This Family of Mine: What It Was Like Growing Up Gotti (44 page)

I was an automaton the entire weekend. I welcomed the time away from deliberations, when anything could happen at any moment. But, at the same time, I just wanted all of it to be over. I needed to exhale. I needed to breathe again.

That Saturday afternoon, I received an unnerving call from Carnesi. He told me he’d just gotten a call from the judge’s clerk, Flo—she had called to tell Carnesi that the judge wanted both the prosecution and defense to put a feasible and agreeable bail package in place should another deadlock note come back. Even though John Gotti had been held for nearly two years without bail, it was unusual to continue to hold a defendant once a jury of his peers has tried him and no verdict was reached. This news from Carnesi should have made me happy, excited. Instead, I remained skeptical. I didn’t tell my mother, sister, or brother for fear of raising false hope.

Monday morning the jury resumed deliberations promptly at 10 a.m. Before noon, another note was sent out. It was a request for evidence—a lot of evidence. It seemed to me and to many that the judge’s tactics were working. I assumed there were some jurors now questioning their earlier decision.

But then, in another unexpected turn, on the tenth day of deliberations another note came from the jurors—DEADLOCKED! This time the judge read the Allen charge and the jurors returned with another note—they were still deadlocked. John was released less than an hour later.

After court let out, a bevy of reporters met with most of the jury members in a conference room. Not surprisingly, there were more jurors in John’s favor than not. Also not surprising was that none of the jurors (even one who believed John was guilty) had believed John Alite. The government’s star witness was an unbelievable dud. Even members of the prosecution team began to distance themselves from the case. And rightfully so, as it reeked of improper tactics and behavior. It seemed as if no one wanted to dirty their hands any further.

Christmas and New Year’s were quiet and uneventful. We spent both holidays at my house, as we always had in the past. But this year, having John back at the head of the table was as good as it gets for the Gotti family. Watching John gave me great pleasure. Seeing him laugh and play with the youngest members of the family was delightful. He walked around my house with a glass of red wine, speaking to nearly everyone. He devoted nearly half an hour to each person—trying to catch up on lots of lost time. On New Year’s Eve, John filled dozens of glass flutes with champagne and made a short toast before the ball dropped in Times Square. He let the roomful of people know he loved them and thanked them all for their support. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

Just two weeks after the trial ended, I became sick with a serious tooth infection. Because of my underlying heart condition, the doctors were nervous about the infection spreading to my heart. I was hospitalized at St. Francis Hospital Heart Center. I had a minor surgical procedure that turned major when complications arose. No one could know I would develop a major staph infection while in the hospital.

John was waiting outside the OR when I woke up and visited me every day in the hospital. When I was released just before Christmas, he called every morning to see if I needed anything and dropped by every afternoon.

Two weeks after New Year’s, I was still on strict bed rest. John came by one day to keep me company. I didn’t like the way he looked. Gone was the constant, easy smile I’d grown used to since he’d come home. In its place was a worried frown. I asked him over and over, “What’s wrong?” He only nodded and changed the subject. The next day I spoke to Charles Carnesi. He told me he had had a conversation with my brother just a few days before. He sounded nervous. Then he dropped a bombshell: he believed the government was looking to try John again. All along, even before the trial ended, Carnesi often remarked that he was nearly certain there would not be trial number two. He explained the reasons why. For one, the prosecutors didn’t want the case to begin with and were very surprised when the Florida judge shifted the trial from Tampa to New York. Also, the witnesses were career criminals and not particularly believable to members of the jury. And the fact that most of the evidence (flimsy to begin with) was based purely on hearsay didn’t help to build a strong case, either. But because weeks had passed and Carnesi had not heard from the prosecution office, he had to assume there would be a second trial. Much as he hated to burst everyone’s balloon, he needed to prepare John. My brother kept the information to himself. He didn’t want to upset anyone, most of all Mom.

John sat across from me in the living room of my Old Westbury home. I told him I had spoken to Carnesi and I knew about a probable second trial. I told him I would help him as much as I could. My offer of help did little to change his mood. He told me all about the havoc this last trial had brought him; the mental and emotional stress, not to mention the financial strains. My brother had definitely aged some ten years in the two years he’d spent in jail awaiting trial. Solitary confinement will do that to a man. His biggest concerns were his children and their welfare. He begged me once again to help his wife, should anything happen. I told him I would and let him know I would also help him financially as best I could. We both knew the money needed to try the case again would be exorbitant. Legal woes had nearly drained John over the years. Fighting the entire government, over and over, can drain even the wealthiest of men. In the past, I had helped John as best I could. I knew how much it drained me; I couldn’t imagine the impact it had on him and his family. But you do what you can for family, because the trade-off is disastrous.

After hours of brainstorming, John said good-bye. He told me not to worry about him or another trial. He thanked me for my offer to help him financially, but politely declined. He told me I’d done enough for him already and that I should worry about my own situation and the welfare of my kids.

Later that day I tossed and turned in bed. I walked the floors, unable to rest. Despite the fact that I was running a fever and was remarkably weak from the staph infection, I was extremely agitated and anxious. I couldn’t get John or the trial out of my mind. The phone rang and I let the machine answer. I was not in any mood for chitchat. At 5 p.m., the phone rang again—this time I noticed John’s cell number on the caller ID screen. I answered with a quiet whisper, “Hi.”

John didn’t say hello back. Instead, he shouted into the receiver, “Vic, it’s over! The government just announced they are not seeking a second trial!” For a moment I was silent. I didn’t know if I should yell or cry—so I did both. I screamed out to the kids and to no one in particular, “It’s over—it’s finally over!” Because John had visited with me earlier, I was the first person he’d called after learning the news. We said good-bye, as he had many calls to make, many people to tell. I climbed under the blankets and lay my head down on the pillow. My laptop was already booted up and resting beside me on the bed.

Within minutes, I received nearly seventy-five e-mails, mostly from friends and colleagues just learning of the good news. There were twenty-three e-mails from reporters, all congratulating John and wanting a comment or quote.

Some things never change . . .

(Clockwise) John, me, Mom, Frank, and Angel in the 1970s.

Mom and Dad with Baby Angel.

John and Frank.

“Mr. Muscle” John and me in the backyard, Canarsie, Brooklyn.

William “Willie Boy” Johnson, an unknown companion, and Uncle Genie outside the social club, Ozone Park, Queens.

Dad, Miami in the 1970s.