This Family of Mine: What It Was Like Growing Up Gotti (42 page)

No matter, I was destroyed inside, as were my children. They didn’t know what to believe: Was I well? Was I dying? On a less serious note, ratings for the show dropped drastically as a result of the negative publicity. The show was on a downward spiral, and was cancelled a short time later.

One of the last episodes was a Christmas show, which rehashed previous seasons with clips of memorable scenes of the boys and me. The holiday special ended with us sitting around the dining room table during one of our Sunday dinners: the boys, as well as my sister, Angel, and my brother Peter and me. We talked about growing up, about being poor and living in Brooklyn. We laughed. We cried. Mostly, we missed Frankie Boy. An empty chair at the far end of the table was a constant reminder of his absence. Above the empty chair was his likeness painted just months after his death—a constant reminder of how handsome and happy he was. A beautiful boy, a beautiful life cut short. The chair at the head of the table was also empty. It was Dad’s designated seat. He was always with us in thought, especially after his death. At the opposite end, across from Dad’s chair, was my brother John’s regular place. He was now the man of the family. All burdens and responsibilities fell on him. After he was indicted the second time, a jury failed to reach a verdict. A second trial also ended in a hung jury. Even a third trial could not produce a decision. Three different juries of men and women could not agree on a verdict. Finally, the government gave up. The lead prosecutor announced to a packed courtroom that they would not seek a fourth trial. I was so
relieved, I was emotional for nearly a week. But the trials were not without casualties.

A few weeks later Mom was raced to the hospital. She’d suffered a massive stroke and the doctors didn’t think she would survive. Watching her son stand trial three times had finally taken its toll on her. I was terrified. Losing one parent is hard—losing both is unimaginable. I camped out in the hospital for days and nights—and when I nearly passed out from exhaustion, my sister and brothers took turns staying with Mom. After two cerebral angiograms and a delicate and risky brain operation, she was released. The doctors deemed her recovery nothing short of a miracle.

Mom moved in with me again. She needed constant, round-the-clock care. Twice she needed to be rushed to the emergency room because her blood pressure had spiked really high. The second time, she suffered a grand mal seizure.

Lewis Kasman came to visit Mom. He showed up at my house unexpectedly one evening. Mom could barely sit up. She was taking high doses of pain medications and tranquilizers to keep her comfortable. Kasman carried on a lengthy conversation with her anyway. I didn’t hear much, as I was mostly in the next room preparing dinner. Ever since I’d heard the rumors that Kasman was a rat, I tried to keep my distance. I wouldn’t leave him alone with Mom, either—so I remained within earshot. I do remember hearing Kasman mention money a few times. I wondered what relevance it had at the time. I remember there was something strange in Lewis’s demeanor. He seemed anxious and nervous and he kept going to the bathroom.

A few months later, newspaper reports began to surface again about yet another possible indictment against my brother John. It was more than Mom could take. Her condition remained critical and heavily guarded. I was worried about her, and I was anxious over John. Just after my brother was indicted for the third time, it
was revealed that Kasman was in fact an informer. This time there was proof, and the daily newspapers had a field day. It also came out that Kasman wore a wire while he visited Mom at my house that day—and the reason he kept going to the bathroom was to turn the recorder on and off. He also wore a wire to a relative’s wake and taped a conversation with me. He cornered me in the parking lot. He spoke fast, shooting off topic after topic, and everything seemed to revert to money—money Dad had left in his care that was no longer there. Lewis blamed John for the deficit. He’d told each family member, including me, that John had pilfered any money Dad had left for us. He was very convincing—especially when he repeated remarks that he’d claimed came from Dad. Kasman said Dad had written these things in letters addressed to him—letters no one ever saw. Kasman tried to turn each of us on the other with his tall tales. And he was quite convincing. For a short time, I actually did believe that John had cheated us all out of any savings left to us by Dad. But once all the facts came out, especially that Lewis was a rat, we all knew that he was a liar as well. It was clear then that John did not take the money. Kasman did. Kasman also bragged to people that he paid for Dad’s funeral. He sure did—with the money Dad left in his care.

I believe Lewis really did love and idolize my father. But I have come to believe that Kasman loved money more. He found the temptation too hard to resist. Many people speculate that Kasman spent a large portion of Dad’s money—enough to keep his family in a more than comfortable lifestyle for many years. He owned a mansion in Woodbury, Long Island, and many expensive cars. He often took exotic vacations and invested in various restaurants and business ventures. He, like many others before him, got in way too deep. Kasman’s only way out was to flip—to betray his self-proclaimed “adopted father” and every time Kasman screamed for justice for John Gotti, he was shoving the knife even deeper in
Dad’s back. In the end, it was all about fear. Kasman claimed to law enforcement that the Gottis were greedy and cared only about the money left behind. I believe Kasman was afraid of facing the music about the missing money. He was also afraid of going to jail. He wasn’t strong enough to survive on the inside. Actions speak louder than words. In the press, it was revealed that Kasman even robbed the Feds. He was involved in an attempted sting with a known mobster down in Florida. When the mobster angrily asked where his eighty grand went, Kasman shut off the recorder. But the Feds already had him, and in the end, Kasman admitted he took the money from the mobster and hid it from the Feds.

Soon, news of another rat surfaced as well—John Alite, another former friend of my brother’s. Apparently the FBI went from prison to prison trying to convince any inmate to testify against my brother John in exchange for a lesser sentence. Alite was one of those inmates. He had been arrested in Brazil on drug charges. Most law enforcement sources said Alite was facing life in prison—some even said the death penalty. At first Alite couldn’t offer the Feds any help. He explained he hadn’t seen John in many years. But of course it was in his best interest if he could. When it came time to face the seriousness of the crimes he’d committed, Alite had a change of heart—or a change in memory. My brother is facing life for crimes Alite committed—and Alite, having already admitted to dealing drugs and committing many murders, is hoping for a deal even sweeter than Sam Gravano’s. Those are his own words—that’s what Alite said at another recent trial. In the end, Alite handed the Feds a story—he claimed my brother John was partners with him, and they bought it hook, line, and sinker. No tapes, documents, or secret recordings—just the word of another lying coward. John was charged with the same drug charges as Alite. During his testimony at the same trial, one of Alite’s allegations was that he had an affair with me soon after I married Carmine. Alite claimed that this
affair caused him and my brother to end their friendship. I was sick with anger and frustration. The newspapers had a ball once again. I thought mostly of my kids, now three young men, faced with whispers and lies about their mother. I denied the allegations. I even went as far as taking a lie detector test. The man who performed the test was an expert who worked for the Queens DA at one time. I knew that whoever I went to would be scrutinized beyond belief, so his credentials needed to be solid. I passed with flying colors. Alite is a despicable coward who would stoop to any level to save his own ass, like Kasman and Sammy before him.

Another witness is Kevin McMahon, a familiar name from the past. He was the boy who lent my brother Frankie the minibike. Although he vehemently denies this, I remember it well. Interestingly, these three witnesses have three totally different accounts of people, places, events, and dates.

My brother John was charged with a bevy of criminal activity from drugs to murder. Any crime committed by any member of the Gambino Crime Family was attached to him. The feds claimed John was/is still in a supervisory position and therefore these acts were committed with his blessing. The indictment also includes what’s called the withdrawal clause. Once again a jury will have to decide whether he is guilty or innocent of each charge—and then decide if John did or did not leave the mob within the time period under the statue of limitations. I can tell you he did. In fact, I would stake my life on it.

At a recent Sunday dinner, the Gotti clan gathered again. The dinners were becoming few and far between. Dad had been right. The family was beginning to splinter, but only physically. Emotionally we are all still very much together. The topic of conversation that day was mostly the effects of a recent newspaper article. It stated that after a nearly six-year court battle, my house was being foreclosed on—the same house Dad loved and always praised. I say
it’s only a house. It’s a home that matters most. Still, I told the Gotti clan that day, “This too shall pass.”

A few weeks after the foreclosure article surfaced, I received word from my attorney that we had reached a settlement with the government and my ex-husband. A ten-year court battle was now over. Marital assets, including the home I had worked so hard for and had set aside for my children, would be spared. Still, I intend to sell the house, and start fresh.

What will become of the Gottis? I only pray for peace, mostly for my mother’s sake. While we lie in wait for the outcome of John’s trial, we pray that this next jury is able to put aside any bias and judge him with their hearts and heads fairly.

As for my father, there are those who stop me and remind me of the love they have for him, while others only stare and whisper of their contempt. Love or hate? Robin Hood or common thug? Some nights I go to bed so angry at him I could cry, while other nights leave me crying for just one more day with him.

One thing was for sure: John Gotti was a mystery wrapped up in an enigma the world wanted to know more about. If I could have one last conversation with him, I know exactly what I would ask: Was it all worth it? The destruction? The aftermath? The end result: the fact that he’d died like a dog, alone in his cell. All of this because he refused to let anyone break him—or strip him of his dignity. This brotherhood called the life had ravaged his body and mind even far worse than the cancer had. Knowing him as well as I did, his answer would most likely be: “My body is in prison—but my spirit will always be free.”

Too bad I can’t wrap my arms around his spirit.

September 14, 2009

T
he prosecution questioned witnesses for days, and my brother’s life was laid out in horrific detail. Scene after scene had John Gotti Jr. portrayed like a common street thug—exactly what the government had hoped would happen.

The first offensive tactic was to ignite a smear campaign against the defendant. There was a childhood fight in a bar between two men (neither of them my brother). A witness for the prosecution took the stand and told the packed courtroom what he remembered about that night. He told only half the story—there was a fight between many men. He couldn’t see who hit whom. All he remembered was John Gotti Jr. exiting the bar and then coming back to do a Porky Pig imitation before fleeing in a car. The witness claimed he was merely an innocent spectator with a vague recollection of the most pertinent facts. Under cross-examination, it was apparent the witness had left out much of what he
really
remembered about that night, and the truth began to trickle out.

It was revealed that the bar fight actually started over a girl (as always). The girl in question was the witness’s wife. It was also revealed the witness had an argument with John Gotti Jr.’s best friend, Anthony Amoroso, because he was dating his wife. Amoroso and the scorned husband had words that night in the bar. And words led to a shove here and there.

Amoroso was no fool. He knew he was far away from his home turf and was clearly outnumbered. He left the bar and made a phone call. Within minutes, a group of his childhood friends arrived—one of them was John Angelo Gotti.

Inside the bar, both sides traded offensive remarks. It’s not clear who threw the first punch, but within seconds a melee ensued and bodies were thrown all about the seedy Ozone Park bar. There were multiple one-on-one fights. Most of the teenagers managed to walk away with no more than a few cuts and scrapes. All except one—Danny Silva, who was fatally stabbed.

According to two witnesses during the trial, John Gotti had been involved in fisticuffs with a man called “Elf,” yet the prosecution was determined to convince the jury that John might have been the one who killed Silva. He was not. Early police reports stated a man named “Fat Mark” was positively identified by three women in the bar that night as being the man who fought one-on-one with Silva—the women gave statements that Fat Mark was in fact the man who stabbed Danny Silva. Predictably, a few days after the statements were made, all three of the women suffered from a case of amnesia—and Fat Mark was no longer questioned. It remained a “cold case” until John Gotti’s trial some twenty years later. But, ironically, John Gotti was not charged with Silva’s murder. There wasn’t enough evidence. Members of the jury were confused—and asked why, then, were they being told about this murder, all these years later?

The judge declined comment and instructed the jury to remain open-minded until the trial was over and deliberations began. And so the smear campaign continued with the next witness.

John Alite entered the federal courtroom on Worth Street in lower Manhattan. His appearance was subdued—dressed in gray sweats and a white turtleneck to conceal a tattoo on his neck. The ink, now somewhat faded, was a row of stars—a recognizable symbol of gang affiliation. Alite had testified the previous year at another mob trial against Charles Carneglia. Alite made quite a spectacle of himself then—he was cocky, brash, and way too confident for the likes of the reporters sitting in the courtroom. News stories surfaced about the trial, and about Alite. He was painted in a very dark light. He cursed during his testimony, even admitted he was a pathological liar. It was during
that
trial that he lied about having an affair with me. Alite claimed this happened while I was married. None of this was true, of course, and the government had egg on their faces when I took a polygraph test with a well-known former employee of the Queens DA’s office.