Deeper into his monologue, Gotti became, for him, unusually introspective and self-deprecating. At times, he seemed genuinely melancholy. He had genuinely serious problems, but also sounded like a man gradually coming under the liberating influence of a c.o.c.ktail-in the background, agents did hear the sound of ice falling into a gla.s.s.

For instance, one reason Sammy now had such an active role in the Family, Gotti said, was that he filled a vacuum created by the boss's lesser experience in certain areas.

"I don't know nothin' about building. I don't know anything ... best I ever did was go on a few hijackings."

Gotti also said he found his newfound wealth remarkable, given that he started with nothing. "A f.u.c.kin' jerk like me. Never had nothing in my life."

Still, wealth had not made him greedy: "That's not John Gotti. At least I hope that's not me. Maybe I see myself in a light that I'm not in, I don't know. But that's what I feel I am."

At the end of a pa.s.sage in which he referred to many capos and various grubby issues in the crews, he said about his problems: "[They] break my f.u.c.kin' heart. Who the f.u.c.k wants to be here? We got nothin' but troubles. I got cases coming up. I got nothing but f.u.c.kin' trouble. I don't feel good."

Someone turned on Nettie's radio when they entered, but not so loudly that words spoken directly beneath the bug in the ceiling were lost. But the music coming from it, mainly Italian love songs, contributed to the melancholy aura.

"I'm sick, Frankie, and I ain't got no right to be sick. I'm not goin' partying. I'm not going to race[tracks], [or] popping girls. I'm not doing nothin' f.u.c.kin' selfish here."

No, of course not, LoCascio would interject, when it seemed appropriate and when Gotti's mood resulted in paranoid thoughts about the capos' loyalty.

"What the f.u.c.k, am I nuts here? If I go to jail, they'd be happy. '... We finally got rid of 'im.' Hah! I'm getting myself sick, Frank, sick."

"You gotta get it out," LoCascio soothed.

"I don't wanna get myself sick."

"You can't hold it in."

"But one thing I ain't gonna be is two-faced. I'm gonna call 'em like I see 'em. That I gotta do 'til the day I die."

LoCascio's support frequently moved Gotti out of self-deprecation and into more familiar self-justifying terrain, and so Gotti again reminded LoCascio of how wealthy he could be, if only he wanted, and what a trusting boss he was because he did not make his men prove with "paper" what they made and, therefore, reveal the level of their tributes. Its legal peril was the reason for Gotti's hatred of paper, a reason a careful old loan shark like LoCascio plainly knew, even as he indulged it.

"I would be a billionaire if I was looking to be a selfish boss," Gotti said. "That's not me. You know I'm taking care of the people. We don't need none of these papers. We're too close for that s.h.i.t. Ya see, I got that kind of f.u.c.kin' trust in Cosa Nostra. Cosa Nostra. We're where we belong. We're in the positions we belong in, Frankie, and n.o.body could change that." We're where we belong. We're in the positions we belong in, Frankie, and n.o.body could change that."

From a law-enforcement view, Gotti's mention, in a single taped statement, of "boss" and "Cosa Nostra," was a prosecutorial home run. Still, it got better. Winding down, he gave his opponents a few comparatively easy grounders. The man reporters loved to call the biggest gangster since Al Capone-who went to jail, and died there, only because of tax charges-began talking about what he did to keep the IRS at bay, which included recently taking a fake vice president's job in the Garment Center.

"I just got on the f.u.c.kin' payroll. I'm trying to keep my a.s.s out of f.u.c.kin' jail, no other f.u.c.kin' reason," he said.

Between the Garment Center fakery and his long-time ghost job with a childhood friend's plumbing company, Gotti said he was "showing" for "tax purposes" about $85,000 in annual income.

"Eighty-five thousand, it's good for me, Frank."

"You don't want to spend more than that."

"My wife gets like $33,000. So, now it reads another 33 on top of it."

The December 12 tape contained ample evidence to arrest Gotti. But his pursuers bided time. Gotti was relaxed in Nettie's. He might go again and say more.

Besides, the tape needed a.n.a.lyzing; obscure remarks needed deconstructing; the problems Gotti cited with capos and crews needed checking with informants; the tax trail needed following; much work was ahead, and Gotti wasn't going anywhere. For him, the immediate threat was the O'Connor case, due to go to trial January 8, 1990.

Still, he had other business to attend to, and four days before the trial, he made another visit to Nettie's and gave the world, for the first time ever, an eavesdropper's perch as a Cosa Nostra Cosa Nostra Family discussed one of its sustaining rituals-the making of new members. Family discussed one of its sustaining rituals-the making of new members.

Gotti began by announcing he wanted to circulate the names of potential new soldiers to the other Families-and, observing tradition, allow them to raise objections.

"I wanna throw a few names out, five or six," he said to Sammy and LoCascio, adding this qualifying condition: "I want guys that done more than killing."

It became clear the trio had discussed the topic recently, and seriously, because Sammy produced a list of names and began calling out the nominee's first name and sometimes which capo they were "with."

"The kid Richie."

"Right," Gotti replied.

"Tommy. With Frankie."

"Right."

"Tony from New Jersey."

"Right. Fat Tony."

"Johnny Rizzo. With Good-looking Jack."

"Yeah."

"Fat Dom. With Jackie Nose."

"Yeah."

"And Mario, with, ah, Louie Ricco."

Because the video plant had been operating more than two years now, and agents had identified almost every habitue of the Ravenite, the first names of these men about to join the so-called secret society were enough to identify them, especially so when Sammy added their affiliation.

For another half-hour, the Gambino hierarchy discussed the nominees' merits, and the handicaps preventing others from making the list-which, in the case of a "Poncho," was age.

"I like the Richies, the Tommies," Gotti said, "they're young, 20-30 something, [but] these guys like Poncho. [He's] 61, 62! Where the f.u.c.k are we going?"

The list contained more men than Gotti wanted to make-some he did not know well, and thus did not trust-and so the "f.u.c.kin' hearts" of some "good guys" would be broken.

"This is not the time to make 20 guys," he said, adding that so far as he knew some nominees had never even been "used" in a murder, and capos ought never nominate a man who had not, as the expression went, "made his bones."

Near the discussion's end, Gotti told Sammy to show the list to bosses in the other Families and to explain it was "something that's been on the shelf" in the Gambino Family lately "only because we're caught up pretty good" with other problems.

"Tell them they can go to the bank on these people," he added.

Aside from their evidence value, Gotti's words showed that, for all his faults and defiance of supposed Cosa Nostra Cosa Nostra rules, he adhered to tradition frequently enough that, in his mind, he could present himself as an old-guard, Neil-variety rules, he adhered to tradition frequently enough that, in his mind, he could present himself as an old-guard, Neil-variety Cosa Nostra Cosa Nostra boss. boss.

His pursuers were almost as happy about the January 4 tape as the December 12. No Cosa Nostra Cosa Nostra boss had ever been captured talking so openly. But there was Gotti, his unmistakable voice unmistakably on tape, talking himself into a grave. boss had ever been captured talking so openly. But there was Gotti, his unmistakable voice unmistakably on tape, talking himself into a grave.

The tape contained one more highlight. After LoCascio left, Gotti told Sammy he planned to announce how the Family would be run if he lost the O'Connor case and was jailed again without bail pending sentencing.

"I'm gonna tell them, 'I'm the [boss] 'til I say different,'" Gotti said, "[but], soon as anything happens to me, I'm off the streets, Sammy is the acting boss.'"

Gotti said he would give Sammy any t.i.tle he wanted, but whatever, it would mean "acting boss."

"So, I'm asking you, how do you feel? You wanna stay as consigliere? consigliere? Or you want me to make you official underboss? Or acting boss? How do you feel? What makes you feel better? Think about it." Or you want me to make you official underboss? Or acting boss? How do you feel? What makes you feel better? Think about it."

Sammy said he would, but did not think a t.i.tle "made any difference."

Gotti said it did, because if Sammy remained consigliere, consigliere, LoCascio, as acting underboss, would technically outrank him. "I love Frankie, but I don't wanna [leave him in charge]," Gotti added. "There's nothing I wouldn't do for the guy. But I don't want [that]." LoCascio, as acting underboss, would technically outrank him. "I love Frankie, but I don't wanna [leave him in charge]," Gotti added. "There's nothing I wouldn't do for the guy. But I don't want [that]."

In the face of Sammy's seeming indifference about a t.i.tle, Gotti decided to pick one for him that would require some maneuvering. He said he would send a message to the imprisoned Joseph Armone and tell him that, nothing personal, but because he was never going to leave prison, he would have to resign as underboss.

Gotti would then make Armone consigliere consigliere and LoCascio acting and LoCascio acting consigliere. consigliere. These moves cleared the way for Sammy becoming underboss, he explained. These moves cleared the way for Sammy becoming underboss, he explained.

Finally, Sammy spoke. "It would be my pleasure," he said.

34.

INVINCIBILITY LEGEND.

THE O'CONNOR CASE JUDGE told a big fib on the trial's first day. He told prospective jurors that because he feared media hounding, they would have to stay in a hotel if they were selected. In truth, he was sequestering them for the trial's duration because prosecutor Michael Cherkasky, fearing Gotti would hound jurors, had filed motions citing the Gambino Family's "notorious record" in that regard.

The judge had no choice. He could not give the real reason without poisoning jurors against Gotti and risking reversal by an appeals court in the event of conviction. It was the first time in history that a state court jury in Manhattan would be sequestered, and to protect jurors further, the judge would give the defense only their last names-making it hard, but hardly impossible, for someone to learn where they and their loved ones lived.

It took several days to pick a jury, and during that time Gotti made another visit to Nettie's that proved the wisdom of trying to safeguard a Gotti jury. On January 17, after receiving updates on the legal troubles of others that appeared to come from a crooked cop, Gotti turned to his own in a meeting with Sammy.

He told Sammy that jury selection in the O'Connor trial was almost complete, and that the last name of one chosen juror was "Hoyle" or "Boyle" and "Irish, I guess." His next remark seemed to imply that because "Hoyle" or "Boyle" was a utility-company lineman, someone in the Irish-dominated Westies gang, which had good contacts in the utility unions, might know him.

"Maybe we can't reach him," Gotti said, "[but] we'll send word out to anybody who knows him."

Gotti's remarks gave the Maloney-Mouw team a dilemma: Was a plot to tamper with the jury afoot, or was it wishful thinking? If a plot, should they tell Manhattan District Attorney Robert Morgenthau and prosecutor Cherkasky? If they did, and Cherkasky asked the trial judge to question the Irish juror, would Gotti get suspicious and stop using the apartment, hurting the increasingly promising case?

Maloney met with John Gleeson, who had learned about the Ravenite bugs a month earlier. Gleeson had suspected something big was up. A day after his win over Cutler in the Coiro trial, Gleeson received an unusual request from the FBI: Would he forget about filing a motion asking the judge in Coiro's case to bar Coiro from the Ravenite?

Now Gleeson argued that even if Gotti's words in Nettie's suggested a plot, they were vague and half-hearted-not serious enough to warrant the potential harm to the Eastern District of disclosing them to the Manhattan District Attorney.

He noted that elsewhere on the same tape, a Gambino soldier gave Gotti secrets apparently provided by a crooked cop-and many cops work for the Manhattan D.A. "Maybe [Gotti's source] is in the Manhattan D.A.'s office, who knows?" Gleeson said. "Unless more turns up, I wouldn't tell anybody. Why, for this, risk our bugs?"

Maloney accepted Gleeson's advice, setting the table for very sour grapes some day. The District Attorney's office stayed in the dark about Gotti's whispers-as much as the Eastern District stayed in the dark about the crooked cop's ident.i.ty. Only later was Detective William Peist flushed out. He believed the NYPD cheated him out of a full disability pension, and so while in the intelligence division, he took to giving secrets away. In January of 1990, he got a new, temporary, and completely coincidental job: guarding sequestered jurors in the O'Connor case. There's no evidence he tried to influence the third group of New Yorkers who began sitting in judgment of Gotti on January 20.

En route from Queens that morning, Gotti had driven past a large banner that Lewis Kasman had hung from a highway overpa.s.s: "Good Luck, John; Love, People of Ozone Park."

In his opening statement, Cherkasky laid out the simple case facts: O'Connor ordered the trashing of a Gambino-backed restaurant built with non-union labor. Gotti ordered the trashing of O'Connor. Cherkasky ended by pointing a finger toward Gotti: "Like all bullies, he could not allow a challenge to go unpunished."

When it came his turn, Cutler did not disappoint those who recalled how he once slam-dunked Giacalone's indictment into a waste can. Ridiculing Cherkasky's remark that the case was brought in the name of the "people" of New York, Cutler stooped beside the prosecution table like he was peeking up a skirt and screamed: "Where are the 'people?' I don't see any 'people.'"

The trial lasted only three weeks. At the defense table, Gotti exuded his usual public calm in the face of trouble. But then, on January 24, Cherkasky began unreeling the Bergin tapes. Gotti had read transcripts, but this was the first he'd heard them in a courtroom. The experience was upsetting.

After the trial that day, he went to Nettie's and unburdened himself to Sammy and LoCascio. He said the only thing that made him feel better was knowing that most of the Bergin tapes were recorded before he succeeded Paul. The crudity on one particular tape-in which he threatened to shove someone's head "up his mother's c.u.n.t"-seemed beneath a boss: "Only thing I can comfort myself with [is] ... thank G.o.d, this was 1985. If this tape [was] 1988, '89, I would've thrown myself off a f.u.c.kin' bridge for embarra.s.sment."

Departing from his usual stroking, LoCascio said he could see why Gotti was upset because he was the one always lecturing about talking in enclosed places: "You've been preaching, preaching, and you're doing the same thing that you're preaching."

Sammy remained silent, but Gotti-to the incredulous delight of audio agents-began sermonizing about the need to watch what is said, and where, in "La Cosa Nostra."

"From now on, I'm telling you that if a guy just so mentions 'La,' I'm gonna strangle the c.o.c.ksucker. You know what I mean? He don't have to say 'Cosa Nostra,' just 'La,' and he goes. I heard nine months of tapes of my life. I was actually sick, and I don't wanna get sick. Not sick for me, sick for 'this thing of ours,' sick for how naive we were five years ago. I'm sick that we were so f.u.c.king naive. Me, number one!"

He recalled the special irony of one tape, in which he was overheard admonishing Angelo Ruggiero for indiscreet talking in enclosed settings. "'Hey, you gotta do me a favor,' I tell him. 'Don't make n.o.body talk. This is how we get in trouble, we talk.'"

On this doubly ironic note, Gotti's visits to Nettie's ended. He never returned after January 24. The reason emerged later, and it demonstrated how law enforcement agencies conducting separate investigations of the same man at the same time are bound to stumble into each other's path.

One week before, during a Manhattan federal grand jury session probing Sparks, a prosecutor asked a Gambino capo if he ever met Gotti in "an apartment somewhere." The question showed that the Manhattan team had informers, too-and it strongly suggested to Gotti, when the capo belatedly told him about it, that he ought to avoid Nettie's.

His manner at the defense table in the O'Connor trial did not betray the alarm he must have felt. He exuded confidence until the end, when his lawyers called John O'Connor, a Jerry Vale lookalike, to the stand. O'Connor said he had no idea who shot him, or who ordered it. He wasn't much of a victim-he was facing criminal charges of his own-and he pleaded the Fifth Amendment several times.

In his final argument, Cutler hollered about what a "snake," "rat," "psychopathic killer," "lying b.u.m," and general all-around "swill" James McElroy, the government's key witness, was-and then, on February 5, 1990, jurors got the case.

"The people like me," Gotti replied, when a reporter asked how he a.s.sessed his chances.

On their first vote, six jurors liked Gotti, one did not and five were unsure. On the second day, the five unsures made up their minds and voted to convict, deadlocking the jury at six-six. On the next day, the same five changed their minds again and voted to acquit, after listening to a key tape again.

That made it eleven-one for acquittal; the holdout caved a day later, February 9, 1990. Hundreds of people, drawn by radio bulletins that a verdict was in, waited outside the courthouse for Gotti to emerge, then formed a cheering gauntlet as Gotti, escorted by Jack D'Amico, sauntered into a waiting Cadillac.

As after the Giacalone case, yellow ribbons appeared on 101st Avenue in Ozone Park, outside the Bergin, and in Howard Beach, in the yards of the Gotti home and others.

But Gotti did not go home first. He went to the Ravenite, and after a few minutes, fireworks exploded along Mulberry Street. Gotti stepped out for a bow, then invited a few reporters inside.

That day and the next, in the media, the Gotti legend reached its highest elevation; the thin air caused much woozy a.n.a.lysis. One writer said Gotti should be superintendent of schools because he'd "crack a few heads" and drugs would be gone from playgrounds. Another writer loftily described Gotti as the "typical American frontier risk-taker."

The media's problem was that so much had already been written about Gotti, fresh angles were elusive. The legend had already been explained: Gotti had tapped a civic vein of animosity for authority; he dwelled outside the law with style and bravado. But in the excitement of the moment, the media ignored an inevitable truth about the public attention span: As long as Gotti got away with dwelling outside the law, fine; as soon as he tripped up, forget about it. Next legend, please.

Few noticed the most meaningful quote in the coverage. It was spoken by Mouw's boss, Jules Bonavolonta, head of the FBI's organized-crime section in New York. Asked his reaction, Bonavolonta ignored the question and seemed to speak directly to Gotti: "He knows we haven't brought a case against him. And he also knows that when we do, he's finished. He can take all the bets he wants, but he's going to prison."

For an FBI official, it was a rare public display of verbal style and bravado-and there was an exceptionally strong reason for it. Back on December 12, in Gotti's second visit to Nettie's, the one in which he droned on about his troubles, Gotti also admitted he was a murderer. Not once, but twice-according to many reviews of the tape by agents who specialized in decoding Gotti's words, Michael Balen and Carmine Russo.

The first victim he mentioned was Robert "Deebee" DiBernardo, a union fixer and one of those who plotted with Gotti to kill Paul. DiBernardo was murdered in 1986, while Gotti was at the MCC awaiting trial in the Giacalone case. Angelo Ruggiero-l.u.s.ting to be underboss and considering Deebee a rival-told Gotti that Deebee talked "subversive" behind his back.

Four years later, Gotti said to LoCascio: "When Deebee got 'whacked,' they told me a story. I was in jail when I 'whacked' him. I knew why it was being done. I done it anyway. I allowed it to be done, anyway."

On the same tape, Gotti admitted approving the murder of Louis Milito, a soldier, after Sammy said Milito was complaining about Gotti's leadership.

Gotti could have recalled many murders for LoCascio. That he chose these two did not matter to Bonavolonta or Mouw or Maloney. On top of his other indiscretions at the Ravenite-all his chatter about La Cosa Nostra, obstruction of justice, tax-evasion, bribery, and so on-the murder admissions cooked Gotti's goose. He had talked his way into a clean, easy case.