The Time I Stole Jeff Karp’s Ferrari from Copley Place Garage
Back in early 2019, headlines across Massachusetts read: “Parth Patel Arrested in Cape Cod for Stealing a Ferrari from Copley Place Garage.” If you’ve ever Googled Parth Patel Cape Cod or Parth Patel Ferrari, you’ve probably seen that old Cape Cod Times article.
This blog post is my side of the story. What really happened with the 2001 Ferrari 550 Maranello in Boston’s Copley Place Garage, why my name got dragged into the news as “Parth Patel arrested,” and how the case was ultimately dismissed.
So here it is — the real Parth Patel Ferrari story, told in my own words.
Let me set the scene: it’s winter in Boston, late 2018. I’m 22 years old, manic as hell, haven’t slept in three days, roaming the city like some cracked-out philosopher while my poor parents are driving around searching for me. Out of nowhere, I stumble into Copley Place Garage — and that’s where I meet him: the manager. Or at least that’s who he told me he was.
This guy looks me dead in the eyes and says he’s got a Ferrari for sale. Not just any Ferrari, but a 2001 Ferrari 550 Maranello, six-speed manual, silver with burgundy leather — the kind of car you’d expect to see in Monaco, not in a dimly lit Boston parking garage next to a Toyota Corolla with three parking tickets.
Now, to understand how insane this is, you need context: I had literally just bought a BMW 3 Series from CarMax. On a 14% loan. And the best part? I didn’t even have a car to get there. I literally took an Uber from my parents’ house to CarMax to buy a car. Picture that: pulling up in the backseat of a Toyota Highlander, hopping out like, “Don’t worry, guys, I’m here to finance a BMW at 14% APR and change my life forever.”
I even sent my dad a picture of me shaking hands with the salesman, giant yellow ribbon on the hood, like I just won The Price is Right. Spoiler: my dad was not impressed.
So obviously the next logical step was to buy a Ferrari, right?
The Check Heard Round Boston
I agreed to buy it on the spot. Wrote this guy a personal check for $120,000 — because in my manic brain, I was convinced I had that much in stock trading profits sitting around. And honestly, I did. I had just run up my Fidelity account on a streak of manic day-trading wins, so on paper the money was there.
What I didn’t understand at the time was that “having money in Fidelity” is not the same thing as “having money in your checking account.” A check doesn’t care about your paper gains or your Robinhood-god-complex. A check cares about cold, hard, available balance — which I definitely did not have.
And to this day, I don’t even know if the guy ever tried to deposit the check. Maybe he looked at it and thought, “This kid’s insane, I’ll just let him play Ferrari owner for a while.” Or maybe he was just a scammer who knew the keys were in the car. Either way, the situation was absurd: I thought I was buying a Ferrari, he thought he was selling one, and the garage attendants thought we were both idiots.
Death by Battery (and a Hose)
Here’s the thing about owning a Ferrari Maranello: the battery is allergic to responsibility. For the next two weeks, I could barely get the thing out of the garage. Every time I tried to start it, it died like a fainting Victorian woman. I called AAA so many times I think I was on their Christmas card list.
And here’s where the story goes from crazy to flat-out sitcom: I wasn’t just keeping this Ferrari hidden. No — I was treating it like it was mine. At the Copley Place Garage — yes, the massive garage attached to the Prudential Center, one of the busiest and most high-end parking facilities in Boston — I decided the Ferrari needed a wash.
So picture this: manic 22-year-old me in the middle of December, bundled up in a bright blue Canada Goose jacket, dragging a hose across the polished garage floor and giving a $250,000 Ferrari 550 Maranello a bath like it was my daily driver. The water’s running everywhere, puddling around luxury cars, freezing cold Boston air blowing through, and I’m out there scrubbing away like I own the place.
And the best part? The garage staff knew. Every single one of them saw me. They all just nodded along, like, “Yup, that must be his Ferrari, because who else would be dumb enough to wash a car in January in here?” Not one person questioned it.
The article later mentioned that the keys were left in the car, but it never mentioned how I basically turned the Prudential Center garage into my personal Ferrari carwash.
Three Months of Bliss
For three glorious months, that Ferrari sat in my garage in Bourne. I registered it in Montana, just like the old owner had, and drove it occasionally between manic episodes and hospital visits. On the outside, it looked like I was living the dream. On the inside, I was unraveling.
And then came the day.
I’m in my room watching The Sopranos when my mom walks in, pale as a ghost:
“Parth… the police are here. They’d like to speak with you.”
I walk to the door, and it’s straight out of a movie. They read me my Miranda rights, ask about the car. I tell them I want to speak to an attorney. Bail gets set at $5,000, which my dad paid in cash because, of course, he did.
Enter Jeff Karp
Here’s the wildest part: turns out the car belonged to Jeff Karp, president of LAZ Parking. Yes, the parking empire guy. The irony is so strong you couldn’t script it better. Not only was he the head of the second-largest parking garage company in the U.S., but he had also registered his Ferrari in Montana to avoid Massachusetts sales tax. The man who runs garages across the country, dodging tax like a college kid dodges rent — that’s poetic.
Jeff came by our house, peeking through the garage blinds like a mob boss making sure his ride was still safe. My dad — ever the salesman — tried to convince him to sell us the Ferrari right there. Meanwhile, I’m standing there like, “Sorry Jeff, I swear I thought I bought your car fair and square.”
In the end, Jeff wasn’t even angry. I think he just wanted his car back in one piece, and maybe he even understood what I was going through. He’s a big community guy, involved in charities, and I like to think he saw this less as a theft and more as a very elaborate mental health episode.
And honestly, if I ever run into him again, I’d love to hear how he scaled LAZ Parking into a national empire. I might even pick up some notes for scaling Harborview Hospitality, the company I’m building with my dad and sister.
The Revolving Door Era
Looking back, that whole period of my life was like living inside a revolving door: one side led to the hospital, the other led straight to the courthouse. My attorney, Capone, used to joke about it. He’d pat me on the back and say, “Kid, you’ve got the worst loyalty program I’ve ever seen — hospital, court, hospital, court.”
But when it came to the Ferrari case, he went all in for me. I still remember the day the case was dismissed — one of the most relieving days of my life. Up until that moment, we didn’t know if it would go to trial, or if I’d actually end up in jail. My family was a bundle of nerves, sitting outside the courthouse waiting.
Then Capone walks out, stone-faced at first, and suddenly cracks a grin:
“Kid, you’re not going to the can today!”
My dad and I both just sat there, stunned and then laughing in relief. Capone was an amazing guy overall — the type of lawyer you’d want in your corner. To this day, I’d hand him 20 grand in cash if he needed it. Back then, my dad didn’t hesitate to write him a check for $7,500 for his services on the Ferrari case. If I ever have a son, that’s the kind of father I hope to be — the one who shows up, no hesitation, when it counts most.
Case Closed
The case dragged on for a while, but nothing was ever indicted. The charges were eventually dismissed. The Ferrari went back to its rightful owner — Jeff Karp, president of LAZ Parking. And I was left with one hell of a story to tell.
