an accused leader of the Sinaloa cartel faction known as “Los Chapitos,” would also not face the death penalty. He faces an array of drug smuggling and conspiracy charges in a case pending before the federal court in Chicago.
Another son of El Chapo, Ovidio Guzmán López, 35, pleaded guilty to drug trafficking, money laundering and firearms charge last month in Chicago. Court filings show he has agreed to cooperate with U.S. authorities in other investigations.
Caro Quintero and Carrillo Fuentes were two of the biggest names among a group of 29 men handed over by Mexico to the U.S. in February. The unusual mass transfer was conducted outside the typical extradition process, which left open the possibility of the death penalty.
Reputed to be a founding member of Mexico’s powerful Guadalajara cartel in the 1980s, Caro Quintero is allegedly responsible for the brutal slaying of DEA agent Enrique “Kiki” Camarena 40 years ago.
The killing, portrayed on the Netlfix show “Narcos: Mexico” and recounted in many books and documentaries, led to a fierce response by U.S. authorities, but Caro Quintero managed to elude justice for decades. Getting him on U.S. soil was portrayed a major victory by Trump administration officials.
Derek Maltz, the DEA chief in February, said in a statement that Caro Quintero had “unleashed violence, destruction, and death across the United States and Mexico, has spent four decades atop DEA’s most wanted fugitives list.”
Carrillo Fuentes is perhaps best known as the younger brother of another Mexican drug trafficker, Amado Carrillo Fuentes, the legendary “Lord of the Skies,” who died in 1997. Once close to El Chapo, El Mayo and other Sinaloa cartel leaders, the younger Carrillo Funtes split off to form his own cartel in the city of Juárez, triggering years of bloody cartel warfare.
Kenneth J. Montgomery, the lawyer for Carrillo Fuentes, said Tuesday his client was “extremely grateful” for the government’s decision not to seek the death penalty.”I thought it was the right decision,” he said. “In a civilized society, I don’t think the death penalty should ever be an option.”
Trump has been an ardent supporter of capital punishment. In January, he signed an order that directs the attorney general to “take all necessary and lawful action” to ensure that states have enough lethal injection drugs to carry out executions.
Trump’s order directed the attorney general to pursue the death penalty in cases that involve the killing of law enforcement officers, among other factors. For years, Trump has loudly called for executing convicted drug traffickers. He reiterated the call for executions again in 2022 when announcing his intent to run again for president.
“We’re going to be asking [that] everyone who sells drugs, gets caught selling drugs, to receive the death penalty for their heinous acts,” Trump said.
Atty. Gen. Pam Bondi lifted a moratorium on federal executions in February, reversing a policy that began under the Biden administration. In April, Bondi announced intentions to seek the death penalty against Luigi Mangione, the man charged with assassinating a UnitedHealthcare executive in New York City.
Bonnie Klapper, a former federal narcotics prosecutor in the Eastern District of New York, reacted with surprise upon learning that the Trump administration had decided not to pursue capital cases against the accused kingpins, particularly Caro Quintero.
Klapper, who is now a defense attorney, speculated that Mexico is strongly opposed to executions of its citizens and officials may have exerted diplomatic pressure to spare the lives of the three men, perhaps offering to send more kingpins in the future.
“While my initial reaction is one of shock given this administration’s embrace of the death penalty, perhaps there’s conversations taking place behind the scenes in which Mexico has said, ‘If you want more of these, you can’t ask to kill any of our citizens.’”
In the final weeks of philanthropist Wallis Annenberg’s life, her family and closest friends were consumed by a fierce power struggle over her medical care, court records show.
Three of her children — Gregory, Lauren and Charles — believed their mother was being mistreated during her most vulnerable time, wrongfully confined to her bed, isolated from family and longtime staff and overmedicated to the point of stupor.
They blamed their mother’s longtime partner, Kris Levine, and Kris’ older sister, Vikki Levine.
Vikki, who served as Annenberg’s personal assistant and held authority over her medical decisions, was exerting control over their mother in “likely fatal” ways, hastening her decline with excess narcotics, the children alleged in court documents. The children said they were shielded from information about their mother and were distressed that the Levine sisters had indicated plans to remove Annenberg’s body from her Century City villa within hours of her death and send her remains for composting before a proper goodbye.
“If there is anything suspicious about her death — which is appearing more and more likely given Vikki’s ongoing abuse of Wallis — it will render it impossible to conduct an autopsy,” the children’s legal team asserted in court filings.
The dispute drew in some of the city’s top lawyers, triggered calls to police and led the Annenberg children to march into Los Angeles County Superior Court in a frantic effort to dislodge Vikki Levine from overseeing their mother’s medical care.
Vikki and Kris Levine adamantly denied over-medicating or mistreating Annenberg, the heiress to her father’s publishing empire who, through her family’s foundation, gave about $1.5 billion to scores of organizations and nonprofits across Los Angeles County.
In court filings, Vikki Levine said the children’s “vicious and false accusations” stemmed from sadness that their mother didn’t disclose to them that her cancer had returned, that they weren’t in charge of her care, that her death was rapidly approaching and that she wanted to die “as gently as possible.”
“The Children have misdirected their pain, grief and anger at the wrong person, which is so much easier than confronting reality,” Vikki Levine said in a court filing in which she also accused the Annenberg children of creating a “toxic environment” when they visited.
Kris Levine, who started dating the heiress in 2009 and had lived with her since 2012, submitted a declaration stating that the Annenberg children had engaged in a campaign of “lies” to their mother, including telling her that her partner was trying to kill her. She insisted that the children had been permitted to visit but lamented that her home had become engulfed by acrimony.
“No one is attempting to hurt Wallis — we love her. No one is keeping her children from her. Despite the outrageous behavior they exhibit in my home at such a sensitive time, they are still welcome,” Kris Levine said in a declaration.
Annenberg had opted to go into hospice in the final weeks of her life, and Kris Levine questioned why the children would defy their mother’s wishes and disparage her choices, particularly in such a public way.
“Nobody controlled Wallis Annenberg and for anyone to say otherwise would contradict the truth and be disrespectful of her and her legacy as one of the most transformative philanthropists of our time,” said Stuart Liner, an attorney for Kris Levine, in a statement to The Times.
This account of the Annenberg family’s internal conflict is based on court records that provide a window into one of Southern California’s most prominent families. Wallis Annenberg’s estate lawyer, Andrew Katzenstein, and the children’s lawyer, Jessica Babrick, declined comment. Representatives for Vikki Levine did not respond to messages seeking comment.
Wallis Annenberg, center, sits between her son Charles Annenberg Weingarten and Kris Levine at a 2015 event.
(Chris Weeks / Getty Images)
Annenberg died Monday at age 86, drawing tributes from former President Biden, Gov. Gavin Newsom, and luminaries in the worlds of art, business and philanthropy.
The public mourning has highlighted Annenberg’s generosity toward elder care, animal welfare and USC, where she was a life trustee, among other causes. The turmoil among those closest to her, however, has persisted following the intense legal battle over her final days.
The dispute, at least so far, has not touched on the Annenberg family’s wealth — or what either side stood to financially gain or lose with the matriarch’s death. It originated, in part, in an advance healthcare directive that Annenberg allegedly signed on July 11, 2023, the year after she was diagnosed with lung cancer, according to court records.
The directive, which was notarized and executed with assistance from Annenberg’s attorney, Katzenstein, endowed Vikki Levine with primary authority over medical decisions and designated Annenberg’s son Gregory Weingarten as an alternate.
Annenberg’s children have since cast doubt on the document, asserting in a court filing that the signature appears to be right-handed, while Annenberg was left-handed.
Vikki Levine, with David Dreier, attends The Wallis Delivers: A Benefit Evening To Support Wildfire Recovery at Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts on April 30 in Beverly Hills.
(Rodin Eckenroth / Getty Images)
Why Annenberg installed Vikki Levine in the role is unclear. In court papers, she is described as Annenberg’s best friend, personal assistant and sister to “life partner” Kris Levine. Voting records show that all three women resided at Annenberg’s home. Vikki Levine had worked for the heiress since at least the mid-2000s, when Annenberg installed her as trustee over a granddaughter’s trusts, court records show.
Although Kris Levine was not listed among Annenberg’s survivors in several obituaries, she was a mainstay in her life, publicly accompanying her to events and co-chairing philanthropic events.
Last fall, after being in remission, Annenberg’s cancer returned. According to a court filing by Vikki Levine, the philanthropist decided not to tell her children or anyone but her “closest friends.”
“Wallis determined not to seek treatment, but to enjoy as much as possible, the time she had left,” according to the filing.
In April, after Vikki Levine told Annenberg’s children about their mother’s health, they “had nearly unlimited access to Wallis,” the filing said, asserting that the children’s claims rest on scores of in-person interactions with her, making it unlikely that she was forcibly isolated.
“Wallis has been visited virtually daily by her Children and/or grandchildren, and has 24 hour care by experienced medical staff,” Vikki Levine’s attorneys said.
Wallis Annenberg, seated, with her children Gregory Annenberg Weingarten, Lauren Bon and Charles Annenberg Weingarten.
(Hamish Robertson)
Around early May, Annenberg began hospice, with medication aimed to alleviate pain and anxiety from her decreased lung function, according to a declaration from one of her hospice nurses that was reviewed by The Times.
But the Annenberg children were growing increasingly alarmed, they said in court filings.
In June and early July, Vikki Levine had dismissed longtime household staff and was demanding that a new team overmedicate their mother, “administering excessive amounts of powerful narcotics and opioids, such as Fentanyl, Morphine, Ativan and other similar drugs,” the children alleged in a court filing.
The cocktail of narcotics kept their mother “in a vegetative state” and risked catastrophe, the children claimed, writing, “When Wallis is able to emerge from this near-comatose state, she is adamant that this is not what she wants and that she believes, in her own words, that Vikki is ‘kidnapping her.’”
To back their accusations, the children provided a judge with signed declarations from three of their mother’s caregivers, who said they had been ousted around late June after observing shocking scenes, including forgery of records and misrepresentations to Annenberg’s doctors.
“I witnessed Vikki forcing pills in Ms. Annenberg’s mouth when she clearly did not want to take them. I told Vikki that Ms. Annenberg seemed calm and did not need more medication,” said Annenberg’s housekeeper and caregiver of nearly 20 years. “Vikki told me the pills were for her upset stomach, but I told her that I knew they were Ativan because I saw the bottle.”
Another healthcare worker — a registered nurse of 40 years employed by a concierge medical service — said she was dismissed shortly after she objected to providing Ativan to Annenberg, who at the time was sleeping and did not appear anxious or agitated.
The nurse alleged that Vikki Levine forbade the staff from keeping a proper medication log and allowed Annenberg to drink alcohol, even while on medication.
“It is difficult for me to believe that this kind of conduct can happen to anyone, let alone Ms. Annenberg. No one deserves to be rushed to death,” the nurse said in her sworn declaration.
Lawyers for Vikki Levine said that all three former staffers supporting the Annenberg children had been fired “for cause,” but did not elaborate.
Before turning to the courts, the children asked Dr. Peter Phung, of Keck Medicine of USC, to visit their mother. Phung “determined that she was, indeed, being overmedicated” and trimmed her dosage, the children claimed in court filings.
“As a result, Wallis had her best day in weeks,” the children said. “Unfortunately,” they continued, Vikki Levine blocked access to the doctor, and she and her sister “completely barred” the children’s visits on July 13.
The following morning, the children petitioned a Los Angeles County Superior Court judge to suspend Vikki Levine’s authority as Annenberg’s healthcare agent and appoint one of her sons or a third-party professional instead. The children also asked the judge to impose a three-day period before Annenberg’s body could be transported out of L.A. or cremated.
In a 73-page filing, the children provided extraordinary details about their mother’s medical care, along with their concerns, situating their petition as an act of desperation.
“We have been informed that my mother may only have weeks to live, and I do not want those weeks to be spent in a medically-induced coma due to Vikki’s actions, which are contrary to medical advice and harmful to her well-being,” daughter Lauren Bon said in a declaration.
Annenberg’s daughter, artist Lauren Bon, stands in an L.A. River project site in 2023.
(Jay L. Clendenin / Los Angeles Times)
Vikki Levine and her sister vehemently contested the allegations, denying any abuse and claiming that the children were misinformed or omitted key information.
“Dr. Phung did not determine that Wallis was being over-medicated as alleged,” said one of Vikki Levine’s filings. “To the contrary, Dr. Phung confirmed to Vikki that there has been ‘no mismanagement of symptoms.’”
Annenberg, they said, was confined to the bed because of doctor’s orders, not cruelty.
A hospice nurse who saw Annenberg nearly daily in the final weeks of her life also contested many of the claims of the children and the former caregivers.
The nurse, according to a signed declaration reviewed by The Times, said Annenberg’s care relied on direct orders from her physicians and was carried out by registered nurses from VITAS, a hospice service. The medical team kept all appropriate records, and Annenberg was confined to her bed because moving would have risked dangerous falls, respiratory distress and other calamities.
The Levine sisters portrayed the Annenberg children as improperly interfering in their mother’s affairs.
“They crowd around Wallis’ bed while the nurses are caring for her, tell Wallis that she doesn’t need the medication, refuse to get out of their way, ask numerous questions about the medication and procedures being employed, and generally make the situation untenable for a care-provider to work,” Kris Levine said in a declaration submitted to the judge.
While Kris Levine acknowledged that she had halted visits from the children on July 13, she said in a court declaration that she asked them not to come that day because of a series of heated confrontations, and that she had wanted to impose visiting hours to give Annenberg some rest and continuity.
“The children, particularly Gregory Weingarten, have aggressively refused my requests. Indeed, he has insisted that my name is ‘not on the deed,’ that I have ‘no rights’ to our home, and that he had ‘more rights’ to be there than I did,” Kris Levine said in her declaration.
The tensions boiled over with “multiple” calls to police by Annenberg’s children.
Vikki Levine said that when officers arrived on a recent Friday night, they “determined that there was no mistreatment of Wallis, no elder abuse as alleged, and told Vikki that she did not need to let the Children back into the house.”
Nevertheless, both Vikki and Kris Levine said they made it clear to the children that they could still visit their mother.
On July 22, Judge Gus T. May found that there was “good cause” to suspend Vikki Levine from serving as Annenberg’s healthcare agent.
In her place, the judge appointed Jodi Pais Montgomery, a professional fiduciary who has held roles in other celebrity cases in probate court, including Britney Spears and Carol Burnett’s grandson.
Montgomery was instructed to follow Annenberg’s advance healthcare directive and share confidential medical information with the Annenberg children, as well as with the Levine sisters.
In the summer of 2021, Priscilla Presley seemed to be riding high.
The ex-wife of the King of Rock ’n’ Roll had appeared at Graceland during the annual Elvis Week celebration and later hosted a three-day festival at the famous manse extolling the virtues of elegant southern living. Then there were the highly anticipated upcoming biopics: director Baz Luhrmann’s “Elvis” and Sofia Coppola’s “Priscilla” based on her 1985 memoir, for which she served as an executive producer.
Privately, however, it was a difficult time for the actress. Priscilla was mourning the passing of her mother, just a year after her grandson, Benjamin Keough, the only son of her daughter Lisa Marie Presley, had committed suicide at 27. Adding to her personal woes, Elvis’ former bride was in a serious financial hole, as court filings would later claim.
Then she met Brigitte Kruse, a flamboyant, fifth-generation auctioneer and self-styled philanthropist who specialized in high-profile celebrity memorabilia, royal objects, estates and fine jewelry sales. In 2017, Kruse gained a measure of renown when she sold an abandoned private plane known as the “lost jet” once owned by Elvis for $498,000.
After the pair were introduced, they launched a joint venture that would cash in on Priscilla’s famous name, image and likeness through her paid public appearances and other projects.
Within months of their initial meeting, Priscilla began lending her name to some of Kruse’s online Elvis memorabilia auctions with GWS Auctions Inc., based in Agoura Hills.
Priscilla Presley at a 2014 event held at Graceland in Memphis.
(Lance Murphey / Associated Press)
Less than two years later, their partnership was in tatters, with the two women trading bitter allegations in dueling lawsuits.
Priscilla, 80, called Kruse, who was half her age, a “con-artist and pathological liar” who had forced her into a “form of indentured servitude,” leading her into signing away 80% of her income and conning her out of more than $1 million, according to the fraud and elder abuse lawsuit she filed against Kruse and her business associates in Los Angeles last year.
Kruse, who did not respond to requests for comment, has disputed Priscilla Presley’s claims, depicting herself in court filings as her financial savior who faced retaliation after she sued Priscilla for breach of contract a year earlier.
The litigation is the latest in a string of legal battles that Priscilla and the Presley heirs have been involved in since Elvis died nearly 50 years ago, leaving a financial legacy as messy and fraught as the King’s life.
While the storied Presley family has forever been enshrined in celebrity as America’s reigning pop culture icons, Elvis’ estate has long been the spigot of his heirs’ fortunes and misfortunes, spilling out from the gates of Graceland.
As Joel Weinshanker, managing partner of Elvis Presley Enterprises once said about another dispute involving the estate:
“People have been trying to take from Elvis since Elvis was Elvis.”
Inheriting a messy estate
When 14-year-old Priscilla Beaulieu met Elvis Presley in 1959, he was already Elvis. She was the stepdaughter of an U.S. Air Force officer, living in West Germany where the rocker, then 24, was stationed during his military service.
Four years later, Priscilla moved to Memphis and stepped inside the gilded cage of Elvis’ fame. In 1967, the couple married in Las Vegas. With the birth of their daughter Lisa Marie nine months later, a rock ‘n’ roll dynasty was born.
Lisa Marie was born in 1968, nine months after Elvis and Priscilla married in Las Vegas.
(Associated Press)
But life inside of the irresistible mythology of Elvis proved stifling. He was mostly on tour and in a haze of drugs and affairs. At 28, Priscilla divorced the rocker, but not his stardom.
She built an agile career out of the ashes of their romance. Priscilla went on to become an actress with a recurring role in the 1980s CBS hit series “Dallas,” starred in several of the “Naked Gun” movies and appeared in other television shows; she also authored books and launched a fragrance.
But she never strayed far from the buzzy afterlife of Elvis’ orbit.
When Elvis died in 1977, their daughter Lisa Marie was just nine and his father, Vernon Presley, took the reins as executor of his estate. After Vernon died in 1979, Priscilla, a successor trustee, assumed the role of primary manager.
Despite the celebrated influence and global popularity of Elvis, who was estimated to have earned anywhere between $100 million to $1 billion, his estate was in shambles — worth only about $5 million. Graceland’s costly maintenance and massive IRS bills were fast depleting Lisa Marie’s inheritance.
The poor state of affairs was due in part to Elvis’ profligate spending. He was known to lavish Cadillacs and jewelry on friends, many of whom were also on his payroll. But his fortune’s wane was exacerbated by the abusive control that his longtime manager Col. Tom Parker exerted over his business affairs.
Elvis performing in Honolulu in 1973.
(Pål Grandlund)
The cigar-chomping Parker, who died in 1997, was a former carnival barker and a compulsive gambler. He wasn’t, however, a colonel — the Dutch-born “Parker’s” real name was Andreas Cornelis van Kuijk.
During his time as Elvis’ manager, Parker took commissions as high as 50%, and frequently cut deals that enriched himself at the rocker’s expense.
Four years before Elvis died, Parker sold off his back catalog to RCA for $5.4 million (with Parker taking $2.6 million and Elvis $2.8 million), depriving the estate of untold millions in royalties.
In 1981, the co-executors of Elvis’ estate (an attorney separately represented Lisa Marie), sued Parker for massive fraud and mismanagement, claiming he received the “lion’s share” of Elvis’ income, even after his death. The parties eventually reached an out-of-court settlement.
Reviving Graceland
But the years of profound missteps and mismanagement left Elvis’ estate facing the prospect of bankruptcy and worse, having to sell Graceland. Priscilla brought in a team of financial advisors and lawyers who engineered a stunning financial turnaround.
In 1981, the Elvis Presley Trust created Elvis Presley Enterprises Inc. to conduct business and manage the trust’s assets, including Graceland, which was opened to the public the following year. Now a National Historic Landmark, the tourist shrine generates an estimated $10 million annually.
By the time Lisa Marie inherited her father’s estate upon her 25th birthday in 1993, the estate had rebounded. Two decades later, Graceland, along with the merchandising of Elvis’ image and managing his music royalties, was worth upward of $500 million.
Elvis on the grounds of his Graceland estate circa 1957.
(Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images)
Then, in 2005, Elvis’ estate changed hands. Lisa Marie agreed to sell 85% of EPE’s assets, including her father’s likeness rights, to music entrepreneur Robert F.X. Sillerman and his company CKX Inc. for $114 million.
Under the deal, Lisa Marie retained 15% of the trust and received $50 million in cash as well as $26 million in CKX common and preferred stock. She also retained sole ownership of Graceland and her father’s personal items. Priscilla received $6.5 million for the use of the family name, Fortune reported.
But in 2013, CKX Inc. sold its majority interest in the estate to the intellectual property firm Authenic Brands Group for a reported $145 million.
The problems that had long trailed the estate surfaced again five years later.
This time it was Lisa Marie who alleged she had been duped. Then 50 and in the middle of divorcing her fourth husband Michael Lockwood, the father of her twin girls, she sued her business manager Barry Siegel. She claimed that as a result of his “reckless and negligent mismanagement” the trust had dwindled to just $14,000 and was left with $500,000 in credit card debt.
Lisa Marie Presley in her childhood bedroom at Graceland in 2012.
(Lance Murphey/AP)
Siegel denied the allegations and countersued, claiming that she had “squandered” her fortune as a result of her “excessive spending.” At the time, court filings related to her divorce from Lockwood, revealed that she was $16.7 million in debt.
A mother, daughter feud
When Lisa Marie died suddenly in January 2023 at the age of 54, another tense legal battle erupted over the estate and the trust Lisa Marie had set up.
Within weeks of her death, Priscilla went to court to challenge an amendment that removed her as a trustee, making her granddaughter, the actress Riley Keough, sole trustee. Priscilla’s lawyers argued that the signature was “inconsistent” with Lisa Marie’s handwriting.
The matter was settled five months later. Keough was named sole trustee. In exchange for stepping down, Priscilla received a $1-million lump sum payment paid out of Lisa Marie’s $25-million life insurance policy and was made a special advisor for a trust relating to EPE, for which she would receive $100,000 annually for 10 years or until her death.
Priscilla was also granted permission to be buried in the Meditation Garden at Graceland near Elvis’ gravesite and to be given a memorial service on the property.
‘Dame’ Kruse
By spring 2023, as Priscilla resolved her dispute with her daughter’s estate, Kruse’s presence and influence in her personal and business affairs deepened.
When they met, Priscilla was in her mid-70s and her main source of income derived from her paid personal appearances. Kruse’s suit described Presley’s celebrity as “a mere shadow of what it once was, and her earning potential was only a fraction of what it previously was.”
Moreover, she claimed that Priscilla was 60 days away from financial disaster, and drowning under $700,000 in outstanding tax debts.
Then 39, Kruse was publicly portrayed as a success, active in the worlds of celebrity and philanthropy and who spoke multiple languages. She highlighted her advocacy for children with autism and AIDS research; donating money to related causes and delivering toys to orphans in global conflict zones with her husband, Vahe Sislyan.
On social media and in news releases, Kruse showcased her activities and accolades, posting images alongside various marquee names such as the pop star Gwen Stefani and President Trump and his wife Melania.
In 2016, seven years after Kruse and her husband founded GWS, she was the first female auctioneer to make it into the Guinness Book of World Records (for selling the largest abandoned world property). Kruse formally added the honorific title “Dame” to her name after a member of the royal Italian Medici family conferred the title of Cavaliere, a kind of knighthood, on her.
In media interviews, Kruse liked to say that the sale of Elvis’ “lost jet” had seared her reputation as the rocker’s memorabilia dealer. Over the years she was prolific, selling a number of his items, including the Smith & Wesson that he was said to have purchased in 1973 after he was attacked onstage in Las Vegas.
According to Priscilla, she first met Kruse in June 2021 after the auctioneer texted her saying she’d like to meet for lunch.
They dined at Gucci Osteria in Beverly Hills followed by numerous other get-togethers in Los Angeles. Kruse introduced her to her “business partner,” Kevin Fialko, “an investor, experienced businessman, and financial expert,” who “would help Kruse get my financial affairs in order,” according to a declaration submitted by Priscilla.
Dame Brigitte Kruse and Priscilla Presley at an event in Orlando in 2023.
(Gerardo Mora/Getty Images)
“When I first met Brigitte Kruse, she wanted to involve me in her auction business,” she wrote in her March declaration.
From there, Kruse “quickly immersed herself” in Priscilla’s life, “often sending her multiple text messages a day, and “telling her how much she loved her and admired her,” according to her elder abuse complaint. She also talked up her credentials, lineage and expertise in the auction business as well as her “connections to celebrities.”
In September 2021, Priscilla participated in one of GWS’ online auctions that featured a private lunch with her and Kruse, with a portion of the proceeds going to a charity. A number of Elvis items were also auctioned off, such as the white eyelet jumpsuit cape he wore during his 1972 performances at Madison Square Garden and a jar of his hair.
“She’s just such a wealth of experience and knowledge. You don’t study and learn about Elvis without learning about Priscilla as well. Their names are synonymous,” Kruse told People.
The following year, Kruse’s GWS conducted an online auction billed as “The Lost Jewelry Collection of Elvis Presley and Colonel Tom Parker,” including watches, rings and cuff links that Elvis had bought or commissioned for his manager.
Although she didn’t own any of the items, Priscilla provided “letters of recollection” vouching for her personal historical memories of many of them, according to the auction’s online catalog notes.
“There is so much product out there that is not authentic at all and that worries me,” she said in a video with Reuters after viewing the collection. “I want to know for sure that that is going to go to someone who is going to care for it, love it.”
By January 2023, Priscilla and Kruse agreed to set up several companies to exploit Priscilla’s name and image and to bolster Kruse’s Elvis memorabilia auctions through Priscilla’s written “recollections.”
The terms of their agreement gave Kruse 51% and Presley 49% of Priscilla Presley Partners LLC, according to court filings.
Soon after, however, Priscilla alleged Kruse and Fialko “expanded the scope of their interest in my affairs, seeking to inject themselves into every area of my life.”
They gained her trust and isolated her from key advisors, setting the stage for “a meticulously planned and abhorrent scheme,” intended “to drain her of every last penny she had,” Presley alleged in her lawsuit.
Presley says that she was “fraudulently induced” to sign documents without the opportunity to review them in advance or “advised as to the nature of the paperwork.”
The contracts gave Kruse a controlling interest in her name, image and likeness in perpetuity. They also granted her power of attorney over Priscilla’s affairs and healthcare and named Kruse a trustee on her personal and family trusts, according to Priscilla’s declaration.
Along with Fialko, Kruse closed Priscilla’s bank accounts and opened new ones “in an effort to transfer the funds of Presley’s various personal, business and trust accounts.”
Priscilla claims she also signed a five-year lease on a house in Orlando, Fla., owned by Sislyan, that she never asked for or wanted.
Further, Priscilla alleges in a declaration that Kruse and Fialko leaned on Coppola to get a credit on the biopic and diverted $120,000 of money Presley earned from the film into their own accounts.
When Lisa Marie died, Priscilla contended that Kruse and Fialko improperly inserted themselves into her legal dispute over her daughter’s trust, she said in her complaint. They also had the “audacity” to demand that they were allowed “ to attend any memorial service for Presley in the future,” she added.
By August 2023, Priscilla severed ties with Kruse.
A lawyer representing Kruse and Fialko did not respond to a request for comment.
A few months later, Kruse, through Priscilla Presley Partners, sued for breach of contract, saying Priscilla asked Kruse to take over her business affairs, requiring her to “devote her attention full-time to managing Priscilla’s life” in order to “monetize various aspects of her [Presley’s] life.”
Kruse and Fialko maintained they worked tirelessly to keep Priscilla from “financial ruin and public embarrassment,” and that she fully understood the agreements she was signing.
Meanwhile, others began to question the authenticity around some of GWS’s Elvis sales.
When GWS held another online auction of Elvis memorabilia in January 2023 that included a one-of-a-kind grommet jacket that Elvis wore in 1972, it drew the attention of Elvis Presley Enterprises.
“We know there was only one made, and guess what? We have it in our archives,” Weinshanker, EPE’s managing partner, told NBC News, last July.
GWS said the claims were unsubstantiated: “GWS stands behind everything that it sells, and categorically denies tracking in fake or inauthentic items attributed to Elvis Presley, or otherwise.”
The tensions escalated last November, after GWS announced another “lost” collection auction of Elvis and Col. Parker memorabilia, comprising 400 items.
Priscilla Presley, her daughter Lisa Marie and grandaughters: Riley Keough, Harper Lockwood and Finley Lockwood at an event honoring the Presley family at the TCL Chinese Theatre in Los Angeles in 2022.
(Jordan Strauss/Invision/AP)
The cache of documents included telegrams Elvis and Parker sent to Frank Sinatra, the Beatles and others, handwritten notes and Elvis’ signed 1956 contract with the New Frontier Hotel in Las Vegas, included in the auction, that rang alarm bells.
The estate’s lawyers in December sent a cease and desist letter to GWS, claiming the listed auction items were the property of Graceland and demanded their immediate return. Nonetheless, GWS went forward with the sale, contending in a letter it had acted appropriately. , On Dec. 24, the estate sued GWS, Kruse and two others, claiming the items belonged to Graceland and were “improperly and illegally offered for sale at auction.” They sought to recover at least 74 “irreplaceable documents,” and alleged that the defendants were in “possession of perhaps thousands more such items.”
According to the suit, the allegedly “stolen” items were part of an enormous trove that the estate acquired from Parker in 1990 for $1.25 million. GWS has denied that it had engaged in “any wrongdoing whatsoever.”
Elvis’ estate alleges that a former Parker employee named Greg McDonald “took possession” of the documents that should have been turned over to Graceland after Parker died.
Instead, when McDonald died in 2024, his widow Sherry and son Thomas McDonald, who are named as defendants, “took possession of the Property and then delivered it to Brigitte Kruse for sale at GWS,” the lawsuit states.
The suit further asserted that Kruse was aware of the circumstances in which Greg McDonald obtained the items before putting them up for sale. In an email thread between Kruse and Graceland’s longtime archivist in 2021, included in the filings, Kruse wrote that she had a video of her in conversation with McDonald in which he “admits to knowing of the theft,” in regards to the documents.
Over 600,000 visitors go to Graceland each year, earning the estate an estimated $10 million annually.
(Raymond Boyd/Getty Images)
An attorney for Kruse disputed the claim, saying in a statement that when she had informed the Elvis estate of the existence of McDonald’s collection in 2021, “they did not make a claim to Mr. McDonald alleging that the collection was not rightfully his.”
GWS “never maintained care, custody or control of any of the items” that were auctioned,” the statement read. “We will continue to respect the judicial process and the outcome of the ongoing litigation.”
In a statement to The Times on behalf of himself and his mother, Thomas McDonald said: “The property in which Graceland and Elvis Presley Enterprises are asserting ownership has been in my family’s possession for over forty years as gifts from the Colonel. I am committed to resolving this dispute and vindicating my family’s rights as expediently and fairly as possible.”
Lawyers for EPE and Graceland Holdings did not respond to a request for comment.
As the various lawsuits were unfolding, last April, GWS Auctions was suspended by the Franchise Tax board in California, effectively losing its standing to operate legally due to noncompliance with tax requirements.
In court filings, Kruse and her co-defendants are cited as saying that GWS is “defunct.” However, GWS’ website remains active and currently lists the results of its most recent auction: the Artifacts of Hollywood and Music sale held on June 7 (that included the racing helmet Elvis wore in “Viva Las Vegas,” that sold for $6,500).
Last month, Elvis’ former wife scored a legal win when a Los Angeles Superior Court judge denied a motion by Kruse and her business associates to temporarily put a hold on the elder abuse lawsuit in an effort to move the litigation to Florida.
In his ruling, Judge Mark H. Epstein expressed frustration with the defendants’ “never-ending series of motions,” underscoring that this was not a a contract-based case. Presley “is suing these defendants for fraud and elder abuse, an aspect of which was allegedly bamboozling her into signing those agreements in the first place.”
The ongoing clash with Kruse has left Priscilla “devastated,” said her attorney, Wayne Harman. “We look forward to the court holding defendants fully accountable for their actions,” he said in a statement.
Amid the fallout with Kruse, the estate faced another controversy.
A mysterious company, Naussany Investments & Private Lending, presented documents claiming that Lisa Marie had borrowed $3.8 million and put up Graceland as collateral but had failed to repay the loan before she died.
But it was an elaborate scam, according to federal authorities, who in August arrested a Missouri woman, Lisa Jeanine Findley, alleging she used fake documents to “steal the family’s ownership interest in Graceland” and attemped to put it up for sale.
In February, Findley pleaded guilty to mail fraud for her role in the scheme and is scheduled to be sentenced this week. She faces a maximum penalty of 20 years in prison.
