This Family of Mine: What It Was Like Growing Up Gotti (30 page)

I
COULD HEAR
the uncertainty and concern in my father’s voice that night when he called me from prison. He wasn’t his usual happy self. Usually he asked about the kids and listened intently as I spoke. But during that call he didn’t hear a word I’d said.

Finally, I asked him what was wrong. That’s when he told me he believed Sammy Gravano had turned rat. This came as no surprise to me. I never liked the guy. I never trusted him. He always reminded me of a weasel. Whenever he was around my father he was always eyeing him up and down, watching Dad in an envious fashion that was very noticeable to others. But my father wouldn’t listen to reason—he wanted to believe that every man he had around him was cut from the same cloth as he. Sadly, this proved false on many occasions. But the most damaging one was Sammy. The day before Gravano’s absence from a pivotal lawyers’ meeting was telling—and later on confirmed when a corrections officer working at the prison in my father’s ward came by and gave my father information confirming his suspicions about Sammy. The guard told him that Gravano had been “whisked out of the facility, like a thief in the night.” The guard said that usually when an inmate was removed so suddenly and in the middle of the night, it generally meant he was being transferred to a nearby army base to be protected as a federal witness. In Gravano’s case, the officer
was correct. The next day all the newspapers reported Sammy was a “rat.” It stunned the world and shook up the underworld. Men associated with the life ran for cover wondering if they, too, would fall. Not surprisingly, though, Gravano had made what could only be dubbed by newspaper reporters as the biggest “sweetheart” deal ever made. He would get to keep his ill-gotten gains from mob life as well as the profits from some still existing rackets—and also Sammy was allowed to pick and choose the men he would take down. His buddies and family members would be spared. He confessed to committing nineteen murders and spent less than two years in jail. All of this in exchange for John Gotti’s head.

O
ne of the rituals for Dad’s crew was Saturday afternoon lunch at the Bergin Hunt and Fish Club, a tradition my father started upon his release from prison in 1977.

All of the guys would get together for a big Italian feast. Pounds of veal cutlets, huge bowls of pasta, and an array of meatballs, sausage, and Italian cold cuts were served. Sometimes the men would grill steaks outside in the back of the building. Wine, of course, was abundant. Cigar smoke filled the air. They ate, drank, and enjoyed the food and company as only Italian men can. The men would talk, laugh, play cards, and watch races on the big television at the club for hours on end.

On April 13, 1991, less than a year after my brother John’s wedding, the guys were at the club—shylocks, bookies, numbers runners, and various hangers-on of the life came in to pay their
respects, take some action, and mooch some food. It was important, especially now that my father was in jail, that their traditions were kept up. It was a way of paying respect to him, the chief.

One Saturday Bobby Borriello was with my brother John, cracking him up with his jokes as usual. He was one of the funniest guys John ever met—and one of the toughest, too. He was a “happy-go-lucky” guy and loved to play practical jokes on his friends. Just after Dad’s trial, Bobby turned up at the Metropolitan Correctional Center and waited on the sidewalk for hours until Dad and a few of the other prisoners noticed him. He put on a street show, directing traffic into such disarray he nearly caused a six-car pileup! Bobby and John were trading zingers back and forth, discussing a little family business, eating and drinking, and all that male bonding stuff. Bobby left the club at about 7
P.M
., taking a jar of homemade pasta sauce to bring back to his family. Little Jackie, a regular at the social club, made it special every Saturday. John didn’t know, as Bobby drove away in his big black Lincoln Continental, that it would be the last time he would see him alive. John was next door at the jeweler’s contemplating an anniversary gift for his wife when he was told he had a phone call. It was Susan, Bobby’s wife, screaming that Bobby had been shot. He was lying in a pool of blood on the driveway of his home, riddled with bullets.

John was told that the hit had been well orchestrated. Cars boxed in the ends of Bobby’s block so he couldn’t run. A carful of men followed him up to his driveway. Bobby had turned to face them, saying, “What the fuck are you doing here?” They fired a shot, hit him, and he managed to throw the jar of sauce he was carrying at one of his assailants. Nine more shots followed, six more hit him.

His wife and his two-year-old child witnessed the killing from the house. Bobby was a big man, six foot one and 270 pounds. Bobby had a big heart, too. But seven bullets proved bigger than him that night.

John later told me, “He was pronounced dead at the scene. A wife widowed, his two children fatherless, and Bobby, at the prime of his life at age forty-seven, dead. My best man, my dear friend, dead.” We were all devastated to hear the tragic details.

Like my brother, I received a call from Bobby’s widow, Susan. We were longtime friends and all I could hear was her hysterical sobs. She cried over and over, “Bobby’s dead! Bobby’s dead!” It sent chills up my spine. I had just seen Bobby the day before. He stopped by to wish my son, Frankie, a happy birthday. He brought a magnificent, custom-made cake, designed to look like Big Bird from
Sesame Street
. The cake cost a fortune and had to be picked up in Manhattan. But that was Bobby, always generous. Always eager to please. Later, my brother accompanied his old friend to the funeral home, and helped prepare his body for the wake. Mortician’s wax took care of the holes in his body, but they didn’t have anything to plug the hole in John’s heart. It was the first awakening John had concerning this life that he had chosen and the ugliness surrounding it. Murder and death are ugly. There is no grace or honor in being sprawled out on the pavement, drenched in your own blood in front of your wife and kids. None whatsoever.

T
HE CASKET WAS
open so we could say good-bye face-to-face. It was a mob funeral, the way you’d imagine it. Lots of limousines, flower cars, gaudy arrangements, hundreds of guys in suits paying their respects at Rucuglia’s Funeral Home on Court Street.

After some time, it came to light that Anthony “Gaspipe” Casso, who had been at John’s wedding with Bobby and toasted his good fortune with him, had ordered the hit. Gaspipe, onetime underboss of the Lucchese Family, may have thought Bobby was behind an attempted hit on him, one that unfortunately failed. Or maybe he had Bobby killed to try to weaken the Family, maybe as a prelude
to killing my brother John. All I know is that my brother saw
the life
in a whole new light that day. John told me then—even as far back as 1991—that he “wanted out.” He said he didn’t have the treachery it took to survive or the stomach to withstand the ugliness of “the betrayal” that went with it. It was definitely the beginning of the end for John as far as the mob was concerned.

Casso, who has admitted to thirty-six killings, including the car-bombing of Frank DiCicco, turned into a federal rat in 1994, until they threw him out of the program. While in a special prison unit for informants, Casso was caught bribing guards, assaulting prisoners, being in possession of contraband, and lying to the Feds, especially at my father’s trial. I still don’t understand why or how any member of a jury can believe what these witnesses had to say. Law enforcement has often addressed this as well and said, “These men are not exactly altar boys—but they are all we have.” Knowing a man is trading useful information in exchange for freedom, sometimes life, would make me wonder just how much they say is the truth. Casso revealed that Gravano had lied on the stand, as well.

Another shocking detail about Bobby’s death was the revelation that two cops were involved as well. They were on Gaspipe’s payroll, had been for years, and were responsible for murdering more than eleven men. Lou Eppolito and Frank Caracappa, two veteran detectives, had previously visited Bobby’s house, knocked on the door, and confirmed that Bobby lived there. They then brought the information back to Gaspipe. They were the advance men, sealing Bobby’s fate. According to law enforcement sources, the Feds knew that Caracappa and Eppolito were “dirty” as far back as 1990—a year before Bobby Boriello was killed. Yet, they were not arrested and charged until the mid-2000’s. They were dubbed “the Mafia Cops” by the media. Eppolito and Caracappa were convicted and sentenced to life in prison for their roles in these murders.

O
ne condition of Gravano’s deal was that he had to tell the absolute truth about his involvement in the life. Every murder, every crime had to be documented. This was done to protect the government’s pending case so that no information could come back to damage a witness’s credibility. Gravano admitted to many crimes, besides the nineteen murders, most of which were a result of Sammy’s greed.

My father once concluded in a phone conversation with another associate that Gravano “always managed to convince the powers that be—the Commission—that every man he went into business with was a rat or had wronged him in some way.” My father went on to add, “Notice how each time Sammy gets rid of someone he stands to collect all the business interests?” And he was right, as Gravano
later admitted in his testimony. The nineteen murders to which Sammy confessed were carried out himself and some for no other reason than money or a small slight. Even Gravano’s own brother-inlaw wasn’t safe from his dangerous jealousy and insecurity. Sammy lured the unsuspecting guy to his garage in Staten Island and killed him, disposing of his remains by cutting the body up in pieces and burying them in his own backyard. Imagine his wife Debra’s shock when the family dog came home after a run out in the yard with her brother’s hand in its mouth. In the end, Sammy admitted to that murder as well. He was jealous of his brother-in-law’s relationship with his wife. Debra claimed she was distraught over the death of her brother, and she even spoke to reporters about what a “despicable human being” Sammy was. Imagine everyone’s shock then when Debra decided to join her husband in the WPP (Witness Protection Program) less than a year after he’d gone in. Now that’s amore!

Gravano’s testimony—along with the fact that my father was denied counsel of his choice, a judge-ordered sequestered jury, constant government leaks to the press that were damaging to my father—even the then-president of the United States, George H. W. Bush, demanding the FBI “get Gotti, at any cost”—made it utterly impossible for my father to win the case. There were also rumors that the government had “stacked the jury”—a term used when a member of law enforcement is placed and hidden in the jury pool. No one would have known during Dad’s trial—as each jury member was sequestered at an undisclosed hotel and their names remained anonymous. Also my father’s own words, played out in conversations with associates and leaked to the press for public consumption, made the case even more difficult. Sentences like, “You tell him that John Gotti will sever his motherfucking head off the next time he doesn’t come in when he’s called.” If you knew John Gotti at all, you would know his angry side was not particularly flattering, especially when he was dealing with dissension or disrespect
in his ranks. My father had a violent temper when provoked. At times he would say things he never meant, letting his anger get the best of him. I remember speaking to my father about being spied on and taped. He’d said to me, “It’s the worst feeling in the world to have your personal conversations and thoughts played back for you in court or in newspapers and on television.”

T
HE
S
AMMY “THE
B
ULL”
G
RAVANO
show continued. He paraded himself in front of the cameras as if he was a hero. The FBI had made Gravano so comfortable he actually believed they were his friends. One agent even went as far as to say, “Gravano is a good guy. I would trust him with my wife and kids.” In truth, the guy wouldn’t trust Gravano with his pet pit bull. This newfound “friendship” was the result of a trade-off. Sammy gave the FBI John Gotti’s head on a silver platter and they would say or do anything to keep him happy. Yet most people, even those in law enforcement, would later admit he was the lowest form of scum on earth. And after a lawsuit was filed against Gravano by members of his victims’ families, law enforcement started to slowly distance themselves from Sammy.

T
HE ENTIRE FAMILY
was in complete disarray for the first time ever. With my father in prison, held without bail, and facing the biggest case of his life, the rest of us just sat around numb. When you have the entire FBI and government gunning for you, there is little chance of a victory.

Not Dad. He remained strong and positive. He refused to let anything break his stride—he remained loyal and dedicated to the life he’d signed on for. He had only one gripe during this time: Bruce Cutler made mention one day during a routine telephone call that Dad was “tired of the food that was ordered for lunch every
day”; other than that Cutler said my father was in “good spirits.” Cutler also told me Dad had recently passed a comment about what he wouldn’t give to “taste a piece of my daughter Vicki’s lasagna.” So I asked Cutler if I could prepare some and have it delivered to the courthouse every day around lunchtime. Cutler was thrilled at the thought and couldn’t wait to surprise my father the next day.

I woke earlier than usual and made two trays of lasagna, two dozen meatballs, and a fresh carrot cake for dessert. Around 11
A.M
., one of Dad’s friends from the Bergin Hunt and Fish Club dropped by to pick up the food. Later that night, Dad called me to say it was delicious. He thanked me and let me know the other defendants as well as the attorneys had enjoyed the food tremendously. It was the least I could do. For the duration of the trial, I sent a different lunch each day. It helped me keep my sanity in a situation where there was really nothing I could do. With each newspaper headline and article, I began to lose faith Dad would ever come home again.