It was an accurate prediction. That same day, a.s.sistant U.S. attorney Diane Giacalone said she would ask the judge to revoke the bail of John and Gene Gotti and two other defendants-a move she had been contemplating for several days.

Not just the defendants were shocked by her announcement. Upstate in White Plains, where the state Organized Crime Task Force had its main office, many agents were upset-if Gotti were in jail, he wouldn't be talking on the Nice N EZ bug, which they felt was certain to produce indictable crimes, eventually.

Giacalone was not officially aware of the bug or tap, but she and co-prosecutor John Gleeson suspected that the state agency had something cooking on Gotti because of the cautious way it had responded to her during her investigation. Still, Giacalone and her boss, Reena Raggi, then the interim U.S. attorney in Brooklyn and soon to be its first woman federal judge, believed they had to immobilize Gotti, for fear that witnesses would be located and intimidated while the trial was delayed.

Hearings on Giacalone's bail-revocation motion were held in early May. She had to show "probable cause" to believe that Gotti violated his bail by committing any local, state, or federal crime. She attacked on three grounds: Gotti had continued to partic.i.p.ate in the criminal affairs of the Gambino Family; he attempted to intimidate a federal witness, Dennis Quirk, of the court officers a.s.sociation; and he did intimidate a state witness, Romual Piecyk.

Giacalone called twelve witnesses to the stand, including local and federal organized crime experts, the detectives and cops who surveilled Gotti during his takeover or were involved in the Piecyk incident, and Dennis Quirk. The state Task Force tapes remained secret and unavailable to her.

Surprise testimony about the Piecyk matter came from Edward Magnuson, a Drug Enforcement Administration agent. Curiously, because the case did not involve drugs, the DEA, not the FBI, had been the princ.i.p.al federal law-enforcement agency involved in the investigation leading to Gotti's indictment. Behind this drama lay an interesting tale of federal intrigue no one wanted to talk about, at the time.

Magnuson testified about the statement of a DEA informant who had been talking about the Gotti crew and organized crime for the past year. The informant said members of Gotti's crew told him Piecyk "had received a kick in the a.s.s," a warning not to testify. Other than Piecyk's own initial statements, which he later denied, the informant's remark was the most damaging indication that the mechanic had been physically threatened.

Putting his spin on it, Bruce Cutler argued that Piecyk frightened himself into silence, after reading about Gotti's "violent and impulsive" reputation. As to Giacalone's other witnesses, he ridiculed their statements as "regurgitation of newspaper articles," "comic-book gossip," and multiple hearsay from unknown informants.

Nickerson issued a written opinion on May 13. He said that while the testimony showed Gotti did become boss of the Gambino Family while on bail-and "it is a bold, not to say reckless, man who will act in that way"-Giacalone's witnesses did not show that he engaged in Family crimes. As to the Quirk incidents, while they did lend "credence to the inference that [Gotti] was and is prepared to subvert the integrity" of his trial, there wasn't enough evidence to link them directly to Gotti or his men.

Gotti had been playing a game of chance for months and had just landed on two more lucky squares, but on Giacalone's third move-Romual Piecyk-he drew a Go-to-Jail card.

"The court concludes that there is substantial evidence that John Gotti, after he was admitted to bail, intimidated Piecyk," Nickerson wrote, "and that if continued on bail John Gotti would improperly influence or intimidate witnesses in this case ... the court revokes the release of John Gotti and orders that he be detained ..."

Earlier in his opinion, Nickerson explained why he rejected Cutler's argument about Piecyk's memory loss.

"Had Piecyk acquired a generalized fear of John Gotti solely because of his reputation, Piecyk would have simply claimed he made a mistake in his original identification. He would hardly have tempted Gotti's displeasure by accusing 'his people' of making telephone calls and tampering with brakes. Those specifics are not the kind of thing Piecyk would readily concoct. Indeed, they have the ring of truth ... Gotti had a clear motive to prevent Piecyk from testifying and the boldness to accomplish that end."

The government dropped its effort to revoke a second defendant's bail, and Nickerson denied its motions on Gene Gotti and John Carneglia, though he ordered them to stay out of social clubs and each other's company. Nickerson said Gotti would have to surrender on May 19.

As expected, Cutler mounted an appeal; unexpectedly, he invoked a new ally-the now-famous refrigerator mechanic, Romual Piecyk.

On the day stories about the decision were published, Piecyk had called Cutler. "He indicated to me that he was concerned that an injustice had been done," Cutler later said.

Piecyk went to Cutler's office and denied all of his previous statements to Sgt. Anthony Falco. Cutler then prepared an affidavit, which Piecyk signed.

"At no time was I ever warned, threatened, coerced or in any way persuaded not to testify against John Gotti, or anyone else," Piecyk's affidavit said.

The next day, Cutler filed the doc.u.ment with Nickerson and asked for a new hearing so Piecyk could testify that he was not intimidated. He offered a surprising theory as to why he had not called Piecyk as a witness earlier. He said he had relied on a ruling by Nickerson that details of the Piecyk-Gotti encounter could be admitted into evidence at the bail-revocation hearing-"but not for the purpose of showing [Gotti] committed a crime while on bail."

Gotti was not on bail at the time of the incident, but the issue at the hearing was whether the crime of intimidation occurred while he was on bail. Cutler's briefs and examination of witnesses seemed to indicate that he fully understood this. But now he was making a fourth-down-and-big-yardage play, trying to force overtime, by lofting an inference he had been faked out.

The judge's words, Cutler said, had led him to believe that "the Piecyk incident would certainly not be the linchpin upon which the court based its decision ... and wouldn't even be considered by the court during this hearing."

Cutler's hail-Gotti pa.s.s fall short, but not before Diane Giacalone expressed her barbed astonishment.

"Your Honor, [these are] the remarkable and extraordinary lengths to which counsel has gone and are highlighted by the affidavit of Mr. Piecyk ... the government is convinced that if called to testify, [he] would not deviate from the words in that affidavit. ... Mr. Piecyk is scared to death, [his] fear would fill this courtroom."

She said the court had provided Gotti ample time to attend to his family affairs before entering federal prison, and that Cutler, in conversations with her, had rejected moves to expedite a hearing at the court of appeals. "Mr. Gotti has no family business to wrap up except the business of the Gambino Organized Crime Family," she said.

Cutler responded with a jab at Giacalone-the antagonism between the pair and between her and the other defendants' attorneys would flare again when the trial resumed, and grow ugly as time wore on, until it was genuine personal contempt and not just legal combat.

"Whenever I speak to Ms. Giacalone out of court, your honor, there are misunderstandings and quotes from me that are not so. I don't know what to do about this, other than to try and speak to her as much as possible on the record."

"The motion is denied," Nickerson said.

An appeal to the court of appeals was still available, and Cutler began preparing one, but no one was counting on a reversal of Nickerson's decision.

Suddenly, Gotti confronted a harsh reality. When he surrendered in four days and entered jail, and the doors clanged shut, he might never leave. His trial wasn't scheduled to start until August 18, and for the same reasons he was going in, he would probably have to stay in while it was being conducted. If found guilty, he was vulnerable to a 40-year sentence, and it was unlikely he would be freed to await the outcome of an appeal.

Even so, the boss went about making plans for a short absence.

Many leaders had bossed their Families from prison. Vito Genovese, whose Family still carried his name, did it for ten years. His successor, Anthony Salerno, and Carmine Persico, the Colombo boss, were doing it now, from the same facility Gotti would be at-the Metropolitan Correctional Center in Manhattan.

Gotti intended to do the same. In the last few days, he had been mulling a replacement for Frank DeCicco. His brother Gene had urged him to consider "the tall kid, Joseph Corrao.

"I know you got candidates for that," Gene said, "But why don't you just ... entertain it?"

John had other ideas, and as the brothers talked, it was clear that Paul Castellano was still a factor in Family politics.

"Ah, just think about it, John. You know better than I do. Just put him in one arm and see what you come up with. He, he, he's good friends with, uh ..."

"The other side," John filled in. "Good with Paul."

In a few days, informants told the FBI that Gotti had chosen Joseph Armone, who wasn't so good with the other side, as the new underboss. Armone was the capo who set Gotti up with the record-industry producers at the Helmsley Palace Hotel. He had been convicted in the French Connection heroin scandal of the mid-1960s-a few years after the Gambino Family had first banned drug dealing, but during a "grace" period for getting out.

During Armone's trial, a Playboy bunny and nightclub dancer, Patricia De Alesandro, visited a juror, a shoe salesman, at the store where he worked. She bought a pair of white go-go boots and invited him to dinner, where she revealed herself to be a friend of Armone's, and could the salesman use a trip to Europe, his own shoe store, and $5,000?

"No thank you," the shoe man said. De Alesandro got 5 years for attempted bribery.

Armone was now 66. His advancing age might have been his biggest attribute. His glory was behind him. A younger man might be more tempted to make a play for the top spot while Gotti was away in jail.

On Gotti's last weekend of freedom, spent entirely in Queens, he was bird-dogged by FBI agents, detectives, and reporters, including Mike McAlary of Newsday, Newsday, whose story included these details: whose story included these details: On Friday about noon, Gotti ignored several red lights as he sped from his home in Howard Beach to the Bergin. Over the next nine hours, several men came in and out of the club and several were seen hugging and kissing him on the sidewalk along 101st Avenue.

On Sat.u.r.day, Gotti stopped to have his silvery mane trimmed at the V. G. Stylarama Hair Design shop a few doors from the Bergin. Later, he played stickball in a bank parking lot with his 12-year-old son, Peter, and other kids. At one point, he struck out.

He went home to freshen up for dinner that night with his brothers and crew members at Altadonna's, a restaurant in Queens that was always open for Johnny Gotti.

"I'm just going out to get something to eat," he smiled at detectives as he left his house. "I'll be right back. Why don't you wait for me here?"

On Sunday, he relaxed in the front yard of his home with his young grandchildren before holding court at the Bergin for two hours. Then, in a scene almost too perfect to believe, he went to a nearby church for a baptismal ceremony. He was to be the baby's G.o.dfather.

Afterward, the G.o.dfather stood on the church steps and fed the baby from a bottle. Several churchgoers came up and kissed him on the cheek.

"It's a beautiful day," Gotti said. "You have to admit that much."

"John is ready for whatever happens," added Richard Gotti. "He's a man."

Some non-Family citizens of Ozone Park and Howard Beach were in genuine mourning the following morning as the airwaves filled with stories about Gotti going off to jail. They chose to see him as a strong, dashing, self-made man who hosted big Fourth of July fireworks displays and barbecues. They saw him in the narrow light he allowed, a friendly, G.o.dfatherly glow. At worst, he might be a bookmaker or loan shark, but they, like him, felt that only the law called these crimes.

He left his house early that day and drove his Mercedes to the Bergin. He then switched to a Lincoln piloted by Bobby Borriello. He was due to surrender at noon in Brooklyn, but he rode into Manhattan first, to visit Joseph Corrao at his social club, the Andrea Doria, in Little Italy.

The Andrea Doria, which was listed in the phone book as the Hawaiian Moonlighters Society, was down the street from the late Neil Dellacroce's Ravenite Social Club, which was listed under the name Martin Lucan. It featured two display windows with ceramic sculptures, one of Christ and one of San Gennaro, the patron saint of Naples, the homeland of Gotti's forebears. Over the door to Corrao's club was a gag plaque: ON THIS SITE IN 1897 ABSOLUTELY NOTHING HAPPENED.

The club was virtually in the shadow of the Metropolitan Correctional Center, where Gotti would be confined following his surrender. Gotti had spent about five years of his life behind bars; compared to slammers he'd known, the MCC, as it was called, would be easy time.

It is a modern, 12-story, dormitory-style facility near the complex of civic buildings and monuments around Foley Square. It has six units of sixteen 9' by 12' rooms otherwise known as cells. Each unit has a communal area with color television, pool tables, exercise equipment, and games. The computerized security is almost invisible and heavy plastic panels, rather than iron gates, separate the units.

Dressed in a tan safari suit, Gotti left the Hawaiian Moonlighters and walked across the street to Caffe Biondo, a place where Little Italy tourists dine with live mobsters. It was owned by Corrao, who got it-and a Gambino crew-from his late father, James "The Blond" Corrao. "Biondo" is Italian for blond.

About 11:30 A.M., Gotti climbed back into the Lincoln, which headed across the Brooklyn Bridge to the courthouse on Cadman Plaza. "I feel good," he told reporters as he got out of the car, a few minutes before Bruce Cutler arrived with a small reprieve-a three-hour delay while a panel of the court of appeals considered an emergency appeal.

"Hey, John, we got time," Cutler said. "We got till three o'clock."

Appearing before the appellate judges that morning, Cutler had asked for a stay of Nickerson's order. He argued that the lower court had not heard from Piecyk himself. "There's not a scintilla of evidence to connect my client with threats," he said.

Cutler, who had become fond of his client and regarded him a friend, went off with Gotti back to the Caffe Biondo. While there, Cutler checked in by telephone and glumly learned the news.

"The stay is denied-that's it," Cutler told Gotti.

Gotti arrived back at the courthouse a few minutes after 3 P.M. and was soon in the middle of another mob of media and bystanders. The throng weaved through the large, concrete ant.i.terrorist planters protecting the courthouse entrance. Gotti took off his tan loafers and slipped into a pair of Reebok sneakers.

"Let's go," he said. "We're ready for Freddy."

"Freddy" was the undertaker in a comic strip, Li'l Abner. Li'l Abner. The boss was keepin' 'em laughin' all the way to the joint. The boss was keepin' 'em laughin' all the way to the joint.

Inside, he was searched, fingerprinted, and photographed-a familiar routine. He was placed in leg irons and handcuffs, and with five other prisoners was put in a van and driven out of the courthouse garage. He smiled agreeably at reporters as the van emerged, and then disappeared across the Brooklyn Bridge to the MCC.

Cutler would keep fighting, vainly, in the court of appeals, where a full hearing was held on May 29. "Hopefully, we will win on appeal, and if not, we'll win the trial," he predicted-boldly, the way his client would.

At the MCC, Gotti was processed. He had to give up his diamond pinky ring and gold watch. Inmates were not allowed to wear anything worth more than $25-which put Gotti's Reeboks in technical violation. He would be treated the same as the MCC's 799 other inmates, a prison official announced.

That night, dinner consisted of fried fish, macaroni and cheese, beets, salad, and Jell-O-a healthy meal but a pale mockery of the hearty feast of stuffed clams, veal marsala, and spaghetti carbonara he might have ordered at Altadonna's.

By 10:30 P.M., he was, as required, in his 9' by 12' room for the night, an eerie time in prison, a time when men settle into their enemy foxholes, when the quiet makes loud the odd sounds of torment emanating from distant cells.

Gotti was used to it, though he had successfully avoided it since 1977. He silently measured the dimensions of his new compartment and acquainted himself with the desk, the chair, the wash basin. Then he undressed, flicked off the light, pulled the prison-issue blanket back, slid into bed, and stared down the darkness.

So much had happened in his life, so f.u.c.kin' much.

7.

THE ROCKAWAY BOY.

From the day that Adam and Eve made the Garden of Eden their domicile, human society has struggled against lawlessness.

-From a Report to the President and the Attorney General, April 1986

THE DAY AFTER JOHN Gotti became a grandfather in 1984, he won $55,000 playing "the numbers"-the widely patronized though illegal Family lottery. He celebrated by buying his grandson a $10,000 bond, worth $20,000 at maturity.

"Second day of his life, the kid has twenty thousand dollars," John told Dominick Lofaro. "Me, I had two f.u.c.kin' cents."

John Joseph Gotti Jr., born October 27, 1940, in the Bronx, also had a dozen brothers and sisters. He was the fifth child of a construction worker and his wife, Fannie. Two brothers and twin sisters, all less than 5 years old, preceded him. And over the next 11 years they were joined by four more boys and two girls. Two other siblings died during childhood.

John Joseph Gotti Sr. was a hard-working but low-earning man of Neapolitan origin. With 13 kids in 16 years, he was barely able to provide. When the namesake son's freedom was at stake in Brooklyn more than four decades later, his lawyer painted a portrait of a proud man whose fastidious appearance lay in the fact that he overcame a childhood of severe deprivation.

"He doesn't apologize for growing up poor," Bruce Cutler would say.

The family lived in the South Bronx, now a wasteland, then a livable area of apartment complexes containing working-cla.s.s families. Like others his age, John's earliest memories include his family gathered around a radio, listening to the latest war news.

Though many Italian-American longsh.o.r.emen demonstrated their loyalty by securing the docks of New York against sabotage, many citizens descended from other nationalities regarded immigrant Italians suspiciously, good for economic exploitation, but not much else. Public slurs were common. A Life Life magazine profile of baseball hero Joe DiMaggio, for instance, mocked the Italians for being "bad at war" and said DiMaggio was a "testimonial to the value of general shiftlessness" who, amazingly, kept his hair slick with water "instead of olive oil." magazine profile of baseball hero Joe DiMaggio, for instance, mocked the Italians for being "bad at war" and said DiMaggio was a "testimonial to the value of general shiftlessness" who, amazingly, kept his hair slick with water "instead of olive oil."

Like black heavyweight champion Joe Louis, Life Life concluded, DiMaggio was "lazy, shy, and inarticulate." concluded, DiMaggio was "lazy, shy, and inarticulate."

For a boy with many brothers to tag along with, the South Bronx had many attractions. The Harlem River was a haven for urban Huck Finns and only a few blocks away. The Bronx Zoo was a short ride on the elevated train, but best of all, a boy could walk a few blocks up the Grand Concourse, turn left at 161st Street, and find himself at Yankee Stadium, where Giuseppe Paolo DiMaggio didn't hang up his cleats until 1951.

Just across the river, in northeast Manhattan, was the largest colony of Italian-Americans in the country. At that time Italian Harlem was a teeming town of 150,000 immigrants, mostly Sicilian and southern Italian, jammed into a one-square-mile area of five-story tenements.

The customs of the old country survived in these aromatic streets. In open-air markets along the main drag, Pleasant Avenue, housewives haggled for fresh fruits and vegetables and sifted through the racks of merchants for bargains in clothes and household goods. In private social clubs, men swapped stories and played cards. In cafes and restaurants, couples sipped espresso, and sampled fresh cannoli and sfogliatelli.

Most people worked hard and obeyed the law. They played the numbers, but, as now, few considered it illegal. If a rich man could play for millions on Wall Street, why couldn't a poor man bet a 30-cent combination on Pleasant Avenue? Everyone knew the lottery was run by men who belonged to secret Families. The same men also loaned money-the interest was high, but banks gave credit only to the rich.

The men were known to be violent when they fought over gambling territory or when someone fell behind on a loan. Some extorted tribute from shop owners, but better to pay them than the police. They were bad men to cross, but good men to know if you needed a favor or something hard to get-such as, during the war, gas for your car. One such man, Carlo Gambino, a Sicilian who came to America as a 19-year-old stowaway in 1921, was making a fortune dealing in stolen gas-ration stamps.

Walking the streets of Italian Harlem with his family, little John Gotti glimpsed a world soon to be fragmented by black and Hispanic migration and by immigrant a.s.similation. In time, when John joined the aging Family men of this world, they would favor him-partly because he had briefly seen the way it was.