Tragic (35 page)

“Millions of dollars’ worth of gravy.”

“Was there just one way, or were there many different ways, you went about stealing these funds?” Karp asked.

“Quite a number,” Corcione replied. “I found new ways, or we changed things around sometimes to avoid raising suspicions.”

“Could you give the jury an example of one way?”

“Yes. Part of my job was to invest union funds, including the pension accounts, into stocks, or mutual funds, or hard assets like gold,” Corcione explained. “And as with any investments, there
were risks involved; even some legitimate investments turn sour, though you try to offset those by making more good choices than bad. However, sometimes I’d invest in dummy corporations that we’d set up under fictitious names; then when these companies ‘went out of business,’ or filed for bankruptcy, we’d just declare it the cost of doing business and write it off as a loss. Of course, the money wasn’t actually gone; it just passed through to our other accounts.”

“Was there another source of income for the three of you besides stealing union money?”

“Yes,” Corcione answered. “Vitteli had worked out an agreement with a Russian organized crime syndicate called the Malcheks to use our docks for shipping in exchange for monthly cash payments based on their activities, which to my understanding was mostly going to involve drugs and gunrunning.”

Corcione’s answer brought an angry murmur from the union men seated in the gallery. Someone seated in the row alongside Martindale muttered just loud enough to be heard, “Vitteli, you son of a bitch,” before Judge See gaveled him into silence. “Members of the gallery will refrain from responding to what the witness says or be removed from the courtroom, am I clear?” the judge growled. When he was satisfied that his point had been made, he looked back at Karp. “Continue, please.”

Karp left the rail and moved in front of the prosecution table. “Mr. Corcione, after confessing to this crime, did you reveal the location, accounts, and passwords of the fifteen main accounts, as well as identify the dummy corporations and pass-through accounts to one of my assistant district attorneys, V. T. Newbury, the chief of the Frauds Bureau in the District Attorney’s Office, so that he could attempt to trace and recover the stolen money?”

“Yes.”

“And did you also include your personal accounts, as well as investment portfolio and assets?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And of the approximately forty-seven million dollars you estimate was stolen, do you know how much of that was recovered?”

“I worked with ADA Newbury on some of this and the last time I talked to him, a few days ago, about seventeen million had been recovered.”

“Where’s the other thirty million?”

“Some of it’s been spent. The rest would be wherever Vitteli and Barros sent it after it reached the personal accounts I set up for them.”

“How long could this scheme have lasted?”

Corcione looked up at the ceiling and exhaled through his pursed lips. “As long as no one really looked at the books or tried to account for all the money that was coming in and going out, it could have lasted indefinitely,” he said.

“In fact, how long did it last?”

“For several years while my father was alive, right up until I told you about it in May.”

“Did your father suspect?”

Corcione hung his head. “I don’t think so. He trusted me.”

“Am I correct then to state that so long as you, Vitteli, and Barros controlled the union and its accounting, the three of you were safe from discovery?” Karp asked.

“Yes. However, if someone had any suspicions and a qualified independent auditor with real access to the books, it would have fallen apart like a house of cards.”

“Did there come a time when the three of you became concerned that this house of cards might be in jeopardy?”

“Yes. Just before my father, Leo, died, Vitteli was worried that he was getting ready to name Vince Carlotta to succeed him as president,” Corcione said. “That would have been a disaster for us, because we knew Vince would have insisted on an audit when he took over, if for no other reason than to follow the money in and out of the union.”

“What happened?”

The question seemed to strike Corcione hard. He started to speak but choked up and wiped at his eyes. Finally, he said quietly, “My father died. So there was an election for union president between Mr. Carlotta and Vitteli.”

“Who won?”

“Vitteli.”

“Was it a fair election?”

“No. Vitteli and Barros, along with some of the old guard who were paid off or owed favors, rigged the results. Otherwise Vince would have won, and we would have been caught.”

For the next twenty minutes, Karp led Corcione through the history of Carlotta’s attempt to demand that the allegations of fraud be investigated, including by the U.S. Department of Labor. “Where Vitteli had a spy who made sure he intercepted the complaint and let us know what was going on,” Corcione testified.

“Do you know the name of this spy?”

“No,” Corcione replied. “Vitteli likes to keep those sorts of things to himself; he doesn’t want anybody besides himself to know everything about his business.”

Karp glanced at the clock. Corcione’s testimony about siphoning funds and election fraud was important for the jury to understand. Motive, although not required to be proven, was certainly extraordinary to explain to the jurors to have them understand the underlying reasons for the defendant to commit the crime.

“Your Honor,” he said to the judge. “Mr. Corcione will be on the stand for the remainder of the day, but I’ve reached a place where it might be good to recess for the afternoon break.”

Judge See nodded. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have some scheduling issues on several unrelated cases that will extend our regular afternoon break for about forty-five minutes, so we will reconvene in about an hour.”

T
HE SOUND OF
J
UDGE
S
EE
’
S
gavel had barely echoed around the courtroom before Karp was striding down the aisle and out the doors, headed for his office. He hoped for two things: that Guma was still questioning Anne Devulder and that no one had made off with his copy of the
New York Times.

He reached his office’s reception area just as the three women in the company of Fulton and Guma were about to leave. Asking the women to wait with the detective, he pulled Guma back into his inner office. “How’d it go?” he asked quietly.

“Great,” Guma replied. “Pretty damning when put in context with the rest of our case.”

“Where are they going now?” Karp asked.

“We were just arranging an escort to the East Village Women’s Shelter. Marlene set it up and got it okayed by the director, at least until we figure out something better.”

Karp nodded and then poked his head out of the door. “Anne, could I speak to you alone for a minute, please?”

The woman looked apprehensively at her friends, but they smiled and nodded in his direction so she relaxed and entered the office. “I told Mr. Guma everything I know,” she said, like a child who thought she was in trouble.

“I’m sure you did,” Karp replied. “And again, I can’t thank you enough for your cooperation. I don’t know for sure, but I may need you to testify in this trial.”

A wave of fear passed over Devulder’s face, but then she said, “I understand. I should have come in sooner.”

“What matters is that you’re here now,” Karp replied, “but I want to go over two points you made when you and I first talked. I just want to be clear about something before court resumes again.”

A few minutes later, Devulder left his office accompanied by plainclothes detectives from Fulton’s squad. She headed off with her friends to the women’s shelter. Sitting at his desk, Karp looked down at the front page of the
Times
that Dirty Warren had given him. Under the headline
UNION BOSS TRIAL
was a stock photograph of Vitteli from the night of the Carlotta murder and some general observations of the current state of the stevedores’ union and the outrage and betrayal felt by a large segment of its membership. He opened his desk drawer and took out a pair of scissors.

Soon he was back in court, where he asked Corcione to describe the meeting with Vitteli at which the union boss said his spy in the Labor Department had told him that Carlotta was not giving up his quest to overturn the election results.

“That’s when Vitteli said that Vince had to go.”

“Go? What do you mean by ‘go’?”

“That Vince Carlotta had to die.”

“Did you agree to the plan to murder Vince Carlotta?”

“I didn’t want to at first . . .” Corcione started to explain, but then stopped and shook his head. “Yes, I went along with the plan.”

“Why? Did Vince Carlotta ever do anything to you personally for you to want to cause his death?”

The question seemed to take Corcione aback. “No, not at all. Vince Carlotta was a good man. He always treated me well.”

“Then why go along with a plan to kill him?”

“I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Prison. Or that I’d be next if I tried to stop them. Most of all . . .” Corcione tried to finish his statement but couldn’t; his words just came out in gasps as tears poured down his face.

As the young man struggled, Karp stepped up to the witness stand and poured water from a pitcher that was on the stand into a paper cup. He handed the cup to Corcione, who gratefully accepted it and took a few sips before placing the cup beside the pitcher.

The witness sat still on the stand for a few more moments, looking down at his hands, which were now clasped in his lap. At long last he let out a deep sigh. “Most of all, I was afraid I’d lose the person I loved more than anyone, and who loved me, my life partner, Greg.”

Corcione looked as if one more question in that vein would send him over the edge, and mercifully, Karp moved on. “Did you know a man named Marat Lvov?”

“I knew who he was,” Corcione replied.

“Could you explain to the jury what you knew about him?”

“He was a small-time gangster who lived in the Russian section of Brighton Beach. He was the contact between Charlie Vitteli and the Malchek gang in Brooklyn.”

“Objection,” Kowalski said. “Russian gangs have nothing to do with this case and such a reference is highly prejudicial. I ask that it be stricken from the record and a mistrial declared.”

“Your Honor, all of the People’s evidence is
per force
prejudicial to the defendant,” Karp said. “It’s necessary for the jury and this court to hear and understand all the planning and scheming by the defendant and his intermediaries and conduits that resulted in the execution of the deceased, Vince Carlotta. Simply, Your Honor, all of these overt acts in furtherance of the conspiracy to murder are relevant and admissible.”

“Objection overruled. Please proceed.”

Karp continued: “Was there a time when you met with Marat Lvov in regard to the plan to murder Vince Carlotta?”

“Yes, Barros and I met with Lvov and a man named Alexei Bebnev at Marlon’s Restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Who asked you to attend this meeting?”

“Charles Vitteli sent us.”

“Why didn’t he attend?”

“Vitteli wanted to keep his hands clean by putting layers between himself and whatever might come back to haunt him. He doesn’t trust anybody, except maybe Barros, and I don’t think he even told Joey everything.”

“And what was the purpose of this meeting?”

“To arrange the murder of Vince Carlotta. Bebnev was introduced to us by Lvov as a man who would be willing to kill Vince Carlotta.”

“Was there an agreement to pay Alexei Bebnev to murder Vince Carlotta?”

“Yes. We said we would pay thirty thousand dollars.”

“How would Bebnev get paid?”

“We paid Lvov and he paid Bebnev.”

“Then why meet with Bebnev at all?”

“Vitteli wanted us to check him out,” Corcione replied. “But more than that, he wanted to make sure Bebnev knew who to kill and how he wanted it done.”

As Corcione answered the question, Karp again moved toward the defense table, bringing frowns to the faces of Kowalski and Vitteli, who flushed deep red as his six-foot-five nemesis approached. “Prior to Bebnev arriving, do you recall any conversations between you, Barros, and Lvov regarding Vitteli’s instructions for when the murder was to take place?”

“When we were waiting for Bebnev to arrive, Lvov asked how soon it was supposed to happen. Barros told him that Vitteli wanted it done as soon as possible. Or words to that effect.”

Karp turned to face Vitteli. “Words to the effect that Charlie Vitteli wanted Vince Carlotta to die as soon as possible, correct?”

“Yes.”

“You indicated that you were waiting for Alexei Bebnev to arrive,” Karp said, looking back at the witness stand. “Was there any chance that Bebnev would have overheard the conversation?”

“Quite possibly. I remember that at the time I was a little surprised when he came around the corner . . . just sort of appeared at our booth right as Barros said Charlie wanted it done as soon as possible. Like I said, Vitteli’s paranoid and he wouldn’t have wanted Bebnev to know his first name. Even Barros and I weren’t too happy when Lvov introduced us by our first names to Bebnev.”

“Did Bebnev know Vince Carlotta before this?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Corcione replied.

“Then how was he supposed to know if he was targeting the right man?”

“He was given a photograph by Barros from the
Dock,
the in-house magazine of the North American Brotherhood of Stevedores. Vince was in the photograph.”

“Was anyone else in the photograph?”

“Yes, Vitteli, Barros, and me.”

“Was there anything else to help Bebnev identify which of the four men in the photograph he was supposed to kill?”

“Yes, Vitteli drew a circle around Vince’s face and wrote ‘Vince Carlotta.’ ”

“How do you know that the defendant drew the circle and wrote that name on the photograph?”

“I was in his office with Barros when he did it. It was right before we were supposed to meet Lvov and Bebnev,” Corcione replied. “After he wrote on the photo, he cut the page out of the magazine and gave it to Barros.”