This Family of Mine: What It Was Like Growing Up Gotti (32 page)

John took a moment to answer and then said, “Well, if I can’t be an athlete, then maybe I’ll be a cook!”

Dad didn’t hear him too well through the scratchy old phones. Dad thought he said “crook.” And it didn’t help matters that he said it sarcastically, either.

I quickly started to correct my son, but Dad was already steaming. The next thing I knew, my father was yelling at him for being disrespectful. He threatened to give John, “a kick in the ass the next time he ‘sassed him.’ ”

Needless to say, after John left the cubicle and put some space between him and Dad, the situation was defused, Dad’s soft side surfaced just like with us when we were kids. That’s not to say John didn’t deserve to be scolded. He did. But Dad had made his point and John had learned his lesson. It was the first and last time he would ever challenge his grandfather.

Unfortunately, the incident was far from over. A tape of this entire situation somehow managed to get leaked to the media.
Here was this super-maximum prison facility, where visitors are thoroughly searched entering and exiting—and partake in “non-contact” visits with inmates—and somehow, a tape of one of these visits is leaked. It was definitely deliberate. Especially when the headlines read, “
DAPPER DON LOSES HIS COOL IN PRISON
.”

The tape found its way to the Smoking Gun website and the TV show
20/20
: John Miller was the reporter on the segment. The tape became the basis of an hour-long special of a family visit between my dad, my son, me, and my uncle. It was an intimate prison visit among family. At one time, reporters were never allowed to exploit or expose children, but that rule doesn’t exist if your last name is Gotti. The leaking of these tapes during the visits with my father hurt us all. What little time we had with him was on display for the whole world to watch and ridicule.

Another memorable visit took place with my brother John and me. Once again we took our assigned seats behind cubicle number six and waited for Dad to come down. This time there was no smile or confident grin. The visit was not an arranged one. Rather, it was impromptu and had to do with a recent newspaper headline and rumors about a possible hit put out on my brother by rival mobsters. The rumors that were circulating suggested that mobsters from a different Family were envious of Junior’s newly acquired leadership position and didn’t take too kindly to answering to someone young enough to be their son. We were terrified, despite John and Dad’s assurances that the rumors were nothing but lies. Dad insisted that the FBI had instigated the rumors and deliberately leaked them. He believed it was an attempt to “stir him up,” especially seeing as he was in Marion and his hands were tied. The FBI knew he was pretty much cut off from the outside world, except for once-a-month meetings with his attorneys or immediate family members. The FBI even leaked the name of the man who supposedly wanted my brother dead, Danny Marino. He was a high-ranking captain
from the Genovese crime family. People speculated that Marino was still seeking revenge for Paul Castellano’s death and resented having to answer to “a kid.” Despite Dad’s denials and the fact that I knew Marino—he was a businessman from Brooklyn who had always shown Dad the utmost respect from as far back as I could remember—I believed Dad was right, that the FBI initiated the rumors and played them up to a much more serious level. Still, in the life at this point you always had to question one’s loyalty. Any man in a position of power in the mob needed to closely watch his right hand. That’s why I was always leery of Gravano. Unfortunately, my fears were accurate when it came to Sammy.

Mom was beyond upset when the rumors about John surfaced. She too believed there was no longer any honesty or loyalty in the life. The new regime was a bunch of young cowboys with no regard for the old rules and regulations. They did as they pleased and didn’t care about mob politics or the Commission, especially during a power play or mob war. Many mob watchers, including the FBI, predicted a war when Dad went to jail. They believed there would be a power struggle to gain control of the Family. But because Dad had so many supporters, men who really respected him, mostly the old-timers, there wasn’t. The streets remained quiet. In a matter of months my brother John was put in position of “Acting Boss” by Dad and with the support of the elders on the Commission—the elders wanted my father, John Gotti, to hold on to the reins of the Family.

After we heard the chilling threats against my brother, Mom wrote Dad another missive filled with hate and anger. She let my father know that if “anything happened to John, she would never forgive him.” She wrote of the pain of losing Frankie Boy and the “hole in her heart” that will never mend. She reminded Dad of his earlier promises to her to always keep John safe and protected—and she let Dad know if he didn’t release my brother from the life,
she intended to turn her back on him forever. As for John, none of this came as a surprise. We spoke about the rumors and he said he did not believe them and were not true. Once again, he let me know the life had little left that he found appealing. He told me that night that he’d made “a big mistake” when he chose to be a part of our father’s world. Without Dad out on the streets, John believed the usually loyal, dedicated, and regimented men were replaced by “a bunch of Indians running amuck—a bunch of Indians all vying to be the chief.”

Meanwhile, the OCTF was expected to arrest my brother any day for acting in a supervisory role in the Gambino crime family. Honestly, Mom seemed almost glad when she learned of this. I believe she thought it was the lesser of two evils. Having her son arrested was far better than seeing him killed. She was always unhappy with John’s choice of lifestyle when Dad was home, on the streets—and now that he wasn’t, Mom was terrified something bad would happen to him.

Dad was
not
happy. He yelled and ranted about what he called “bogus charges.” “Where does it end?” he’d asked John and me. He believed that now that he was put away, the authorities would just move on to the next in line in his family, and continue on until we were all gone.

My father had been chased by the FBI and was the subject of seven years of intense scrutiny by the OCTF, NYPD, and DEA. Dad remarked about the fight the agencies put up when it came to him. “It took them four trials to get me. Four. They needed to disqualify my lawyers and all the witnesses we intended to call. That’s the only way they could get me.”

Now it was my brother’s turn and I couldn’t be more surprised. The two men couldn’t be more different. Dad loved fancy suits and was always impeccably groomed. John, on the other hand, usually donned comfortable jeans and a sweatshirt. Dad enjoyed eating
at fancy restaurants and stopping to have a drink at popular clubs. John preferred informal dinners at home with his wife and kids and rarely stepped foot in a bar or club. Dad had many friends and enjoyed having lots of people around him. John was considered a loner. Dad was driven around in an $80,000 Mercedes. John drove a minivan. But John was a Gotti—and prosecuting a marquee name led to promotions, especially during an election year.

It was the mid-nineties and the FBI had bugs planted in all of my brother’s phones: his house, office, and any hangout he frequented. He was also being followed daily by at least three shifts of agents. The press had done what law enforcement hoped they would. They portrayed John as a knuckle-dragging Neanderthal and even dubbed him “Dumbfella,” despite the fact that John was extremely well spoken, well educated, and very well mannered. He had spent four years at a military academy after all. But the public believed he was a stupid, ruthless thug, and that’s all that mattered to law enforcement.

My father left the visiting cubicle with one word of advice for my brother:
“Fight!”

A
djusting to life with Dad away at prison was very difficult, to say the least. My brother John tried hard to fill our father’s shoes—and not just in the street. Looking after all of us, including the grandkids and Mom, and working diligently on my father’s legal issues, weighed heavy on his shoulders. John was left with many burdens, and not by choice, either. Certain obligations and responsibilities fell on him as the oldest son. John tried his hardest to keep all the balls in the air, but sooner or later things started falling through the cracks.

One of John’s biggest responsibilities was handling the family finances. I didn’t know it at the time, but my brother was left with the responsibility of managing whatever fortune Dad had left behind before he went off to Marion. This amount was reported to
be as much as $200 million by the tabloids, which was a complete fabrication. I’m sure there were many millions that Dad’s friends and associates helped themselves to—but money for the immediate family was kept separate.

Dad’s personal stash was realistically around $12 million. Dad was generous to a fault with his money—every person who came to him with a story and wanted to borrow money received it. Dad also was a heavy gambler—he loved betting on sports and the ponies. Still his years as a captain and then boss of the Gambino Family allowed him to put away a small fortune. I was working as a columnist at the
New York Post
when the outrageous claims of a huge stash were printed in a rival newspaper. Again, I had a good laugh. I even did a follow-up column about how I should start looking for the money. My first suggestion was to wait for Mom to leave the house one Saturday and then “head to the hardware store, buy a heavy shovel, and start digging up the backyard.” Dad instructed my brother to invest the money wisely so that each of us would be taken care of should anything happen to him. Neither my father nor my brother discussed these arrangements with me at the time. John told me years later about his financial responsibilities.

Perhaps it was because I was always too proud to ask my parents for a penny or the fact that I’d always been independent and supported myself, but I honestly never knew anything about my parents’ finances. I even refused a car when I turned seventeen. I was “Miss Independent.” I never dared ask what was left behind or who was holding what. But this all became a big issue among the family when my brother’s legal troubles began.

N
EWSPAPER STORIES CLAIMED
John’s arrest was to happen any day. So his attorney, Richard Rehbock, reached out for one of the heads of the OCTF and requested that his client turn himself in. This
would spare John’s wife and five kids the agony of the predictable early-morning raid the FBI loved to stage. Rehbock’s request was denied. The agent told him, “Mr. Gotti is not special and will be arrested in due fashion.”

But Rehbock continued, “This will save the taxpayers much money and all of us much grief. Just tell me when and where and my client will be there.”

The FBI wanted their glory. Request denied again.

On January 19, 1996, the entire Gotti family gathered at John’s house for a formal Sunday dinner. It wasn’t a Sunday, but we acted as if it was. Rumor had it John would be arrested the next morning, and we wanted to at least gather one last time for dinner. It was a night of bittersweet memories. All the grandchildren played obliviously in the den with the dozens of action figures and toy soldiers John had bought for them earlier in the day.

John was always a favorite with all his nieces and nephews mostly because he devoted much time and effort to them. He often took the boys out to ball games and the girls to shows, like
The Lion King
. He planned these outings often just because he really enjoyed spending time with the young children. The way John doted on the children in the family was significant, mostly because their grandfather was in prison—and unwillingly could not be involved in their lives as he should have been. John tried hard to fill the void for all the grandchildren—as he himself remembered all too well what it was like growing up without a proper hands-on male role model.

The adults remained mostly in the kitchen and the dining room that night, telling stories and sharing memories. We laughed and even cried when the mention of my brother Frankie’s name came up. John remained upbeat and calm that night. He took us into the den, one at a time, to have a private conversation with each of us. When it was my turn, we spent nearly an hour talking mostly about his kids. He’d made me promise I would help his wife and keep
his kids safe. That was his main concern—his kids. He also asked me to hem a pair of jogging pants for him to wear when he was arrested.

At midnight, most of us left to go home. As I was walking out, actor Mickey Rourke was walking in. He’d come by to say good-bye to John. His flight from Los Angeles had gotten in late and he had come straight from the airport. His luggage was still in the backseat of the rental car. Mickey was a loyal friend of John’s and wanted to offer his help. The two men retired to John’s home office and had a few glasses of brandy in private. I returned at about 2
A.M
. with the pants I had altered for John. I left the pants on the kitchen chair and left quietly through the back door. I checked my watch and realized John had just a few hours left before “D-Day.” Despite law enforcements’ quest for glory, my brother had other plans. And if the plan was going to go smoothly he needed to leave the house no later than 3
A.M
.

The next morning, at exactly 5:30, FBI agents swarmed down on my brother’s Mill Neck estate on Long Island, wearing blue nylon windbreakers with large, bright yellow letters—FBI—across the front and back, armed with 9mm pistols and rifles. They stormed the front gates and surrounded the sides and back of the house. Camera crews and photographers gathered outside. Dennis Vacco, the New York state attorney general, was up for reelection that year, so it came as no surprise that it was a carefully orchestrated arrest, to be broadcast and televised everywhere later that day. Unfortunately for the FBI, John was one step ahead of them. He was staying in a comfortable room in a nearby hotel in East Norwich on Long Island, some three or four miles from his home. When his wife called him early that morning and told him about the raid, John immediately contacted his attorney and the two headed down to FBI headquarters.