Ronnie Polaneczky |    THE RAW-DEAL REWARD . . .

WALTER MYATT has done some bad things in his life. But one of the good things he did was to lead police to the body of 24-year-old LaToyia Figueroa, the pregnant West Philly mom who disappeared exactly two years ago tomorrow.

As a result, the unborn baby's father, Stephen Poaches, was arrested for killing Figueroa and dumping her body in a wooded lot in Chester. Last October, Poaches was convicted and sentenced to life in prison.

For the role he played in the resolution of the much-publicized crime, Myatt was supposed to collect a $100,000 reward offered via the Citizens Crime Commission for information leading to an arrest and conviction in Figueroa's case.

Instead, Myatt says, he received just a scant portion of that - $10,000. And he doubts he'll get another dime, given the run-around he says he's gotten from pretty much everyone involved in the reward process.

Some people dispute his story, including City Councilman Juan Ramos, a distant cousin of Figueroa's who led the charge to find her. And Santo Montecalvo, vice president of the Citizens Crime Commission, who says he personally handed Myatt far more than $10,000.

Me, I don't know if there's only one person responsible for this mess. Because the reward process was handled so sloppily, there's plenty of blame to go around.

Let's start with Joe Mammana. You remember him, right? The fedora-wearing, ex-con-turned-millionaire who made a name for himself by posting reward money in high-profile criminal cases?

He's the guy who pledged $250,000 to the reward fund for still-missing Aruba vacationer Natalee Holloway. And who, via the Citizens Crime Commission, created a $100,000 "terrorist reward fund" for information concerning terrorist activities.

When Figueroa went missing, Mammana played to the cameras again, pledging $80,000 to the reward fund established in her name. At the time, he told the Daily News - which often contributes to Crime Commission rewards - "when you get to 100 grand, you see best friend turn against best friend."

Walter Myatt claims he had no idea there was a reward fund when he phoned detectives about Figueroa. He was just afraid that he was about to be fingered in her death.

Myatt grew up with Poaches in West Philly and, for a while, they hung out together.

"I was no angel," says Myatt, 37, whose criminal record includes gun and assault convictions. "But once I had kids, I turned things around. I work 12 hours a day now. I'm done with that life."

So he was nervous when, after Figueroa vanished, Poaches started calling him, eventually admitting that he'd killed Figueroa during an argument about Poaches' other pregnant girlfriend. Poaches told Myatt that a friend had helped him move Figueroa's body, but he feared the friend would tell detectives where the body was.

"Poaches wanted me to help move the body," says Myatt. "I went to the cops instead. I didn't want to wind up in prison, lifting weights."

Detectives grilled Myatt, decided he had nothing to do with Figueroa's disappearance, then used him to set up a sting in which Myatt would supposedly help Poaches move her body.

Cops tailed the duo and arrested Poaches right at Figueroa's grave. He was armed and wearing a bulletproof vest, leading police to believe he had planned to kill Myatt after moving the body.

Detectives contacted the Citizens Crime Commission on Myatt's behalf so he could claim the $100,000 reward they felt was rightfully his: $10,000 for finding Figueroa's body, and $90,000 to be paid if there were a conviction in the case.

Both Myatt and Crime Commission vice president Santo Montecalvo agree that, sometime shortly after Poaches was arrested in August 2005, Myatt was handed $10,000 on a downtown corner of Chestnut Street.

But that's all they agree on.

As pedestrians streamed past them, Myatt says, Montecalvo gave him an envelope containing $10,000 in cash.

"He asked me if I wanted to make a donation back to the commission," says Myatt, who says he peeled off a wad of bills – between $2,000 and $2,500 – and gave them to Montecalvo. "I just wanted to get out of there. I'm on the street with an envelope full of money, and I have a record. I kept thinking I was being set up."

Montecalvo calls Myatt's donation allegation "a bald-faced lie," and says there was a witness, unseen by Myatt, who watched Montecalvo make the payment and walk away.

Montecalvo also claims he gave Myatt another $11,000 during two subsequent meetings on the same street corner – also seen by a witness that he says Myatt wouldn't have known was watching.

Myatt says he never got another penny.

The Crime Commission doesn't ask its reward recipients to sign receipts - that would violate its promise of anonymity.

Both Montecalvo and longtime commission president John Apeldorn were at first unable to recall who had witnessed the payout, or payouts, to Myatt. Nor did their files contain records of who had been there. Eventually, they recalled that Apeldorn had witnessed at least one of the transactions.

As for the remaining $80,000, well, remember Joe Mammana? Turns out the IRS had been building a tax-evasion case against him. By the time Myatt was supposed to collect his reward, Mammana's assets had been frozen. He eventually pleaded guilty to evading taxes on more than $4 million in income and is now in prison.

"Joe owes a lot of taxes and he's facing treble fines," says Mammana's attorney, Jeffrey Lindy. "His money could be tied up with the feds forever."

So here's a question: With Mammana and his money out of the picture, is anyone else responsible for paying whatever is still due to Myatt?

Juan Ramos was the one who very publicly announced the $100,000 reward. Should he be responsible for making good on the unpaid $80,000?

"The councilman can't do anything about it," says Ramos' spokesman, Josh Cohen. "He helped organize the search, but it was Mr. Mammana who committed to the $80,000."

And what, if anything, is the Crime Commission's accountability here?

"We have none," says commission president Apeldorn. "We didn't offer the reward. The councilman did. We only administer reward funds."

But wouldn't a responsible "administrator" realize that there would be trouble when Mammana ran so flagrantly afoul of the law? Mammana had been a Crime Commission board member, paid for commission events and even, the federal indictment alleged, appropriated the commission's name in his income-hiding scheme.

And the Crime Commission knew he had given money to this reward, because that was reported immediately during the constant coverage of Figueroa's high-profile case.

After his indictment, why wouldn't the commission at least try to recover the money from Mammana - or find another funder for the reward? Or simply make an announcement that the reward was endangered?

If an operation like the Crime Commission doesn't make good on the rewards it very publicly promotes, couldn't that damage its credibility among the people it relies upon to fulfill its crime-solving mission?

Kinsley Nyce believes it would. He's the lawyer for Central Ohio Crime Stoppers, a group similar to the Crime Commission in that it operates an anonymous-tip line and administers rewards.

I contacted Nyce because his group was also stiffed by Mammana, who wouldn't make good on a $50,000 reward he'd pledged in an Ohio case.

Nyce's group has both sued Mammana for the amount and made good on his pledge to the tipster owed the $50,000.

"We felt we had no choice," says Nyce. "If word gets out that we're welchers, we're in deep trouble. All it takes is one person to believe we don't have integrity, and people won't call in tips any more."

As for a reward-delivery process, he says, his group always brings neutral witnesses to the drop-off - well-known business leaders, in some cases - and makes the recipient sign a prearranged code number on a receipt. The process helps protect the group from accusations that payments were never made and also squares things with IRS regulations requiring detailed receipts on money that nonprofits pay out.

Not all of the 1,000-plus, nationwide Crime Stoppers groups dispense their awards in this way, says retired Arlington, Texas, judge Richard Carter, legal counsel to Crime Stoppers International (to which the Citizens Crime Commission used to belong).

"But there really has to be a way to confirm independently that the money changed hands, or you leave yourself open to accusations" similar to what Myatt is leveling against the Crime Commission.

Responds Apeldorn, "This is the way we've always done things. Until now, no one has ever had a problem with it."

Nor has the commission had a problem with people ponying up the money they pledge.

Still, the commission says it's about to change its procedures.

"In the future, we won't advertise a reward unless the money is in the bank," Apeldorn says. "I don't care who you are - if the money isn't there, we won't advertise the award."

So it's too late for Myatt, who says he's been advised to hire a lawyer to add his name to the list of creditors to whom Joe Mammana owes money.

"That doesn't seem right to me," he says. "Everyone says 'don't snitch.' I stepped up. I put my life in danger. I wasn't even after the money. But when I go to get it, I need a lawyer?"

Myatt may never get Mammana's money, but it turns out that the Crime Commission does have another $719 for him. Montecalvo says that, when I called to ask about the Figueroa case, he went back over his records and found $719 sitting in the reward fund.

"Just tell him to call," he says. "The money's here for him." *

E-mail polaner@phillynews.com or call 215-854-2217. For recent columns:

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