Mob Star (47 page)

Another Westie who cooperated in an earlier FBI investigation had also secretly taped one of the four O’Connor shooters saying the “greaseballs” had given them the assignment:

“Oh yeah, [it was] for the greaseballs, something they needed quick. You know what happened? This guy O’Connor got a bunch of construction guys from his union. They went on the job and wrecked it. He was supposed to get kneecapped, but the bullets ended up high and one went in his asshole. He’s got an extra asshole.”

Alone, each of these facts hardly made for a case against Gotti. In court, even his “bust-’im-up” remark could be turned him into harmless chatter by a man famous for exaggerated speech. But the state agents believed McElroy’s claim that the Westies leader told him the shooting was for Gotti, and McElroy’s willingness to testify about it tipped the case into prosecutable range.

Maloney, among many on the federal side of law enforcement, did not agree. But the state Task Force did not need Maloney. The O’Connor shooting was a state crime in Manhattan, which gave jurisdiction to the elected Manhattan District Attorney, Robert Morgenthau. The 68-year-old Morgenthau was a powerful local prosecutor who had once been the federal prosecutor in Manhattan. He also had a history with the Mafia, having in 1963 talked a run-of-the-mill hoodlum, Joseph Valachi, into becoming the first Mafioso to break the vow of
omerta
or silence.

With the usual concerns about imperfect evidence and reliance on a lowlife witness such as McElroy, who once slit a man’s throat for 100 dollars in drug money, Morgenthau and his rackets chief, Michael Cherkasky, came to agree with Ronald Goldstock, the state Task Force boss, that the case was winnable.

Neither would say their decision was affected by the accolades a Gotti victory would bring, but his notoriety guaranteed it. Still, a prosecutor’s code requires only belief in the defendant’s guilt and the possibility of conviction, not the beauty of the case. In addition, a provision in New York law dramatically raised the reward of convicting Gotti of ordering the assault of John O’Connor.

In the 1970s, Gotti was convicted of three felonies—attempted manslaughter and two hijackings. In New York (and many states), three-time losers can be deemed “predicate” felons—incorrigible career criminals who ought to be treated as such at their fourth felony conviction and locked up a long time. So rather than the five-to-fifteen-year sentence a judge would give for an ordinary conviction for assault, Gotti faced a twenty-five-years-to-life sentence.

It took a couple months to seal a deal with McElroy. A murder charged was dropped, his girlfriend got a pass on drug charges, and Morgenthau and Cherkasky agreed to write a letter on his behalf to the federal judge who sentenced him to 60 years in the Westies case. Worse criminals have gotten more, but not in such a theoretically simple assault case.

In January of 1989, for the third time in four years, Gotti was indicted. His arrest came on January 23, when 23 NYPD detectives and Task Force agents took up positions near the Ravenite and waited for him. Escorted by three bodyguards, Gotti left the Ravenite about 7 P.M. and walked north on Mulberry. The cops and agents stopped him just as he reached the adjacent neighborhood of Soho and the street of his Machiavellian dreams, Prince Street.

The suspect quickly fell into character. “I’ll lay you three to one, I beat it,” he said to Joseph Coffey, the Westies expert who had left the NYPD and joined the state Task Force, as Coffey told him the charges and slapped on handcuffs.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere. Why’re you doin’ this shit?”

“Forget it, jerkoff, get in the fucking car,” Coffey said.

Booking at nearby Manhattan Criminal Court took some time. Gotti fumed in a crowded holding pen behind the bail judge’s court. Many two-bit drug dealers, thieves, and muggers—the detritus of the NYPD’s other efforts that night—were startled to see him led into their midst and responded with a standing ovation.

Gotti was held overnight for a bail hearing the next morning. Prosecutor Cherkasky did not expect the judge to refuse Gotti bail—as a defendant, Gotti had always shown for court, the main basis, in state law, for determining bail—but he argued for it anyway. He said Gotti led a major criminal organization and had “enormous financial resources” enabling him to flee.

“He has never missed a court date,” Bruce Cutler replied. “He gets to court before the building opens. He’s always on time. He has never run away from a problem.”

The lawyers argued several more minutes, long enough for Cutler to rhapsodize about Gotti the loyal husband, devoted father, and doting granddad unmercifully hounded around the clock by agents and cops who never saw him commit a crime. The judge pretended to pay attention, then set a bail that set the suspect back for about a week’s worth of gambling: $100,000—or half of what Gotti spent the month before on a Christmas party for 1,000 gangsters and their wives, children, girlfriends, and lawyers.

Exiting the courthouse, Gotti broke into a familiarly sly smile when asked whether the new case caused him any concern.

“Did I ever worry yet?”

The reporters clamored for more and he indulged. “I have nothing to be worried about. They have nothing.”

The questions kept coming in a hail, striking all around, accumulating in nothing, until Gotti heard one he felt it was productive to answer. It involved James McElroy, and his words tipped the tried-and-true strategy sure to be employed at trial: “This case is from the word of lowlifes.”

The performance charmed the media beast and, for the most part, produced the desired result. The lead paragraph of one newspaper story actually began with Gotti’s statement, in 1987 after the Giacalone case, that in no time at all, law enforcement would try to frame him again.

M
ORE THAN HE KNEW, Gotti was right that the law was coming after him. Besides the O’Connor case, the FBI was cutting a video-and-audio record that might play well before a jury some day. In Brooklyn, meanwhile, Andy Maloney and the Eastern District Strike Force were about to use their generous grand jury powers to apply more pressure. The idea was to start giving people near Gotti a choice: go before a grand jury and talk truthfully, or go to jail.

In Manhattan, rival federal prosecutors got the same idea after they rekindled an investigation of the Sparks murders. This was the piece of Gotti turf Rudolph Giuliani reserved when he and Maloney discussed Gotti after the Giacalone case. In 1989, with always annoying and sometimes dire effect, Manhattan federal grand jury subpoenas began landing on the doorsteps of Gambino Family soldiers.

Through Sammy and the crew chiefs, Gotti repeated standing instructions on how he expected soldiers to handle grand jury testimony: Tell the truth about things that don’t matter; fail to remember when questions get pointed; lie when there is no choice.

Several men would be squeezed, including Thomas Spinelli, a Brooklyn soldier whose only link to Sparks was that his captain, Jimmy Brown Failla, was one of the men inside Sparks waiting to see Paul and Bilotti that night. Still, this made all in Failla’s crew potential grand jury witnesses. Spinelli had already testified once when prosecutors sent another subpoena. He then made the mistake of saying out loud that he was not going to expose himself to perjury by telling lies his grand jury inquisitors would know are lies.

While uninformed about Sparks, Spinelli knew about Failla’s role in the Gambino Family’s private-sanitation rackets—the subject of many prior investigations by different agencies. The grand jury subpoena handcuffed him into trying to guess what the grand jury knew as prosecutors fired questions.

Spinelli’s fellow soldiers immediately informed their capo of his decision to tell the truth and hope for the best. It would have pleased Failla if Chin Gigante made a move against Gotti, but until then, he had to be loyal to Gotti, so he told him about Spinelli.

“Then he has to go,” Gotti responded. “If he don’t wanna play ball our way, he don’t play.”

Gotti gave the job to Sammy, who now believed it was unseemly for a man of his position to be out in the street killing people. But he and a Failla soldier lured Spinneli to a Brooklyn factory owned by some gangster’s son. As Sammy waited outside, the soldier shot Spinelli dead.

“It’s over,” he told Gotti the next day, in a walk-talk at the Ravenite.

“Good, can’t have no rats, or would-be rats. People gotta know that by now.”

 

 

Federal prosecutors use the grand jury cudgel in multiple ways. For instance, they can force people to testify under immunity grants that enable people to talk all they want about their crimes and avoid prosecution—unless they lie. Because this is a powerful tool that could be used to lead suspects into a perjury case, the law prohibits prosecutors from seeking immunity for an investigation’s primary targets. It reserves immunity for people on the edges of a case, people less important than their information.

In Brooklyn, Maloney and Strike Force Chief Edward McDonald decided that getting Tommy Gambino was not as important as learning what he knew. It was a dicey call—Tommy was not only a capo but, as Carlo’s son, a symbol of Mafia power in New York. Maloney and McDonald had to ask Washington superiors for approval, but the bosses agreed that sacrificing a potential racketeering case against Tommy was worth building one against Gotti.

For Tommy, the pressure of having to testify or go to jail was a new experience. During his father’s and Uncle Paul’s reigns, he lived a practically anonymous life, so far as the law was concerned, even though until Sparks, soft-spoken Tommy, who was married to the daughter of the Luchese Family patriarch, was set to replace Paul.

In truth, he had little lust for the job. He saw the meaning of the federal onslaught better than most. He was content with the millions he accumulated through his powerful connections. And after Sparks, he had demonstrated his practicality by quickly assuring Gotti that he savored neither revenge nor ambition.

Some of Gotti’s reaction to these assurances was voiced within range of the state Task Force’s Bergin bug and now provided part of the legal basis for subpoenaing Tommy before the grand jury, not that prosecutors ever have much trouble finding enough basis for a grand jury subpoena.

In the same conversation in which he grandly talked about building a legacy that could never be broken, Gotti told George Remini, one of Tommy’s men, that he would appoint only quality men to Tommy’s crew—not “hotheads” or “scumbags.” He also ordered Remini to act as the crew’s capo in sitdowns requiring a menacing nature.

“Tommy don’t know how to handle that. He’s a sweetheart for everything else, but you would know how to handle it, Georgie.”

Putting Tommy into a deeper hole, Gotti also said that since Tommy had been so supportive after Sparks, he would treat him as an insider. “I told Tommy, ‘Whatever we do, I want you to know, even if it’s bad, off-color. I want you to know it from us. This way here, you’re part of it.’”

In the end, Tommy was called before the grand jury four times, the last just before Gotti was indicted in the O’Connor case. He seemed relaxed when prosecutor Leonard Michaels asked about his boyhood, his education, and his business empire in Manhattan’s Garment Center. Tommy and his even more low-key brothers Joseph and Carlo Jr. controlled several trucking, leasing, and manufacturing firms that employed 700 people and grossed more than $30 million annually.

Tommy began to prevaricate when he said he had no idea why his companies—which were almost all non-union—were never victimized by union or Mafia shakedown artists, when such was part of the history of the Garment Center. He began stirring in his seat and blinking rapidly when prosecutor Michaels turned to the taped conversation between Gotti and Remini.

“I don’t know what is in Mr. Gotti’s head,” Tommy said.

When Michaels asked about the Sparks shootings, Tommy even refused to refer to them as murders. “I know my uncle was found dead on the street. As far as I am concerned, it was an uncomfortable time in my life. I lost my uncle and that’s it.”

Michaels pressed on; Tommy’s answers began sounding even more evasive and nonsensical. He recalled events from more than four decades before, but not a meeting with Gotti the night before his first grand jury appearance. He admitted he visited Gotti regularly at some social club, but couldn’t recall its name, what it looked like, where it was, or the names of many men he saw there.

Tommy’s bobbing and weaving and outright lies provided plenty for a perjury charge, or so Maloney and McDonald decided. Tommy was indicted—and, after his arrest by Gambino agents, handcuffed for the first time in his life.

Tommy’s lawyers crafted a trial defense relying on an appeal to jurors that the polite gentleman before them was singled out only because of his infamous father and that he happened to know John Gotti, the real target of the case. They thought the case a sure winner, with only slight damage to Gotti, but Gotti was worried; the Teflon Don was starting to feel besieged. The O’Connor case, with its virtual life penalty, was before him; and now he knew that two federal grand juries were behind him, no doubt in league with the FBI, coming at him with who-knew-what kind of cases.

“They’re gonna keep comin’ until they get something, get a motherfuckin’ scumbag rat to say what they want,” he ranted to Sammy one day. “It’s gonna cost me a fuckin’ fortune to fight these motherfuckers off.”

 

 

The mounting pressure made Gotti more wary than ever about surveillance. But it was impossible for him to be like Chin Gigante, hiding out and faking craziness in public. Gotti enjoyed meeting his men and holding forth in public. It was how he showed power, and reveled in it. As law-enforcement recordings already showed, it also was difficult for him to control his speech. He spoke in big waves, leaping from one subject to the next, quoting himself and others, imagining conversations he intended to have or would have had. This made it sometimes hard to understand him, but also hard for him to edit remarks that might cause trouble if cops and agents were listening.