This Family of Mine: What It Was Like Growing Up Gotti (43 page)

Now during my brother’s trial, Alite’s demeanor was most startling; he was quiet, unassuming, and quite apologetic. He was unnervingly polite, too, greeting the jury with remarks like “good morning” and “excuse me” and “thank you.” Later, under cross-examination, it was revealed that the FBI had groomed Alite for the trial. Thousands of hours, rehearsing dozens of scenarios and the manner in which he was to present them to the jury. He spoke directly to the jurors, making eye contact with each one. All of the coaching, polishing, and rehearsing for his big performance made Alite almost believable, but those who knew him
when
knew better.

With the prosecution having launched a successful plan of attack, Alite found it simple to continue the charade. He spoke clearly and precisely, telling the jurors about his sordid, criminal past. He listed a shocking résumé involving burglaries, drug dealing, even murders he had committed. And all of his crimes were blamed on John Gotti.

Alite claimed he and John had been friends for a few years. He tried to convince the jury that he was super-close to my family. He spoke of different holidays and weddings, and even mentioned he had taken me to a bridal gown fitting. He was right about this—John was supposed to drive me, but couldn’t, so he asked Alite to do him the favor. I went with my then best friend, Diane, and I hardly spoke a word to Alite that day. But Alite was trying to convince the jury that he was like one of the family—he was not.

Not surprisingly, Alite backpedaled when it came to the alleged affair between him and me. All he said was that we had developed “special feelings” for each other over the years, one of the many lies he told while under oath. One criminal act in particular involved Alite burning down a private gym on John’s orders, claiming John had a “beef” with the gym owner, Keith Pellegrino. My brother sat silent and still as he watched Alite weave his tale, too slient and still for my liking.

Upon cross-examination, Charles Carnesi questioned Alite. He asked him about the gym—about
his
relationship with Pellegrino. It was revealed that John Gotti and Pellegrino did not know each other, but Alite and Pellegrino did. Carnesi produced a copy of an old letter addressed to John. The letter was written in Alite’s own hand. It was a sappy apology attempt after John had chased him, some twenty-three years ago. In the letter, Alite begs John “not to listen” to his other friends, who are “jealous.” The letter was clear—Alite had burned down the gym for his own gain. As a result, John Gotti was pissed beyond belief. So pissed, he chased Alite away for good. It was the last time the two would be friends.

When Carnesi presented the actual letter for Alite to read, the color drained from his face. He was no longer relaxed and confident. He grew fidgety and nervous—stuttering for words. When Carnesi asked him if he remembered writing the letter, Alite said, “No.” Then he changed his mind and replied, “Yes . . . uhh, yes, now I remember.” Alite tried to regroup, saying something silly like, “I wrote it [the letter] in code.” Even the prosecution found this hard to swallow. One prosecutor shook his head and sank lower in his chair. You could hear a pin drop when Carnesi read the ending of the letter: “I only hope you read this, John, before throwing it in the garbage.”

No one, not the prosecution, not even Carnesi, knew about the letter in advance. John had saved it for nearly thirty years. Reporters called him a “pack rat.” I called him brilliant.

C
ARNESI CHECKED IN
with his service the minute court broke for lunch. His secretary had some bad news—an important witness for the defense, Carol Alite, had changed her mind about testifying. Carol was Alite’s first wife. Just as he was a shit in the streets, he was a shit for a husband. He constantly cheated and had children out of wedlock with other women. Carol knew about his dalliances and about the growing number of love children he produced as well. Alite was abusive, both verbally and physically, and Carol had told Carnesi she was prepared to tell the world. The most important fact Carol was going to inform the courtroom of was how John Alite had called her and confided in her numerous times about how he was using the government’s vendetta against John Gotti Jr. to gain his freedom. There were in fact three witnesses set to testify about the very same thing. Alite told a few select people (his ex-wife, a close friend, and a cell mate from Tampa County jail) about his plan to say anything he could to get out of jail—even if it meant baselessly accusing John Gotti Jr. But Carol got cold feet. Although Alite was in jail and presumably under the FBI’s close supervision, he somehow still had access to a cell phone. Alite called his ex-wife repeatedly, Carol told me, and threatened her and told her if she even thought about testifying, he would be out in less than a year and he would kill her. Carol’s fear only heightened when she noticed two men lurking around her New Jersey home. Her fiancé had an uncle in the FBI who did a check on the two men. They were FBI agents. Carol believed her ex-husband would have no trouble getting to her with help from the FBI.

Before the trial, Carol had managed to put Alite far behind her. She landed a job as a loan adviser in a mortgage company and began dating the owner of the company. Soon the two were engaged. She didn’t care about Alite, but she was still terribly afraid of him. She was sure he would make good on his promise to hurt her.

While I understood Carol’s concerns, this was a terrible blow to my brother’s case. To fight the entire government, with unlimited resources on their side, a tough battle plan would be needed. So I called Carol at home and arranged a meeting. On a Sunday night, I drove nearly three hours to south Jersey. We met at a restaurant just off the turnpike. Carol was with her fiancé. He was a handsome and well-mannered man who seemingly adored her. We spoke for a few minutes about the usual topics two people discuss when they haven’t seen each other in years—the kids, our careers, and our hopeful futures. I was so tired, I cut to the chase within a few minutes. I told Carol her testimony was imperative. I also explained that without it, Alite might very well get out of jail after only one year and for sure he might try and harm her. I believed she had a better chance fighting him than not. Perhaps, if he wasn’t successful in convicting John Gotti, the government might not be so generous when it came to setting him free. Her fiancé agreed. He told her Alite would always be a thorn in their sides. He told her she needed to do this for herself. I realized her fiancé also wanted Carol to testify as a means of proving to him that she was in fact really over John Alite. In the end, Carol gave in. She agreed to appear early the next morning. I nearly floated home.

I called Carnesi at 1 a.m.—he was sound asleep, but welcomed the news. I told him the only problem was Carol would be a bit late for court, given the ride was more than three hours. He said he would do all he could to stall the judge.

The next morning, Carnesi addressed the court and explained to Judge Castel that one of his lead witnesses would be late. Carnesi expected the judge to call a recess, to give him time to call an important witness. But instead, Castel said something like, “Counselor, if your witness is here before the train leaves the station, so be it. And if she’s not, closing arguments will begin.” I was stunned beyond words. The only person more angry than me was Carol Alite after she arrived and was told she could not testify. Sadly, she’d stayed up the entire night, gathering more evidence and paperwork to further expose John Alite as the manipulative criminal he was.

Also not on the witness list was Louis Kasman. The FBI had gone to great lengths to use Kasman against John, even putting a wire on him and sending Louis to speak to certain people. I was one of them. When Carnesi discovered Kasman would not be called as a witness, it came as no surprise to any of us. There had been strong rumors about Kasman being caught in numerous lies by the government and the FBI. “Too many inconsistencies,” said one government source. “The prosecution was afraid to use him.” It was also revealed that Kasman had stolen large sums of money from the FBI.

But the biggest blunder during the trial came from a former prosecutor, Joon Kim, called by Carnesi as a witness. Kim had worked on a mob case just a few years earlier involving Sonny Franzese, a Long Island mobster. Franzese was picked up on wiretaps telling an informer that he’d heard about John leaving the mob, and suggested he be killed for quitting. At the time, Kim called Carnesi and told him about the threat. Kim also told Carnesi it was a legal requirement to report any threats overheard by the government. That was just three years ago. But during John’s trial, under oath, Kim inexplicably forgot these events. He remembered making the call to Carnesi, but couldn’t remember why. He claimed he didn’t even recognize the name Sonny Franzese. Even Judge Castel seemed surprised by Kim’s testimony and ruled Carnesi could enter a transcript of the wiretapped conversation between Franzese and an unidentified informer, into evidence.

I
BELIEVE THESE FACTORS
helped to create a mountain of reasonable doubt, but I also think it was the letter that had the most impact. The jury deliberated nearly a week, with no requests for any readbacks or evidence. Whatever was going on behind closed doors seemed nearly unanimous—one way or the other. On day six of deliberations, a note was sent up to the judge. The jury was deadlocked. Carnesi expected that the judge would read the Allen charge, and then order the jury to continue deliberations in hopes of reaching a verdict. But Judge Castel shocked the packed courtroom by refusing to give the Allen charge and sent the jurors back to deliberate.

Downstairs, in the courthouse cafeteria, I sat worried and anxious, not knowing what to expect. Reporters approached the table and one after the other asked what I thought about the judge’s ruling. I didn’t know what to think—I couldn’t think—but to me it was obvious that the judge was biased against my brother and hoped for a conviction. I based my opinion not only on his refusing to accept the deadlock, but because it seemed to me that all through the trial, Judge Castel time and again ruled for the prosecution and against my brother. One decision was to throw out valuable evidence that would surely help to clear my brother—especially about whether or not he
really
left the mob. There was a CD of a visit between my father and John. On the visit, Dad and John are overheard discussing John’s decision to accept a plea (for an earlier case) and his decision to leave the life. Castel ruled only to allow a sentence here and a sentence there. Once or twice he would throw the defense a bone, I felt, just to shut sympathetic reporters up—but to me his opinion was obvious: he believed John Gotti Jr. was guilty.

Carnesi tried to calm me. He was slightly discouraged by the judge’s actions, but not totally beaten. He believed the jury would deliberate for another hour or two and come back with another deadlock. This time the judge would have no choice but to read the Allen charge. It was after 3 p.m., less than two hours left before court was over for the day. Carnesi believed the trial would be over before the day ended.

Carnesi’s cell rang and the judge’s clerk announced there was another note from the jury. Carnesi was sure it was the last deadlock note. If so, Castel would give the Allen charge and perhaps John would be home before nightfall. I walked into the courtroom calm and quiet. Inside I was dancing, hoping. I just wanted it to be over. I wanted to call my mother and tell her John was coming home. I wanted peace, finally.

But Judge Castel had a different plan. He refused to address the jury’s note. He said he would read it—but not address it until Monday. Everyone in the courtroom seemed confused. It was Thursday, and because Friday was a predetermined day off from deliberations, it would be a three-day weekend before deliberations would resume. Then Castel did the unthinkable. He announced he was giving the jury the rest of the day off—for no apparent reason other than saying, “Because I decided to,” when Carnesi asked, “Why?”

Castel also read the note, in which members of the jury asked one question: If we don’t believe the defendant is guilty of charge “B,” do we even need to deliberate charge “C”? Although the turn of events had not been good, the note was an indication that the jury was leaning toward a “not guilty” verdict. The second charge was drug dealing. The third was murders connected to drug dealing.

Once again, the reporters were in an uproar. I couldn’t even speak around the lump that had formed in my throat. I could barely move. I managed to gather up my siblings and leave the courthouse amid the flurry of flashbulbs and curious onlookers. Outside it was raining and the sky was unusually dark for 4 p.m. I had a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. I realized then that getting past the decision of an entire jury wasn’t the issue; it was whether or not the judge would allow the jury to vote fairly—and the thought terrified me. I am not the type of person to believe in conspiracy theories and such, but at that moment I believed the government was capable of doing anything to get a guilty verdict. I returned home and locked myself in my room and cried the entire weekend.

John called me constantly over the next few days. He was anxious, nervous. He wondered about his fate. He was mostly fatalistic about the verdict. I tried to keep him upbeat and positive, even though I wasn’t. But he wasn’t buying what I was selling. He said crazy things like, “Just promise me you’ll help my wife with the kids if things go badly.” We talked about different scenarios that might happen. He feared the government would go on a smear campaign again over the weekend, leaking this and that, as they had a million times in the past. The onslaught of mud slinging had a great impact on John. He said to me, “The way the press has portrayed me, with the help of unknown government leaks, is horrible. I don’t even like myself—and I
know
it’s not true!” He also feared the FBI might approach one of the jurors. Anything and everything went through his head. News programs ran story after story about the trial—different networks ran polls. Most were in favor of John. People on the street were taking bets. It was all anyone could talk about: “Will John Gotti Jr. be sentenced to life, or not?”