The night Paul Castalano was murdered, I was in a bar in Manhattan with Sal when we saw the news broadcast announcing his death. Sal had a broad smile on his face as he watched the news commentator. Sal had been acting sort of edgy, insisting that I spend the entire day with him. Now I understood why. He knew what was coming down and needed an alibi. He asked me to join him at a hidden farmhouse in Vermont that the Mob often used after a publicized murder had taken place. I refused. This was a red-hot happening that I wanted no part of. The eighty-eight acres of wilderness was owned by a New York City police lieutenant. This law enforcement official was responsible for setting up a safe haven for the Mob. He put the tie together with “Shoot ’Em in the Back” Donnelley, the local sheriff of the small Vermont town. Being on the Mob’s payroll, Donnelley tipped off the mobsters whenever the Feds came snooping around. It had been an interesting week.
I ignored the agent’s sarcasm and flopped into the oversize leather chair stationed near the fireplace. “My presence both times was perfectly innocent,” I answered, unshaken.
“Yeah, sure it was. What kind of business does a guy like Salvatore Reale have for fourteen hours with Commissioner Sedowski, Board of Elections; Pete Presioso, head of Intelligence; John Santucci, district attorney for Queens; and Lieutenant Doyle of the 106th precinct?”
“If three grand juries couldn’t find out, why would you think I’d have the answer?” But I did have the answer. It was never made public, but the purpose of that meeting was to use the Mob’s influence to get Pete Presioso elected as the new Police commissioner.
The FBI agent leaned back on the couch and ran a hand over his closely cut reddish hair. “We’re still baffled. Only two calls were placed at that meeting. Why would they call Tip O’Neil, in Washington and Mayor Koch at home?” The agent seemed to be asking the question more to himself than to me.
I tried hard not to grin. “Beats the hell out of me,” I said, popping the top off my can of soda and taking a long swig.
“We know for a fact that you know more than you’re telling us. If you want to win your custody case, I think you’d better start talking.”
“What’s so unusual about Sal being with a bunch of politicians? He was elected to the National Convention for Nixon for the thirty-eighth assembly district, for Christ’s sake!” I retorted.
“Yeah, we know about that. And it turned out to be the most politically corrupt clubhouse ever under Reale’s leadership. Maybe even worse than when Carmine DeSapio ran Tammany Hall.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Your friend Salvatore is quite a colorful guy, a real gentleman. Now tell us about this money,” he pressed.
They grilled me for a little longer. The FBI agent finally stood to leave, giving me an unsatisfied grin. Leading the way, I opened the door and they all filed out.
“We’ll be in touch. . . .”
I did not hear from Sal for another week.The story broke over the news and in the papers, so I at least knew they were alive. The headline read: “Gotti’s Pal, Sal, Picked up with 3.8 Million.” 3.8 million? A mistake? I didn’t think so. God, how close I had come to those headlines bearing my name. Sal told me in shocking detail what had happened. Maybe not so shocking to me—I had dealt with crooked authorities—but the scale to which this corruption existed was truly amazing. . . .
When Sal and Jerry walked back into the guard shack, only seven of the original ten men were still there. The agents, still hovering over the money, were shocked when they turned and saw that the two mobsters had returned. An awkward silence filled the room while the agents cautiously eyed one another.
The money was neatly laid out on two eight-foot-long tables. A four-by-four-foot empty space immediately signaled foul play. Sal nonchalantly scanned the money, quickly adding it up in his head. Ten bundles high, $100,000 per row . . . that meant a total of $700,000 missing, along with the three agents. Recognizing the greed in the eyes that watched him, Sal knew that if he accused them, he and Jerry would be dead. He resolved to let them keep the $700,000 and he’d walk away. But it wasn’t that easy.
By daybreak the next morning, the border patrol and the other agents were still counting the money. It was a long, exhausting night. Sal began to look a bit disheveled. Jerry remained unchanged. They were sitting on a bench outside of the shack, smoking a cigarette from their fifth pack, when they heard the faint roar of helicopters approaching. As the sound grew louder, they could make out three birds in the sky, flying in an echelon formation. Closer. Heat waves rose from the hot desert road, creating a surreal mirage effect as the flying machines came into focus. Closer.
The military-type choppers circled overhead, preparing to land. Adrenaline shot through both Sal and Jerry as the helicopters descended, creating a dust storm from which there was no escape. Sal said an odd thought crossed his mind; he wondered if the dry cleaners could get the dirt out of his $400 silk shirt. Knowing Sal, I didn’t find that thought so odd.
The helicopter blades were still spinning when the doors slid open and men in black jumpsuits, armed with machine guns, came out. Not until the dust settled could Sal and Jerry tell how many there were. An army of men, some forty in all, arrived via helicopters, government vehicles, and state police cars.
John Gleason and George Stamboulitis from the New York Organized Crime Strike Force were flown in during the night in a private jet. A siren was heard and a speeding car pulled up to the scene carrying a U.S. Attorney from Texas. A round-faced, gray-haired FBI agent by the name of Reynolds and the chief of border patrol came in from Washington.
No camaraderie existed among the government officials. Each pursued his own self-important path to fame. With proud smiles, they took turns posing for pictures standing next to the money. Before long, heated arguments flared between them over who would be getting the money. The FBI argued that it had initiated the investigation. Customs declared its claim, as it was their illegal-alien checkpoint where the money was confiscated. The DEA argued that it would be proven to be drug money and therefore should belong to them.
As the officials all huddled, another car pulled up. Four men in suits exited the vehicle. One of them, carrying a white piece of paper, walked directly over to the money and slapped the paper on top of it, saying, “This is an IRS matter.” His credentials revealed that he was the head of Intelligence Division for the IRS. Sal noted that the look on the other faces was almost as pained as his own expression had been eight hours earlier.
The FBI man, Reynolds, eventually walked over to Sal, asking him to sign a release for the money. Sal looked at the paper, which read $3.8 million. He handed it back to the agent, saying, “I’m not signing that; it’s the wrong amount. There’s supposed to be 4.5 million. They stole $700,000 when they released us.”
Reynolds let lose with a roaring laugh and hollered over to John Hopkins, “Hey, Hopkins, wanna hear a good one? This guinea says you released him.”
The room fell silent. Hopkins eyes darted nervously from face to face.”Hey, well, what’s the crime? We didn’t find any drugs. The money could be theirs, for all we know. What could we hold ’em on?”
Reynolds’s eyes narrowed. “You know he’s a top OC guy. We knew about it; you knew about it—who you kidding?” Reynolds turned to Jerry, still not believing that any law enforcement officials would be stupid enough to let the suspects out of their sight. “Did you leave the scene?”
“We came together; we left together,” Jerry answered.
“Where’d you go?” Reynolds asked with great concern.
“To a gas station down the road.”
Reynolds glanced at John Hopkins with a disgusted look, and then turned back to Jerry. “You use the phone?”
“Yeah.”
Reynolds panicked. He yelled out to the other agents, “We’re gonna be taken down! Get the money out of here—NOW!”
The helicopters started up. Men disappeared in the dust storm with bags full of money. Each helicopter t
ook off with $1 million and one man from each government agency. The $800,000 left over was divided between seven vehicles. In a matter of five minutes, the place was evacuated.
The remaining lawmen jumped into the waiting cars and turned on the flashing lights. With sirens blaring and speeds exceeding a hundred miles per hour, they headed for the Federal Building sixty miles away in El Paso. Jerry turned to Sal after they were placed in the car and said, “Gee, now I know what John Dillinger musta felt like.”
Upon entering the Federal Building, Sal and Jerry were taken to the fifth floor. Awaiting their arrival were eight Secret Service agents who had been flown in earlier from Washington. Their job was to check the money for counterfeit bills. So far, Sal and Jerry were clear of any wrongdoing, except perhaps evading taxes.
Sal smelled it coming. He took Reynolds aside and whispered, “Listen, Fat Face, you stick a phony bill in there and believe me, I’ll scream plenty. I’ll start from the president on down. I’m sure the American public would find it interesting why the CIA had members of the Gambino crime family standing by in the background in France when President Bush met with Ollie North on the Iran-Contra matter. And that’s just one example.” Reynolds understood.
Sal was eventually charged with a probation violation for unauthorized travel and served five years in prison. Jerry was released. The money was never returned, nor did Sal ask for it back. And I got back to my problem at hand.
One good thing did happen that week. The stock I’d bought from Dennis took an upward turn. I sold it, making the profit Dennis had promised I would. Now I had all the ammunition I needed to fight Richard. God always provides. It saddened me that Dennis was not around to see how his vision had materialized. I invested my profits at a high rate of interest with a man who owned five banks. I was prepared to spend every dime to get my son back.
Chapter Eighteen
The custody trial began. A reputable person in the psychology field took the stand on Richard’s behalf. I had never met this woman, yet she testified that she had been in my home. From what she had observed, Richard was the better parent. I was appalled at what the power of money could buy. I learned a lot about the judicial system. Every little detail was twisted to look like a major flaw in my personality. The things I could have said in my defense were not allowed. I could answer only yes or no, without explanation. The days turned into weeks, and the questions were grueling.
“Do you know a man by the name of Dan Whitman?” Mr. Anton, Richard’s attorney, asked.
“Yes, Dan is a friend of mine,” I answered.
“Where is Dan presently?”
“Dan is in prison presently,” I said, knowing exactly where he was going with this line of questioning.
“And what is Mr. Whitman doing time for?”
“I don’t know. It had something to do with ticket scalping or something.”
“Isn’t it true Dan Whitman is in prison for conspiracy to commit murder?”
“I object!” my attorney interrupted. “I’m not going to allow my client to answer that question. That has nothing to do with this child custody case!”
Seymour Winston was my attorney. I had sought his legal assistance on the advice of Dan Whitman, as Dan had known Seymour for years. He respected him as much as I did. Dan was not the criminal they were trying to make him out to be, or at least, the Dan I knew wasn’t. He had been involved with the Rams’ owner’s husband, selling tickets to the Super Bowl. Tax evasion and other accusations prompted his arrest. I don’t know all the details of the case, but evidently they had enough evidence to convict him.
“I think it has everything to do with this case, counsel. It establishes the kinds of characters your client associates with,” Anton retorted.
“Well, excuse me,” I interrupted. “Dan Whitman happens to be very close and very good friends with Ronald Reagan. If he’s good enough for Ronnie, I’d think he’d be good enough for me.”
Mr. Anton looked lost for words. Seymour looked surprised and a little self-satisfied. A slight grin broke out on his face as he waited for the opposing counsel’s comeback. Mr. Anton wasn’t prepared for what he’d heard; he paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts.
“Well, that’s a matter of opinion,” he said, and immediately changed the subject.
By the lunch break a few hours later, we appeared to be in the lead. Richard and his attorney sat a few tables away in the courthouse lunchroom.
“Does Dan really know Reagan?” Seymour whispered.
“No, but what are they going to do, subpoena him?” I answered with a coy smile.
Seymour burst into laughter. Richard and his bald-headed attorney looked over at our table curiously.
“You really threw him for a loop. Whatever made you think of that?”
“I just thought about Dan. He does walk with royalty. Just think of all the people he associates with, Seymour. He’s tight with many of the stars from his producing days. He’s college educated and well respected. That jackass was trying to convince the judge that he’s a low-life criminal. It just got to me. You know as well as I do that’s not who Dan is, but how do you make the judge see that? I don’t know, Seymour. It just came out.”
“Well, keep it up and we’ll win this case.”
“Do you really think so?”
“It’s different today than it used to be, Georgia. The court always used to lean toward the mother, but today they look more at the whole picture. The judge will analyze your lifestyles. Richard is married. He’s retired, which means he can be in the home all the time. He can afford the private schools and the tutors. You, on the other hand, are on location a lot. You’re not married. Right now Richard appears to be the more stable of the two of you. We have to prove otherwise.”
“Seymour, many single mothers work. We have to work. I don’t have anybody paying my bills. How do I provide a home for my son if I don’t work? The judge certainly has to take that into consideration.”
“You should’ve gone to court when you divorced Richard. I can’t believe you walked away from that situation with nothing. Do you realize you probably could have gotten ten thousand a month in child support? You wouldn’t have to be a working mother right now. I was amazed you didn’t go after it.”
“Seymour, we’ve already gone over that. I just wanted to be happy. A court battle would only put my life on hold. I didn’t care about Richard’s money. I knew I could survive; I always have. I didn’t need him or his money.”
“But look what it’s costing you now. It’s a catch-twenty-two. I don’t know how it’s going to come out. All I’m saying is, they’re leaning more and more toward the fathers these days, especially in California. I just want you to prepare yourself emotionally if it goes that way. In the meantime, you need to think about his history with drugs.”
“Why do these kinds of trials always have to get dirty? Just the simple fact that Richard’s mind is warped is reason enough for the judge to see my son is better off with me. Richard just gives Dustin money and lets him do whatever he desires. He doesn’t spend quality time with him, whereas I take him camping, I take him fishing, I get him involved in sports. That’s usually the kind of things dads do. I may work, but my time with Dustin is quality time. I give him me. Richard gives him money. Richard doesn’t know how to love. He buys people; he buys love—that’s all he knows. The judge has to see that.”
“I know you’d like to keep this clean, but it just can’t happen that way. You saw what they were trying to do to discredit you. He’s insinuated that you’re an alcoholic and a drug addict; he’ll try to use that to counter his own affliction. Is there anything he can say in that regard to give his accusations any merit?”
“No. I can’t do what I do for a living and take drugs! I’m a believer in living on the edge, but that’s a good way to drive over it. I rarely drink as much as a glass of wine when I’m on location, Seymour. It’s absurd!”
“Well, the film business is known for heavy drug
users. Have you ever been in the company of these people when drugs were in use?”
“No . . . Well, there was one time that did happen.”
“When was that? I want all the details. I don’t want to be caught off guard.”
“It was around midnight when I got to the Santa Monica airport. The production company had chartered a jet to fly us to the Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah—”
“What were you filming?”
“A commercial for Volkswagen.”
“Was that the one where the car blasts through the paper barrier and does a three-sixty?”
“Yes.”
“I remember that one. So then what happened?”
“There were about nine of us in the crew who weren’t flying commercially. We waited in the plane until two o’clock in the morning before the director finally showed up. I was getting impatient. I’d worked all day and planned on getting some shut-eye on the plane. We were scheduled to be shooting by sunrise.”
“You’ve got a pretty unusual occupation. Why were you leaving at such a late hour?”
“Some key people, including myself, had other obligations we had to fulfill. With the conflicting agendas, it was too late to catch a commercial flight and make it to the Volkswagen location on time. The director’s shoot lasted longer than anticipated, leaving us all with no time to rest before we had to start working again. I was going to try and get at least an hour of sleep. That never happened.”
“Is this where we get to the incriminating part?”
“Well, it’s not really incriminating, Seymour, but you wanted to hear the extent of any drug history with people in the business.”
“Is Richard aware of this incident, or does he know anyone who was there?”
“I don’t know. He might.”
“Okay, go on.”
“As soon as the director boarded, he put the stereo on full blast, making it impossible to sleep. He pulled a bottle of vodka from his bag and began pouring everyone a drink. He was sort of a rebel—not your typical director. I had never really dealt with that kind of behavior in the film business before, believe it or not, at least not to that extreme.”
The Company She Keeps Page 45
