The Butcher (31 page)

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uthorities did try to get Pitera to talk, tried to get him to share what he knew about the inner workings of the Bonanno family, the Mafia. In the world that Tommy Pitera came from, being a rat was the lowest form of life, anathema. He felt that way in a very real, cultural sense, but he also felt in his heart and in his soul that betraying colleagues, partners in crimes, was the worst sin of all. Pitera hated rapists and child molesters, but, for him, rats were even lower on the totem pole of criminals.

No, he wouldn't talk, he resolved with all his being. No matter what they did to him, he would not talk. He would, quite literally, die before cooperating with cops. The arrest behind him, Pitera prepared for war. He'd find the best attorneys; he'd put on the best defense he could. But the case the government put together against him was voluminous, airtight, monumental…there were not only many live, hands-on witnesses, but there were also tapes and drugs that Jim and Tommy Geisel had bought from Angelo Favara and Judy Haimowitz. As Group 33 always knew, Judy Haimowitz would turn the moment she was given the opportunity, and turn she did. She, like the others, would cooperate wholly and fully, truthfully and sincerely.

Pitera hired sharp criminal attorney Matthew Mari and the battle between Tommy Pitera and the federal government began in earnest, a no-holds-barred street fight, no quarter given, no quarter asked.

T
homas Pitera was tried in a well-lit courtroom at the Brooklyn Federal Courthouse located at Cadman Plaza beginning on May 6, 1992. It is a modern-looking, austere building, and silently tells interested observers that serious business goes on here. In truth, America's worst enemies are tried at Cadman Plaza.

A jury was chosen; opening statements were made and battle lines delineated, weapons loaded and cocked. Esteemed criminal attorneys Matthew Mari, Cheryl Mackell, and David Ruhnke, hired as a death penalty expert, sat on the left with Pitera between them. Pitera seemed bemused, as though the trial, the seriousness of it, was all about somebody else, not him. Pitera had gained weight from the jail's starch-oriented diet and his hair had receded, but otherwise he seemed fit and ready to do battle. On the other side of the courtroom sat the prosecution team: Elisa Liang and David Shapiro, amazingly well prepared, anxious to get this trial started, so very ready to put Tommy Pitera away for life—or, better yet, put him to death. Execute him. ASAC Jim Hunt would also be an intricate part of the prosecution team. Anything the prosecution team needed, he would facilitate, manage, appropriate.

The prosecution team made Jim Hunt their first witness. He was easy-moving, sure of himself, names and dates as familiar to him as the
fingers on his right hand. With great detail, federal prosecutor David Shapiro used Hunt's amazing memory to paint a portrait of Pitera's crimes for the jury. The bailiff called the court to order. Jim Hunt was asked to take the stand. He was dutifully sworn in. Federal judge Reena Raggi would be presiding over the trial. This was one tough jurist. She had sat on the bench during many organized crime proceedings. Nothing cowed her, nothing frightened her. She was highly respected by both prosecutors and defense lawyers. Judge Raggi had straight, shoulder-length brown hair, a somewhat severe triangular face with high cheekbones, and particularly intelligent, piercing brown eyes. She was nominated to the bench at the tender age of thirty-five by President Ronald Reagan. Prior to becoming a judge, she was a highly respected prosecutor with stints as the chief of narcotics and chief of special prosecution. Jim Hunt would later explain, “She's the best jurist I ever worked in front of.”

With David Shapiro guiding Jim Hunt, little by little, in simple detail, the case was laid out for the jury. Anyone watching the direct examination was stunned by the amount of details Hunt had in his head. He never referred to notes; it all came from his uncanny memory. It was obvious, too, that the jury's attention was caught and held by his testimony. Any of the jurors who thought this would be a boring, time-consuming pain in the ass were soon enraptured by the case, chopped-up bodies being found in Staten Island, huge amounts of drugs being passed from hand to hand. It was, in reality, more like some Martin Scorsese movie than real life, but this was real life and the jurors and spectators and press were all wide-eyed and hypnotized, mesmerized by Jim Hunt's words. When Jim Hunt finished his testimony and slowly stepped from the stand, you could hear a pin drop.

 

Methodically, David Shapiro called witness after witness. One after the other a colorful rogues' gallery took the stand and, in no uncertain terms, pointed their fingers at Pitera and told what they knew. Billy
Fredericks, Frank Gangi, Judy Haimowitz, Andrew Miciotta, Luis Mena, Billy Tomasulo, Joe Dish Senatore, family members of Pitera's victims, and a long list of forensic and technical experts took the stand to bolster and clarify the evidence presented to the jury. As each witness took the stand and was sworn in and testified, the crack in the Rock of Gibraltar grew and grew. As Tommy Pitera sat there, watching witness after witness indict him, point at him, he glared back with the deadly indifference, cold countenance of a white shark. Regardless of the dirty looks Pitera gave the witnesses, however, he could do nothing to mitigate the damage their words did. With each witness, the words coming out of their mouths, long, pointed shiny nails were being hammered into Pitera's coffin.

When Frank Gangi, tall and thin and sure of himself, took the stand, Pitera was visibly angry. He moved uncomfortably in his chair. He doodled on a pad. His mouth twisted into a snarl. Gangi turned out to be an excellent witness—he was sincere and matter-of-fact. He was so sincere, wrapped up in the words he spoke, that he began to cry there on the stand. All the jurors were moved. Jim thought Gangi was one of the best witnesses he had ever seen.

Pitera hated Gangi. He felt he had been nothing but kind to Gangi, a friend to him, that he had tried to help Gangi out and here he was telling all like some schoolyard crybaby punk.

At one point, during a break, as Gangi passed Pitera at the defense table, Pitera taunted him by saying, “Are you going to cry again?”

Gangi knew, had accepted, that his life had been forever altered, that by doing what he had done, his fortunes had been irreversibly changed.

In fact, when Gangi testified about the murder of Phyllis Burdi—when he talked about Pitera shooting her and getting in the tub with her, cutting her up, putting her head on the edge of the tub, he again started to cry. If he was acting, it was an extraordinary performance—certainly worthy of an Oscar. The jury was visibly shaken not only by Frank Gangi's heartfelt testimony, tears, description of that night,
Phyllis being cut up, but by the sight of the photos of the exhumed bodies. This would unsettle the most hardcore war veteran, let alone the John Q. Citizens of whom the jury was made up. You hear about such things in the papers, see them in horror movies, but the reality that these things happened in real life, people being murdered and cut up, people being buried in bird sanctuaries in the dead of night, was truly the things that nightmares were made of, unsettling. Shocking. Afterward, some of the jurors admitted to having nightmares on a regular basis because of the testimony, the crime-scene photos, the gravesite photos of this horror film they unwittingly found themselves cast in.

Never, not once, did Pitera show any emotion, any sign of remorse, empathy, or sympathy. He may as well have been made of stone, a statue with black hair, a wide white brow, and those chilling, icy blue eyes of his taking it all in, bored, indifferent—even hostile.

As the prosecution presented its case, the defense cross-examined each of their witnesses expertly and thoroughly, though they managed to do little to dent the wall of guilt the prosecution had slowly and expertly built around Pitera. They managed, to a degree, to undermine Gangi's testimony when they had him admit to drug and alcohol abuse, to trying to kill himself, to lying repeatedly in order to manipulate the system. They managed to portray Gangi as the murdering three-time loser he really was, but no matter how many holes they shot in his character and veracity, the photographs of Phyllis Burdi cut up—the photographs of Phyllis Burdi while she was alive—spoke volumes and null-and-voided any of Gangi's many vices.

At one point in time, the prosecutor put on the stand Phyllis Burdi's sister, Antonina—Toni—and she said how, when her sister had gone missing, she went to the Just Us Bar and asked Pitera where her sister was and he said, “I hear she's prostituting herself in Coney Island,” knowing full well that he had not only killed her but cut her up and buried her in the bird sanctuary on Staten Island. Antonina was one of the few people who showed no hesitation, no fear, when she pointed
at Pitera and said what she knew. All her words were laced with venom and hatred. When she looked at Pitera, her stare had the malevolence of a razor-sharp knife.

All 470 pieces of evidence presented; 143 photos shown; all 66 witnesses having testified; direct and cross finished, the two sides made their closing arguments succinctly and well and the case was left to the jury. The evidence and dozens of witnesses overwhelmingly pointed toward Pitera's guilt. The government's case was so strong and well put together that Pitera's attorneys put up little defense. The best they could do, they knew, was to try to save Pitera from the death sentence.

Interestingly, during the defense's closing argument, Pitera's attorneys called Frank Gangi “a pimp and a parasite.”

I
t took six days for the jury to find Pitera guilty on eighteen out of the nineteen counts he was charged with. He was convicted of those eighteen charges on June 25, 1992. He was not charged with the murder of Greg Reiter because Reiter's body had never been found and the only witness to the murder, Michael Harrigan, had been killed. The one charge they found him innocent of was the murder of Willie Boy Johnson. The jury apparently felt that because there were no witnesses and only subjective suggestion, that they should give Pitera the benefit of the doubt. However, they convicted him of killing Marek Kucharsky, Phyllis Burdi, Joey Balzano, Solomon Stern, Richard Leone, and Talal Siksik. The prosecution, both David Shapiro and Elisa Liang, as well as Jim Hunt and Tommy Geisel all believed the jury made a large error regarding Johnson, but they still felt they had hit a home run. Eighteen out of nineteen was excellent, reason to celebrate. No matter how you cut it, Pitera was off the streets.

Now came the most important, essential part of the prosecution: the penalty phase, whether or not Pitera got the death sentence. If he was given the death sentence, he would be the first man convicted under the Drug Kingpin Law in New York and only the second in the country. It would be a milestone. Now the jury was given the deli
cate, very difficult task of determining one, if the death sentence was warranted, and two, if it should be given to Pitera. Both sides succinctly made their arguments. Family members were called to testify to Pitera's character. Pitera's aunt, sister-in-law, and two cousins all said what a good son, brother, cousin, friend Pitera was. Judge Raggi charged the jury with their task, according to the strict guidelines of the law, according to the guidelines set up by the government to meet the criteria for death.

As the jury slowly filed out of the courtroom, looking at Pitera, some in fear, some with hostility, as if he were a dangerous animal caged in a zoo, Pitera turned to Jim Hunt, who was sitting behind him, and said, “I bet you they don't have the balls to kill me.”

“We'll see,” Jim said.

 

The deliberation for the death sentence took less time than the one for the guilty verdict. The jury was made up of six men and six women, all good American citizens who abided by the rules and regulations of society, who wanted to contribute what they could. They were…civilians. They were, as Pitera would put it, “squares.” As such, the killing of a man for them, any man, was a very difficult task to decide. If, they all knew, they did give him the death sentence, it would be as though their fingers pulled the trigger of the gun that killed this man. Many, particularly God-fearing people, think of the death sentence as something barbaric, unfair, meted out in a way that flies against logic and reason, fairness and the rule of law.

Apparently, this jury was a godsend for Tommy Pitera, for they refused to vote in favor of the death penalty. They debated heatedly. Ultimately, ten were for the death penalty, two against. They argued for four and a half hours. They shouted at one another. When they were finally finished with their deliberations and returned to the courtroom, that number was the same. As the forewoman read the sentence, obviously shaken up, tears rolling from her eyes, emotion
ally embroiled in what was happening, Pitera turned and, addressing his own attorney directly, Jim Hunt and David Shapiro indirectly, said, “They didn't have the balls to kill me,” in his high-pitched voice—a voice that might very well have been the beginning of the end for Tommy Pitera, a voice that put him at odds with society and all those around him as far back as he could remember.

Still, regardless of his voice, the painful barbs and abuse, slings and arrows, he suffered because of it, Judge Raggi gave Tommy Pitera of Gravesend, Brooklyn, seven life sentences in addition to four terms of twenty years' imprisonment, and five terms of ten years' imprisonment.

No matter how you cut it, Pitera would spend the rest of his days behind bars, in a steel cage. True to his beliefs, he never tried to make a deal with the government for any kind of leniency. Pitera remained loyal to La Cosa Nostra culture and mind-set…to his pledge of
omertà,
to the Bonanno family. After the sentencing, two burly guards handcuffed Pitera's ankles and wrists. Taking small, stilted steps, walking slowly toward his destiny, Tommy Pitera had his shoulders back, his head high, and his thin-lipped mouth shut tight.