This Family of Mine: What It Was Like Growing Up Gotti (25 page)

I spent the next three days in the hospital. The day I was sent home, the baby was to be buried at St. John’s Cemetery in Queens. Dad had made the arrangements; the crypt was to be close to Frankie Boy’s. I gave my daughter the name I had picked out the day I learned I was pregnant—Justine Gotti Agnello.

Everyone thought it would be too much for me, but I insisted on being there. The mass was nearly an hour long and I cried the entire time. I remember holding my hands on my stomach waiting for any sign of life—a kick, a poke, or a twist. But nothing came. My belly was empty, just like my heart.

I returned home and locked myself in the baby’s room—a beautifully decorated bedroom with bright colors splashed across the walls. The floor was covered in a bright red carpet and in the corner sat a life-sized stuffed clown, a gift from my father during my sixth month of pregnancy. I disconnected the phone lines and double-bolted the front door in an effort to keep all the sympathetic guests away, even my parents. Most of all, I couldn’t bear to see my sister, Angel. She was due to give birth any day. I was
angry and selfish. I wondered why this had to happen to
my
baby? I couldn’t face anyone.

I stayed locked in the room for many days and nights following the burial. Even my husband couldn’t speak to me or lure me from the baby’s room. My parents were frightened. My father insisted on seeing me, even though I refused. He pushed his way inside the house one night and took the stairs two at a time. When he opened the baby’s room door he nearly fell down when he saw what I looked like. I was still sleeping on the floor, curled up into a ball and clinging to the stuffed clown. My father sat down on the floor and began his speech. He told me he understood my grief—and he did. He told me I had a right to be angry—and I was. He told me I had to get back to the real world—I couldn’t.

The following week my father arranged for an infertility specialist to fly in from Boston to see me at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. His diagnosis was not something I wanted to hear: the delivery was a difficult one that had damaged my reproductive organs. “The chances of your carrying a baby to full term is slim to none,” he told me.

I was devastated. My husband sat next to me, visibly squirming. I ran from the doctor’s office hysterical, so my husband thought it best he take me to my parents’ rather than our home. When I got there I broke down in front of my mother and father. I could see it in their eyes; they too were crushed. Later my mother admitted to me that she’d cried herself to sleep that night—begging God to give me a child, one child. She knew how much having children meant to me.

The following week, my father sent for my husband and insisted Carmine take me away on a cruise. He believed I needed a rest from all that had happened. We left for the Caribbean on a Friday and returned on the following Friday. Other than being quiet and restful, it did little to sway or change my depressed state. At this
point I’d become so sick with grief, I couldn’t eat or keep anything down. The day after we returned, my mother took me to see the doctor and asked her to prescribe something for my stomach. The doctor did some routine tests and could hardly contain her excitement when she returned to the examining room with a piece of litmus paper in her right hand.

“Well, I can’t believe it myself. You’re not sick—you’re pregnant!”

I
t was 1985 and the name John Gotti seemed to be on every OCTF (Organized Crime Task Force) agent’s lips. The use of street canaries and bugging devices of various mob-connected associates led the agents to believe that John Gotti was the up-and-coming guy to watch in the Mafia. Even the media began devoting much time and space to coverage of the mob in an effort to familiarize the public with the enigma that was John Gotti. Reporters portrayed my father as a “modern-day Robin Hood,” even further propelling the public’s fascination with John Gotti and romanticizing the mob. Everyone wanted to meet John Gotti, have dinner with him, or even a “quick audience”—especially celebrities. Pro athletes seemed enamored of my father. Often when I went to football or baseball games, they would come off the field just to meet
me—and then ask about Dad. Jason Giambi, Mike Piazza, and Jason Kidd were among the list. Actor Steven Seagal often showed up at the social club, as did Tony Danza and Mike Tyson.

One night I was invited to have dinner with Sean Penn. We met in his restaurant, Man Ray. He was so fascinated by Dad that the dinner lasted hours, and we went to three different places throughout the night. I walked in the door at nearly 6
A.M
. Sean had asked question after question about my father—and only when I could no longer stay awake did the night end.

Even Liz Taylor had met Dad in a restaurant. Though the
National Enquirer
claimed that they were dating and superimposed their likenesses together to appear as if they were crossing the street arm-in-arm, they really had met only briefly. Robert De Niro wanted to do a movie about Dad, as did Sylvester Stallone. Despite all the attention, Dad was not impressed with celebrities. He was always affable and accommodating when he met anyone, but he wasn’t into pretentiousness. He wasn’t a phony. Besides he never had the time for random meetings, and he was shy about being introduced to new people.

Week after week, another article or magazine story came out about my father. Well-respected publications like
New York
magazine and
Time
magazine ran articles about the Mafia.
Time
even featured my father on the cover—a first for the otherwise politically-driven magazine. The public loved stories about John Gotti and his crew. Why wouldn’t they? He wore two-thousand-dollar Brioni suits. He had “movie-star” good looks, a cross between James Dean and Clark Gable. He held court, telling unending, witty stories, and had a perfect memory. His smile lit up a room and he walked with a swagger that stood out on any crowded street. The public ate him up by the spoonful and couldn’t seem to get enough. It drove the FBI and members of law enforcement crazy!

While the press and the public elevated Dad’s celebrity, the streets became even darker.

Life for the Gotti family began to take a drastic change—gone were the days of privacy and calm. Everything a Gotti did somehow managed to garner unwanted and unnecessary attention. Everything we did was magnified under a microscope. It was not a transformation any of us Gotti kids welcomed. Overnight, it seemed, we went from being low-key and unpretentious, as my father had insisted on, to being very publicly exposed. Each of us willingly or not was dissected by the New York papers on a weekly basis, from the moment one of us was spotted with Dad. This continued and grew, much to my father’s dismay. Believe it or not, Dad was staunchly against unwanted publicity. He feared it would awaken or arouse many degenerates looking for money—especially when it came to his kids or grandkids. Someone might get an idea in his or her head in an attempt to get their hands on some cash—an idea like kidnapping. I believe the Gambino kidnapping tragedy did this to Dad and greatly unnerved him. Dad figured if someone was brazen enough to go after Carlo Gambino’s nephew, it could happen to anyone. As a result, Dad was always on guard as to where we went and who we were with. And as much as he could, he kept us out of the public eye.

M
EANWHILE
, P
AUL
C
ASTELLANO’S
reputation was growing throughout the Mafia kingdom as a tyrant and a selfish boss. As a result, most men within the organization were leery of his leadership. Even Castellano’s own loyal soldiers began questioning his leadership abilities. Some men openly defected to Dellacroce’s side. They felt more secure working under someone of the “old order.” And no matter what politics dictated, in their minds the real boss was Neil.
My father was one of those men. Politically, he answered to Paul—but his loyalty always remained with Neil. Dad believed that Neil was a “man’s man,” with many admirable qualities.

Uncle Angelo had a brother, Salvatore, who was known as a ruffian by most men in the streets. It was rumored he was involved with some major drug dealers. Because of this, Sallie was excluded from the family—there was a strict “no drugs” bar for any members—punishable by death. There was also another reason Sallie fled; he also had his share of legal issues as a result of his lifestyle. Law enforcement had been after him for years. Tired of living life on the lam, Sallie had decided to surrender. But en route to turning himself in, both Salvatore Ruggiero and his wife, Stephanie, were killed in a private plane crash on the way from Florida to New York.

The accident distressed Uncle Angelo beyond words and he set out to Florida to tie up any loose ends with his brother’s estate. The couple had two small children, Jamie and Danielle, both of whom were supposed to be on the flight, but at the last minute Stephanie had decided to leave the children behind. My uncle Angelo was now in charge of the children’s welfare and their financial assets. Supposedly, there was an estimated $3- to $4-million of Sal Ruggiero’s money still out on the streets, waiting to be collected. However, by involving himself with Sal’s estate, Angelo opened the doors to much scrutiny. Law enforcement officials believed Ruggiero had “stepped into his brother Salvatore’s footsteps.” This was an allegation that Angelo had vehemently denied.

With the help of Uncle Genie, Angelo went to Florida, collected the children and their things, tied up a few real estate matters, and returned to New York. While trying to put his brother’s estate in order, Angelo decided the money on the street rightfully belonged to his brother’s estate—to his brother’s kids. The moment he set about trying to collect these debts, he and my uncle Genie were arrested.
Their involvement in Sal’s business caused them to be implicated in the sinister world of drugs. My father was
livid
. Dad walked around in such a constant enraged state that few people would dare to cross him. To make matters worse, Paul Castellano, the “Big Boss,” insinuated that he would hold my father “accountable” for this “outside act of defiance” in violating the drug policy. If Angelo’s and Genie’s actions were found to be anything more than money collecting, the two men would be killed. It was yet another factor in the ongoing personal war between my father and Paul.

My father stuck by his brother and best friend, defending them as best he could given the circumstances. He went to meetings on both men’s behalf to see Paul and reassured him of their innocence. But Paul wanted confirmation; he wanted access to personal tapes acquired by the FBI to be used in the case. These were tapes that my father had no control over. Yet he pressed Angelo daily. On some tapes Angelo was heard bad-mouthing Paul and some others he deemed “selfish” or “greedy,” and there was no way he wanted the boss to hear his rants. Angelo also claimed that many of his dear friends would be “thrown under a bus” if these tapes got out. My father agreed, but told Angelo that a compromise would have to be made. My father met with Paul many times in an effort to calm matters, but each time the meetings ended on a sour and unresolved note. With Neil and my father still a threat to him, Paul remained on guard. Another thorn in Paul’s side was the fact that Dad was growing far too popular with many of the “higher-ups” in the family. I’m convinced Paul had hoped Dad would refuse to follow protocol when it came down to the tapes. He’d hoped there would be destruction, perhaps bloodshed. I believe Castellano wanted a reason to kill Dellacroce and my father.

The so-called “Big Paul” tapes were acquired after FBI agents planted bugs inside Angelo’s house, in a dinette booth where he was known to have early morning meetings with associates, as well as
on each of the phones in his house, including his young daughter’s pink princess phone in her bedroom. The FBI had used “breaking and entering” to set the bugs in place, a tactic even law enforcement sources agreed were “dirty.” The notion “innocent before proven guilty” went out the window when it came to organized crime. Angelo suspected that the FBI was listening to his conversations using phone bugs, and he had a security expert called in to “sweep” his house and car clean. The FBI knew the expert was coming and so they turned off their mikes that day. The guy appreciated the work and needed to justify the exorbitant thousand-dollar fee he charged. So he told my uncle his house was indeed bugged. But he calmed Ruggiero down by assuring him that he had removed the mikes. Outside my uncle’s home in Cedarhurst, Long Island, the FBI grabbed the security expert and threatened him for revealing their bugs. The man pleaded for his life and told the agents he only lied to Ruggiero. He said he never really found any bugs.

Unfortunately, Uncle Angelo believed the man and believed he had no reason to be afraid about speaking “freely” in his own home from then on—something my father would never do. Dad believed that speaking on phones was careless and stupid, and speaking in one’s own home was even worse.

Even the FBI was aware of this and never attempted to bug our house. They knew my father never conducted any meetings in his home and rarely spoke on the phone to anyone except his driver.

Still my father realized he had a mess on his hands—a mess that would require much skill and intervention to keep everyone happy. Dellacroce stepped in and went to bat for my father and his crew members. It was no secret that Paul and Neil were rivals and the ever-present feud between them was really starting to heat up. Dad attended meeting after meeting, with Dellacroce as his closest advisor and supporter. Dellacroce, in fact, even stood up to Paul on many occasions, having never forgotten the way he was passed
up when Castellano was made boss. Neil was also convinced my father was innocent of whatever acts his men perpetrated. Neil also believed Paul was using the tapes as an excuse to screw Gotti. He believed the tapes were not incriminating, but rather embarrassing to Ruggiero—still, Dellacroce also respected the Commission’s rules. During one conversation at Neil’s home, he told Ruggiero that he agreed with my father; “a compromise would have to be reached.” Neil took Angelo’s side, but at the same time, knew what breaking the rules of the Commission would bring. Even my father strongly urged Ruggiero to hand over the tapes. Dad agreed with Dellacroce and didn’t think these tapes were worth a possible mob war. As it was, these tapes were compromising many others as well as Ruggiero. Dad and Dellacroce were at risk as well. Rumors began to surface that Paul wanted both Dellacroce and my father dead and was conspiring behind their backs. Paul knew Dellacroce would always be resentful because Paul was made boss—and Paul knew Gotti would always stand behind Dellacroce. He blamed his decision on the tape fiasco, but anyone in the know knew it had more to do with the ever-present fear that Dellacroce and Gotti represented. Not too long after the tape situation surfaced, Dellacroce was diagnosed with terminal cancer. This devastated Dad. He loved Neil like Dad. From then on, any other meetings concerning the tapes took place at Neil’s home, at his sickbed.