Mob Star_ The Story of John Gotti Part 35

"n.o.body knew John then. n.o.body knew me, not until John made me and everybody known to you. I always thought Cosa Nostra meant being undercover."

Some wondered about the wisdom of dealing with Sammy. But after debriefing Sammy, Gleeson argued for it. "There's no way we can't use Sammy," he told Maloney. "He gives the case depth. He makes Sparks. At the end of this case, all we will have to do is tell the jury: 'You can convict on the tapes, you can convict on Gravano's testimony-but together, the conclusion to this case is inescapable.'"

In another debriefing with Mouw, Sammy filled in one more puzzle-the 1987 Giacalone case. Mouw asked: "After John's trial in '87, we got some surveillance that seemed to show people congratulating you for something. Did you have anything to do with that jury?"

"Sure I did!" Sammy replied. "I fixed it! I was in charge of a guy on the jury. Did a good job, didn't I?"

To increase his worth to the prosecution, Sammy agreed to testify against anyone else the government wanted. He would help it dismantle the mob. In return, he would be sentenced to five years in prison. It was the best deal a gangster ever made, and it sealed John Gotti's fate.

Gotti's fourth trial in six years began January 21, 1992. The prosecution severed Tommy Gambino from the case for a separate trial-no use letting any juror sympathy for the gentlemanly Gambino rub off on Gotti.

At the trial's outset, Gla.s.ser ruled the jury would be sequestered. This was a first in Brooklyn federal court history, as sequestration in the O'Connor case was a first in Manhattan state court history. Gotti's main hope now was that when deliberations began, jurors would either be too afraid to convict, or too affected by some combination of old and new favorable publicity.

Outside the courtroom, during breaks, Gotti stalwarts lobbied the press. They got reporters to run stories about Gotti buying puppies for sick children and urging thieves to return a religious urn stolen from a church. Jack D'Amico and Carlo Vaccarezza, owner of a favored Gotti restaurant, were the most effective lobbyists. They were charming and always quote-ready-as long as the instigating question was not overtly invasive.

"John's a man's man," Vaccarezza said in his languid maitre d' style. "Loyal, true. He's only on trial because the government hates it that people love him."

"A John only comes along once in a life," added D'Amico. "They broke the mold with John; he's original."

A writer interrupted to ask D'Amico what made Gotti such an original.

"John had two things going for him. He was loved and feared. He's the only person I've seen with both. You call it charisma. He has that, but love and fear was what counted. People don't cross a man they love and fear."

"Sammy apparently has," the writer pointed out.

"Well, because of the situation that happened. But Sammy only ever had one thing going for him. Fear. People were afraid to warn John about Sammy."

At the defense table, Gotti seemed sanguine. But this faded midway through jury-screening, after the Daily News Daily News broke two big stories. The first disclosed the Giacalone-case fix. The second previewed highlights from Sammy's expected Sparks testimony. broke two big stories. The first disclosed the Giacalone-case fix. The second previewed highlights from Sammy's expected Sparks testimony.

The jury story laid the Teflon Don myth bare just when Gotti needed myth most; the Sparks story showed how much damage Sammy was going to cause. Both stories, widely reported by other media, negated the publicity operation.

As jury screening continued, many obviously frightened people made it plain they did not want to serve on a Gotti jury. One day, Gla.s.ser summoned the lead lawyers into chambers to discuss the potential jurors' fears, and Gotti wound up alone with a pool reporter, Gabriel, and some federal guards. The reporter asked Gotti what he thought about Cutler's disqualification on conflict-of-interest grounds.

"Conflict?" Gotti began, pointing to Gleeson's empty chair. "He's the one with a conflict! He's had one for eight years! You know how they say I'm Bruce's only client the last eight years? Well, I'm Gleeson's only case. This guy, you know what he says when he wakes up in the morning, rolls over and looks at his wife? He says, 'Hiya, John.' This guy learned to talk listening to my voice! I'd like to have a bug on him for three hours!"

After an anonymous jury was finally chosen, and Gleeson began introducing the government's evidence, Gotti's behavior grew worse. At the defense table, he smirked, snarled, and swore. He gestured profanely at witnesses and government lawyers.

When FBI agent Lewis Schilero took the stand to interpret Cosa Nostra-speak on the tapes, Gotti muttered that Schilero was a "f.u.c.kin' sc.u.mbag;" and when Gleeson put relatives of Robert DiBernardo, Louis Milito, and Louis DiBono on the stand to humanize the dead, Gotti blew sarcastic kisses at the prosecution table.

On many days, an aura of danger and imminent violence hung in the air. The menace in the words and gestures of the lead defendant was a major reason why, but so were the abundant federal marshals positioned around the courtroom. Three times, bomb threats forced evacuation of the courthouse. In a sidebar, Judge Gla.s.ser revealed that he had received several death threats, and that he was under heavy guard.

Still, on other days, the trial had a light, day-at-the-circus kind of mood, thanks to an odd combination of minor and major celebrities who dropped by to sit with the Gotti lobbyists and sing Gotti songs to the media. The celebrity cheerleaders were procured by Carlo Vaccarezza and included heavyweight boxer Renaldo Snipes, civil rights leader Roy Innis, singer Jay Black, and actors John Amos, Al Lewis, Mickey Rourke, and Anthony Quinn. The testimonials did not always go as Vaccarezza hoped.

For instance, while speaking with print reporters, Mickey Rourke-who met with Gotti while researching a film role-said what Vaccarezza wanted him to say about what a gentleman Gotti was and how he worried about whether Gotti was getting a fair trial.

However, outside the courthouse with television reporters, Rourke grew taciturn. Walking to a car that sped quickly away, he ducked most questions about why he was there and what he felt about Gotti.

Rourke's sudden shyness irked Vaccarezza, who told hallway lobbyists what happened: "What a jerk. He didn't say anything nice. He froze. Despite all the time John spent with him. He's not a man."

Anthony Quinn caused the biggest stir, inside and outside court. At the lunch break, he walked toward the well of the courtroom to shake Gotti's hand, but federal marshals stopped him. Gotti was in custody; even a handshake was against rules.

"h.e.l.lo, John," Quinn said, with a what-else-can-I-do? expression. "Sorry, John."

"See," Gotti replied, holding his right thumb and forefinger close together, "we're this close to Russia here. But thanks for comin'."

Outside court, Quinn said the trial was "the best drama going on in America right now. This is the greatest theater you can possibly see." The heart of the drama was "the friend who betrays a friend. I'm not here to sit in judgment of Mr. Gotti but in judgment of a friend who betrays a friend. Friends.h.i.+p is a sacred thing. When I was growing up in East Los Angeles, the worst thing was to be a snitch."

Quinn mentioned that he had appeared in 30 "gangster pictures" and that "the boys" liked him because he knew how to portray them. He neglected to say that he was then up for another film project, a starring role in which he would portray a real-life gangster, Gotti's mentor Aniello Dellacroce.

Back in court, Maloney joshed Gotti's new lawyer, Albert Krieger: "Albert, tomorrow the good guys are going to bring in Clint Eastwood."

On the afternoon of March 2, 1992, six weeks into the trial, the high point of the drama, the moment everyone antic.i.p.ated most, finally came.

"The government calls Salvatore Gravano," Gleeson said.

In short, blunt answers, Sammy described his life's journey-and how, along the way, he was part of 19 murders, because murder was a way of life in La Cosa Nostra. La Cosa Nostra.

On the third day of his testimony, he finally engaged Gotti in a long staredown.

Sammy's face showed more indifference than anger. Gotti's had a thin, smirking smile. Neither blinked, and Sammy did not turn away until Gleeson began asking questions.

He grew increasingly confident on the stand. "Sometimes I was a shooter," he summarized at one point. "Sometimes I was a backup shooter; sometimes I set the guy up; sometimes I just talked about it. When you go on a piece of work it doesn't matter what position you're in. You're all out there. You're all liable to get charged the same. It doesn't make any difference."

At the end of his ninth and final day on the stand, Sammy drove a last dagger into his former boss that memorably described their relations.h.i.+p: "I was a good, loyal soldier. John barked and I bit."

The case was nearly over, and Gotti didn't put up much of a defense. A day after the prosecution rested its case, the defense rested, after calling one witness-a tax lawyer who testified somewhat confusingly that it was he who advised Gotti that he did not have to file income tax returns.

Except in cross-examination, the defense did not address all the other mayhem in the indictment. Coming on top of the tapes, Sammy had made the case indefensible. The only defense, as Gleeson predicted, was the "I'm-guilty-so-what?" defense.

In his final argument, Gleeson stayed between quiet outrage and gentle sarcasm. He called the evidence "suffocating." He noted that the government did not make a sick, serial killer an underboss; John Gotti did. "We'd love to bring you witnesses with absolutely impeccable credentials, of unquestionable honesty and integrity," he added, pointing at the defense table. "The problem is, they don't know any such people."

He reminded jurors that the tapes featured only six hours of conversation. "It probably seems like more because the conversations are so dense with criminal activity. We caught six hours and it's absolute mayhem. Who they've murdered, who they're going to murder, why they have to murder."

For a big federal case, the jury did not deliberate long-only fourteen hours over one and a half days. At one o'clock in the afternoon of April 2, 1992, the forewoman sent a note that a verdict was in, and only 19 minutes later, the judge's clerk stood and asked the forewoman the first of several questions: On the first charge in the indictment, the murder of Paul Castellano, had the jury found whether the government had "proven" or "not proven" the charge?

"Proven," the forewoman replied.

Gotti winced, then smiled and winked at his retinue in the spectator section, as the forewoman kept answering "proven" to every count.

At the prosecution table, Maloney leaned into Gleeson's ear, "Magnificent, John, magnificent."

Moving right along, Gla.s.ser thanked the jurors, dismissed them and said he would sentence Gotti in two months. Guards then took Gotti away. Downstairs in the lobby, the lobbyists were still glumly working. Jack D'Amico said Gotti was a "cla.s.s act" to the end. "When you're born round, you don't come out square."

Meanwhile, 20 feet away, New York FBI boss Jim Fox was in a media scrum. "The Teflon is gone," he said, tossing a line his spokesman Joseph Valiquette had suggested during their hurried ride to the courthouse. "The Don is covered with Velcro."

On June 23, except for Sammy, the trial's main partic.i.p.ants returned to court for sentencing. Federal guidelines required the judge to give Gotti and LoCascio multiple life terms in prison without chance of parole. The hearing's only potential drama was what Gotti would say when Gla.s.ser gave him an obligatory chance to speak.

But Gotti said nothing. LoCascio spoke for him: "I am guilty of being a good friend of John Gotti. If there were more men like John Gotti on this earth, we would have a better country."

Outside the courthouse, about one thousand people, mainly from Ozone Park and Howard Beach, arrived in chartered buses just as the brief hearing ended and Gotti left the courtroom without even a nod to anyone in the fully a.s.sembled press corps. In the end, the media had done him no good.

Chanting "Free John Gotti!" the crowd marched toward the courthouse entrance. Several hotheads, egged on by members of Junior Gotti's crew shouting into bullhorns, began rocking a police car and, before long, three cars lay on their roofs and a riot was on. Just outside the entrance, out-manned cops and Gotti sympathizers slugged it out.

Just inside the entrance, guards barred the doors and stood back from a floor-to-ceiling wall of gla.s.s. Standing back, watching the riot unfold with Mouw, Gabriel said, sarcastically, "John always told me he would go quietly if we ever got him. That John, he's a man, a man's man."

By this time, Gotti was back at the federal holding pen in Manhattan. Officials begin implementing his sentence immediately. In a few hours, they shackled him and drove him to an airport. He was put on a plane bound for Marion, Illinois-home of the most punitive prison in the federal system; Amnesty International calls it inhumane. Before the sun rose again, he was in solitary confinement. He would be held that way 23 hours a day, every day-until at some future point in time, prison officials decided that he was a beaten man and could live by prison rules.

A day later, back in Howard Beach, his father, John Joseph Gotti Sr., died of old age-but four months later, Junior Gotti's wife gave birth to a boy, who was named John.

"What's my reaction to the birth?" Bruce Cutler said when a reporter called. "My reaction is that the world is a better place with another John Gotti."

EPILOGUE.

SIX YEARS AFTER HE went to prison in chains, John Gotti told daughter Victoria he became a gangster because his early life on the rougher streets of 1950s Brooklyn "dictated" it. Many people, including all those New Yorkers who overcame similar streets to achieve great things, sneer at such rationalization. But Gotti was a great rationalizer; ordering murders requires a gift for it. "My time, all the doors were closed," he said.

In her life, Victoria is achieving the legitimacy her father says fate denied him. She's doing it by becoming part of the same unruly force that made him a household name for gangster-the media. First as an author and now as a columnist for the New York Post New York Post and correspondent for a syndicated television show, she's become part of the whirl of New York. You have to give her credit; you also have to take some away. She succeeded despite her father's notoriety, but also because of it. and correspondent for a syndicated television show, she's become part of the whirl of New York. You have to give her credit; you also have to take some away. She succeeded despite her father's notoriety, but also because of it.

She began creating a public ident.i.ty in 1995, at age 32, when she wrote a book about a heart ailment she suffers (it would lead to open-heart surgery in April of 2002). A year after that book, she wrote a novel-"It was so bad," she wrote in one of her columns, "that I considered pulling back the book." The novel required her to submit to the publicity rituals publishers employ to sell their products. These "scared her to death," because "the press had their own agenda. This was the chance to finally catch a glimpse of the myth, the man, the enigma. My father."

Fat chance. She was smart enough never to say anything stupid. She danced sweetly around the questions. "The man I knew was a great, loving father," she told New York Newsday New York Newsday in 1997, in an interview about her first novel, a legal thriller. Other media jumped on her story-it was and is irresistible. in 1997, in an interview about her first novel, a legal thriller. Other media jumped on her story-it was and is irresistible. New York New York magazine described her as a "nice person, not a bad novelist, a good mother, and a dedicated volunteer for charity." magazine described her as a "nice person, not a bad novelist, a good mother, and a dedicated volunteer for charity." Esquire Esquire magazine put her on its "Women We Love" list, along with actress Sharon Stone. magazine put her on its "Women We Love" list, along with actress Sharon Stone.

By July of 1998, when Victoria published her second novel, a story about a stalker, media interviews were old hat. She told a writer for her future employer, The Post, The Post, that her father was the inspiration for one of the book's characters, Dimitri Constantinos. "What I see is that physically, my father had this overwhelming presence. And I just found that when I created Dimitri, it was a great attribute to infuse into that character-that he could have this presence when he walked into a room." that her father was the inspiration for one of the book's characters, Dimitri Constantinos. "What I see is that physically, my father had this overwhelming presence. And I just found that when I created Dimitri, it was a great attribute to infuse into that character-that he could have this presence when he walked into a room."

With press clippings like that, Victoria discovered how fawning the popular press can be, how it covets notable names, famous or infamous. She began speaking to gossip columnists and getting her little dramas written up-including one about her three sons announcing that they do not believe in Santa Claus anymore as she ran off to FAO Schwarz to meet her personal shopper. The items were usually decorated with her photograph. Nice face, big hair, long nails, expensive jewelry. Fancy and flamboyant; like father, like daughter.

By August of 2000, when she published her third novel, her name was almost as well known as her father's. The book party celebrating the event was covered by the New York Times New York Times, whose reporter informed readers that Victoria's husband Carmine was not there because he had just been arrested and jailed on arson and racketeering charges. This fulfilled a prediction made by her father some 20 months earlier. In his absence, Carmine sent five dozen roses and a card declaring how proud he was. After someone read the note aloud to partygoers, Victoria excused herself to a bathroom, reportedly to cry. "I'm very emotional, and they always say a lady never cries in public," Victoria told a scribe for The Times The Times' Public Lives column. Now at ease with most reporters, she said she was working on yet another book about someone dealing with terminal illness and, yes, it was prompted by her father's cancer, which had become well known.

"Even though I create fiction, you want a sense of realness," she explained.

The next day, a story in The Daily News The Daily News quoted the congratulatory note from Carmine. He said he was proud of her "as a mother, a wife and a friend. I love you and miss you and the kids." quoted the congratulatory note from Carmine. He said he was proud of her "as a mother, a wife and a friend. I love you and miss you and the kids."

One thing Victoria seemed to learn on her way to a public life is that it helps to be shameless. One month after bathing in these items, Victoria filed for divorce. Her marriage had been heading south for some time, and Carmine had been overheard on government recordings talking about other women. He would eventually get out on bail, only to be charged and jailed again. The following year, he would plead guilty and take a nine-year prison sentence.

What was now spectacle continued. On December 22, 2000, George Rush and Joanna Molloy of The News The News devoted 23 paragraphs to Victoria's preparations for Christmas ("I have four little trees in the house and one gigantic one") and her recent visit to her now bed-ridden father ("he's doing well, he sounds strong"). Two days later, devoted 23 paragraphs to Victoria's preparations for Christmas ("I have four little trees in the house and one gigantic one") and her recent visit to her now bed-ridden father ("he's doing well, he sounds strong"). Two days later, The Post The Post went one better. It crafted a page one screamer out of an emotional letter she wrote her father. It was headlined, "Daddy's Little Girl ... Bares Her Soul," and in it, Victoria expressed her abiding love. No surprise there-he had just finished a third round of chemotherapy. What was more remarkable were her a.s.sertions, in a went one better. It crafted a page one screamer out of an emotional letter she wrote her father. It was headlined, "Daddy's Little Girl ... Bares Her Soul," and in it, Victoria expressed her abiding love. No surprise there-he had just finished a third round of chemotherapy. What was more remarkable were her a.s.sertions, in a Post Post column by new friend Linda Stasi on the same Christmas Eve day, that she was really upset about the story and that officials at a Missouri prison hospital must have leaked the letter. column by new friend Linda Stasi on the same Christmas Eve day, that she was really upset about the story and that officials at a Missouri prison hospital must have leaked the letter.

Ho, ho, ho. Prison mailroom clerks don't commit federal crimes to cloak mob bosses in sympathy. Victoria, or someone close, leaked it.

A half-year later, Victoria went to work for the newspaper she was so mad at. She said yes when The Post The Post asked her to become a gossip columnist. Now, she was not just a media object like her father, but a media player. At the asked her to become a gossip columnist. Now, she was not just a media object like her father, but a media player. At the The Post The Post office, she has the telephone number the well-known writer Jack Newfield once had, before he was canned by the new regime that hired her. office, she has the telephone number the well-known writer Jack Newfield once had, before he was canned by the new regime that hired her.

Being a media player had immediate benefits: one week after she took the job, one of her new colleagues at The Post The Post shamelessly wrote-in the middle of June, 2001-yet another Gotti Christmas story. The dying don, the article said, had promised to play Santa Claus after he died by donating toys to a children's hospital. Meanwhile, he had "secretly sent" Thanksgiving turkeys and toys to other distressed children. The article then paused for some background: Two years before, chip-off-the-block Junior had spent $8,000 at Toys Us, buying all the Tickle Me Elmo dolls he could for his father's favorite charity. shamelessly wrote-in the middle of June, 2001-yet another Gotti Christmas story. The dying don, the article said, had promised to play Santa Claus after he died by donating toys to a children's hospital. Meanwhile, he had "secretly sent" Thanksgiving turkeys and toys to other distressed children. The article then paused for some background: Two years before, chip-off-the-block Junior had spent $8,000 at Toys Us, buying all the Tickle Me Elmo dolls he could for his father's favorite charity.

As a columnist, Victoria can write virtually what she wants, and one of the first items on her agenda was another salute to her ailing father. It came as she recalled a chat with a public relations woman named Lizzie Grubman: "We kicked around the pros of having traditional patriarchs. Of how our fathers laid the foundation for us early on-rules and regulations and never forget about building character."

The item makes it clear how she intends to have both a public life and deal with her father's criminal life. It is the same way he would have-make no admissions, no concessions, no nothing. The Marion prison tapes, however, show she knows a lot about his Mafia career-at one point, they discuss a list of "made" men-but that column you will never read.

In the Grubman column, Victoria displayed defense-lawyer instincts her father would have cheered, if he had been still well enough to read it. Readers were never told why she and Grubman were chatting or what had happened two weeks before-when Grubman was behind the wheel of a car that veered wildly out of control outside a nightclub and injured 16 people. Without any context, Victoria rose to defend Grubman against the media whipping that ensued: "... [her] dedication is still there ... Amid all the tasteless jokes and unwelcome whispers, she enters her office each morning."

It's easy to understand why the playful Post Post hired Victoria-the name, the glam look, the growing affinity for Manhattan life (she keeps an apartment there now, although she still has her Long Island mansion). It's harder to say if her novels would have been published but for her last name. Her father had his doubts. hired Victoria-the name, the glam look, the growing affinity for Manhattan life (she keeps an apartment there now, although she still has her Long Island mansion). It's harder to say if her novels would have been published but for her last name. Her father had his doubts.

This began coming out on the videotapes made in prison in January of 1998, when Gotti recalled for his daughter a talk show he had recently watched on his little prison black-and-white. On the show, a woman said her child was mercilessly teased about a skin condition by cla.s.smates, until a cousin came along and straightened the matter out. "He dusted a few of them up and now when they see the kid they treat the kid special," Gotti summarized. "They don't want an a.s.s-kicking. You read Machiavelli, fear is a stronger emotion over love."

Victoria protested that this is what her soon-to-be ex-husband would have done, and had done, after a similar incident years before. "[He] showed them to be the animal they think he is. Proved to them that he was the animal that people said he was ... we're not like that, we're not animals."

"Yeah, but, either you gotta be proud of who you are, and fight for it, or you gotta be ashamed of it and do like some other lowlifes do, and change their names." Gotti then said Victoria's son would not have been teased if Victoria had used her married name, Agnello, instead of Gotti. "I mean, if you ask a guy next door, 'Hey, what do you think about the Agnellos?' He'd say, 'Who are the Agnellos?' ... You should stay off television. You should stay off the book covers. You should use Victoria Agnello, and they won't know who the kids are, and they won't be faced with this problem. Am I correct or incorrect?"

"How does me staying off book covers-is that something bad to do?"

"They won't know your name."

"Oh, come on, dad. They won't know who we are?"

"Look, if you think that my name has nothing to do with you, take your mother's [maiden] name."

Victoria didn't reply, but she could easily have argued that the name is at least as much a curse as a blessing. She could have pointed no farther than the case of her brother Junior, who was indicted a week before that conversation. But for his father's name, Junior would not have been acting boss of the Gambino crime Family. But for his father's name, the media would not have cared much about his legal troubles. And but for his father's name, Junior would not have ama.s.sed a fortune so impressive he could afford to leave $350,000 in cash wedding gifts hidden in a bas.e.m.e.nt for eight years.

Most likely, Junior also would not have been hit with new charges five months later that alleged he robbed a drug dealer. That one prompted a protest call to The News The News from his mother Vicky, who hadn't been heard from for a while. "He doesn't have enough money, so he gets involved in drugs? Please," she told reporter Greg B. Smith. "Can't they come up with something better than that? "You've investigated what he owns," she said, referring to a story in which Smith described Junior as a millionaire. "He's going to steal $4,000? Please. It's absolutely ridiculous. It's beyond ridiculous. I shouldn't even respond to it. I just want you to know what I feel." from his mother Vicky, who hadn't been heard from for a while. "He doesn't have enough money, so he gets involved in drugs? Please," she told reporter Greg B. Smith. "Can't they come up with something better than that? "You've investigated what he owns," she said, referring to a story in which Smith described Junior as a millionaire. "He's going to steal $4,000? Please. It's absolutely ridiculous. It's beyond ridiculous. I shouldn't even respond to it. I just want you to know what I feel."

In April of 1999, as sister Victoria was working on her third novel, Junior wrote the end to his mob story-at least for several years. On the day jury selection was about to begin in his case, he broke sharply with his father's tradition and pleaded guilty. He forfeited nearly one million dollars, his wedding money, and multiple vacation homes before going off to prison for six or so years.

His uncle Peter Gotti might be headed there, too. And so might another uncle, Richard Gotti, a low-key member of the clan who had remained in the shadows until early June 2002, when he and Peter were indicted on labor racketeering charges in the Eastern District. They and others were accused of extorting dockworkers and companies that do business On The Waterfront in Brooklyn. A couple of the others also were accused of extorting Hollywood action star Steven Seagal.

The indictment alleged that Peter, 62, a former sanitation worker who retired on a disability pension in 1979, had become the official boss of the Gambino Family, and that Richard, 59, had become a captain. Bruce Cutler showed up at an early court appearance, representing "Uncle Pete," as he always called him, and naturally he dismissed talk of Peter becoming boss. "There are so many versions of who's in charge," he sneered. "Now it's Uncle Pete's turn."

It almost certainly is Uncle Pete's turn, and not much more need be said about the state of the Gambino crime Family 10 years after John Gotti went away.

In brief, here are accountings of some of the other characters in this book: Like John Gotti, two important capos in the Gambino Family fought off the government for a while. James Failla, one of those men waiting inside Sparks to meet Castellano for dinner on the night Gotti made his move, also beat a RICO case. So did codefendant and fellow capo Joseph Corrao.

"Go talk to the prosecutors," Corrao said, sounding much like Gotti after his 1987 victory. "They're the ones who frame people, not us."

The prosecutors, however, would get the last laugh on both Failla and Corrao, thanks to the testimony of a major new cooperating witness, turncoat underboss Sammy Gravano. Together with yet more FBI tapes, Gravano sank dozens of Gambino mobsters following the deal he struck with John Gleeson.

Meanwhile, George Pape, the corrupt juror whose 1987 dive enabled Gotti's reign, was convicted of bribery and sentenced to three years in prison. He served two and was released.

On the first day of 2000, Pape's fugitive bagman, former Westies boss Bosko Radonjich, was arrested at Miami International Airport, aborting a planned vacation in the Bahamas.