“The magistrate said that because of the parole hold on me, I couldn’t be released anyway. But if the parole situation got resolved, I’d have to decide whether or not I wanted to pursue bail, knowing the dire picture described by the prosecutor.
“The government continued to talk with my lawyer and they were playing hard ball. Their position was that they had me cold on the weapons charge and they were ready to file on me for drug dealing. My suspicions going back to the drug arrests in Vegas and the cops knowing about my fake identification when they arrested me were confirmed. My partner and the document guy were both government informants.
“And if I didn’t cooperate, they planned to convict me and go for my throat at sentencing. They’d seek the maximum sentence on each count and ask that they run consecutively. Including the eight years I was facing for the parole violation, I was already looking at around forty years. But the kicker was they hadn’t even mentioned the bank burglaries and robberies yet. And I didn’t believe for a minute they didn’t know about them. Adding those in, I’d be an old man when I got out of prison—if I got out at all.
“It was getting near crunch time. The feds wanted me on their side, but they wouldn’t wait on me indefinitely. After cutting through all the bullshit, I had two choices. I could spend most of the rest of my life in prison to protect the man who wanted me dead and a bunch of guys who’d just as soon kill me as look at me. Or I could try to avoid that by becoming something I’d been taught to hate since I was a kid. I could switch sides and become a rat.
“I thought about it real hard. I honestly believe that if it was just a matter of doing the prison time, I’d have taken it on the chin. But what did I owe Nicky Corozzo? With Nicky, loyalty was a one-way street. He thought he was owed everyone’s loyalty, that allegiance went up the ladder, but not down. At one time I thought Nicky walked on water. But I’d come to see him for what he really was. Over the last several months, I’d awoke to the fact that Nicky and the whole fuckin’ life weren’t what I’d thought they were when I was younger. So the answer to my own question was I didn’t owe Nicky Corozzo a goddamn thing.
“Even realizing all that, it was still a hard decision—the hardest decision of my life. I’d been moved to the federal facility in Otisville, New York [located approximately 70 miles northwest of New York City]. I remember sitting on the bunk in my cell crying to myself, wondering if there was a truly right way to go.
“I have to say the most decisive factor during my internal deliberations was Michael Callahan. When we’d talked, he admitted he couldn’t promise me anything. He said if I flipped, it wouldn’t be an easy road. But when it was all over, my life would be my own. As far as I was concerned, during the past year he was the only one who told me the truth. His honesty impressed me and moved me along in the right direction. His truthfulness probably saved my life.
“After I made my decision, I told my lawyer that I wanted to get serious about a deal. I mean, up until then, the government couldn’t be totally sure how much value I’d have as a witness. And I didn’t know exactly what they’d bring to the table. It was time to meet with the prosecutor and find out.
“Because of my parole thing, it was easy for me to leave the prison without creating suspicion. Whenever I was taken out, the other inmates assumed it had something to do with that. My first meeting was what’s known as ‘queen for a day.’ That’s when you can tell all you know and nothing you say can be used against you. The prosecutors can evaluate your credibility and how much of an asset you’d be.
“I must have made a good impression. After talking with me for about twenty minutes the prosecutor said I was a ‘treasure trove’ of information. She also said that what I was telling them would require a lot of investigation. There probably wouldn’t be any visible action taken against Nicky or anyone else for about eighteen months. That said, she was ready to talk a deal. It boiled down to me promising to put it all out there as truthfully as I could. If I got caught lying or holding back, any promises the government made to me or any sentencing recommendations were out the window. And about the only real promise they made was to protect me and my family.
“After that I was transported from Otisville every so often to be debriefed. And the cover story, that my trips were mostly about my fight with the parole people, seemed to work like a charm. None of my fellow organized-crime inmates acted different toward me or gave me any reason to think they were suspicious of me.
“But working both sides of the fence is something I wouldn’t recommend to anybody. I had to wonder how long it would be before someone got wise. I always worried about bumping into someone who knew me when I was coming in or out of one of those meetings. If I was seen somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be, I knew the word would get around quick. And everybody knows that prison isn’t a healthy place to be if they think you’re a snitch.
“While I was in Otisville, my cellmate was a Genovese capo called Nicky the Blonde. And I met another Genovese guy named Tommy Barrett who was good friends with the bank-robbery crew I had worked with. Tommy was doing fourteen years for bank robbery himself.
“After we became friends, I told Tommy that I was fighting a battle to get bail set in my parole case. If I could do that, I had a shot at bail on the federal charge too. With some luck, I could possibly end up back out on the street.
“Tommy said that because I’d robbed with his friends, he knew I was trustworthy. He said he had a connection with the Brinks company who’d be able to give us a money truck. If I got out, he wanted to use me to get that message to Joe Miraglia, Tommy Scuderi, and Sal DeMeo. They’d take down the truck and he could make a score while sittin’ in prison.
“I hadn’t been lookin’ for that information. It just kinda fell into my lap. At my next debriefing, I told them about it.
“The government wanted to have me out on bail too. Not just for the Brinks deal, though. They figured I’d be able to get close to Mike Yannotti and wear a wire on him.
“But when I finally had my parole hearing, the judge said no way was she going to let me out. She said that I shot people for a living and was way too dangerous. She wouldn’t have any part in releasing me back into society. The federal prosecutor’s recommendation had absolutely no effect on her. She gave me the maximum sentence she could on the parole violation—eight years. And I believe her decision to throw the book at me saved my life.
“Nicky wanted me dead. He thought I was holding back money from him. He also thought I was being a smartass by helping put money into the pockets of guys from other families. But I think his biggest thing against me was that I was the only person who could tie him and Mike Yannotti to Robert Arena’s murder. They knew it and I knew it. There was no doubt in my mind that if they got the opportunity, they’d kill me. They’d have felt they had no choice. If I went back on the street, I was a dead man, wire or no wire.
“Don’t get me wrong. If it worked out that way, I’d have fought for my life. But there’s no way you can win a fight with the family boss. Another crewmate or guys from another family, maybe you got a chance. But not when you’re up against the boss. Then there’s no winning, no chance for survival. Maybe I’d have gone out in a blaze of glory and taken Mike or some others with me. But after all was said and done, I’d have ended up being a ten-minute conversation in a bar and I didn’t want that. Under the situation I was in, staying behind bars was my best chance—my only chance—to stay alive.”
Andrew continued to play his dangerous game: maintaining his appearance of being just another gangster in trouble with the law in the eyes of his fellow inmates, while secretly greasing the wheels of justice during his clandestine meetings with government prosecutors. He was frequently moved between Otisville and various courthouses. Sometimes he spent a night or two housed at the MCC. A conversation he had with a Lucchese capo during one such stay in late 1997 is etched in his mind.
“One night around Christmas we were sitting in a cell talking. He said, ‘Look at
us. We’re sittin’ here in jail like two idiots. Our friends are out drinkin’ and laughin’ and havin’ a good time. But they don’t realize that their lives are on oxygen tanks too.’
“Then he pointed out the window toward the courthouse and said, ‘Do you see that building across the street with the offices all lit up? They’re working over there around the clock to put you, me, and our friends away forever. Our friends go to sleep, but those guys never do. They’re always out there buildin’ their cases. So while our friends are celebratin’ Christmas, right in one of those rooms somebody’s signing their indictments. The government has too much money and too many people. We can never win this war.’
“He was right and me and him knew it. But there were a lot of guys still in the life that didn’t.”
19
Tremors
In 1998, Andrew came to realize that his decision to become a government witness was a bed of thorns, just as Michael Callahan had predicted. Although he was comfortable with providing information against Nicky Corozzo, Mike Yannotti, and others, he would also be required to share what he knew about those he considered to be friends, such as the bank-robbery crew. And even his mother wasn’t completely supportive.
He also knew that when his information bore fruit and indictments and arrests became public, his role would be exposed. That would likely be followed by having to face his former associates in a courtroom. This was not a pleasant prospect. But the alternative was worse. So, in spite of those drawbacks, Andrew honored his agreement with the government.
Besides, as Andrew reflected on his life and on organized crime in general during his sessions with prosecutors, he experienced a true appreciation for how that life had affected him, his family, friends, enemies, and victims. When looking at the total picture, he was stunned by the havoc he and his associates had wreaked. Many people had been hurt who didn’t deserve to be hurt. Several were dead who didn’t have to die. His decision to cooperate became more than just a means of survival for him. It also presented an opportunity to atone for his own actions and perhaps help him to move on in a positive direction after his deal with the government had been fulfilled.
“Living up to my end of the bargain with the government wasn’t always easy,” Andrew recalls, “especially at the beginning, before I came to grips with what a bad person I’d been. But during my many hours talking with prosecutors, I had to relive my life all the way back to my teens. Crime by crime, I had to tell them what I’d done, who with, and why. Who I’d tried to kill and who I’d wanted to kill. The robberies, larcenies, frauds, drug deals—on and on. And I had to tell them about things I hadn’t done personally and had only heard about.
“As I put it all out there, I was shocked by my own admissions. The things I’d done hadn’t seemed so bad when I was doin’ them; they’d seemed natural to me. I was a tough guy and a gangster and those things were what guys like me did. And I’d done them without givin’ it a second thought. But looking back at them in their totality, it was hard to believe I was talking about myself. The picture I painted was that all my adult life, I’d looked for ways to take advantage of somebody from the time I got up until I went to bed. I tried to tell myself that I really hadn’t been that bad. But the evidence was overwhelming. I was thirty-two years old and I’d been a real bastard for half of that time.
“And when I was being honest with myself, I couldn’t even blame it on my environment. It contributed, sure. But I knew right from wrong. Nicky didn’t hold a gun to my head and tell me to commit crimes for him. It was my reputation as a thief and tough kid that brought me to his attention. The choices I’d made were mine. I couldn’t find anyone else to blame.
“But those realizations about myself and organized crime occurred over time. My toughest obstacles at first were having to give up my friends along with my enemies and convincing my mother that I had made the right decision.
“Unfortunately, a government witness doesn’t get to pick who or what he’ll talk about. The prosecutors had made it very clear that they wouldn’t accept anything from me but total honesty. Nothing was off the table—not my own crimes or those that I committed with others. That meant I had to throw my buddies from the bank-robbery crew under the bus along with everybody else. That was a real hard thing to do at the beginning. Later, I came to accept the fact that we were all part of the life. And the way the game is played, it’s the bottom line that counts in the end. If Nicky had kept the pressure on them about how much we actually made in that New Jersey bank robbery and some other scores, they’d have eventually given me up. That’s the way it works.
“My mother wasn’t upset about the cooperation aspect of my deal. She was concerned about the long-term effects. The way she looked at it, some of the high-profile guys who turned government witness, guys like Sammy the Bull, had lots of money stashed when they flipped. They could start over again a lot easier than I’d be able to. She worried that they’d stick me in some Godforsaken place with no money and no way to establish myself. But after a while, she realized that there wasn’t really any other option for me and she knew it was the right move.
“My nervousness came from the lack of knowing exactly what kind of sentence I was going to get when I had to face a judge and pay for all the crimes I was admitting to. The prosecutor’s promise of a sentencing recommendation didn’t tell me a hell of a lot. I knew the New Jersey bank job could carry a long prison term all by itself. And a felon in possession of a weapon was serious as well. I could still end up in prison until I was an old man. I didn’t think that would happen. But the uncertainty was there.”
For the next several months, Andrew continued his routine: shuttled among Otisville, MCC, and various courthouses. Although he would eventually enter the first phase of the federal Witness Protection Program—the phase for incarcerated witnesses—for the time being he remained in general population.
“In prison, like on the streets, you run into some guys you like and some you don’t. One of those I met was Theodore Persico, my friend Teddy Persico’s father. I liked him, but he was a little eccentric. We met in Otisville and after the first twenty minutes of conversation, I surmised that he was a pretty thrifty guy. In fact, I figured he probably still had the first nickel he ever made in organized crime. For example, New York State charged nickel deposits on their soda cans. He went around the prison and collected the cans from the trash barrels and turned them in for the deposit. Considering that Theodore was a boss, money certainly wasn’t an issue for him. Like I said, he was a nice guy, but a bit odd.”
Andrew really shouldn’t have been surprised that the elder Persico wasn’t a free spender. If like-father-like-son is any indication, Andrew’s dealings with Danny Persico, Theodore’s son, should have tipped him off.
“Danny, me, and some of our associates met for dinners and lunches multiple time per week. And during these outings, Danny was known for always leaving others with the tab. During our friendship, it became a long-running joke. I really liked Danny and it was all in good fun.
“One day me, Tommy Dono, and Benny Geritano returned the favor by playing a trick on Danny that he wouldn’t forget. It was an afternoon and we were hanging around a friend’s social club in Bensonhurst. There were about ten of us and we were gettin’ a little hungry, so we went to this neighborhood restaurant that was owned by a friend of ours. It was also one of Danny’s favorite spots. So I called Danny and told him he could meet us there when he was through with his business in Manhattan.
“Our timing was perfect. We knew we’d be long gone before Danny got there. After ordering like kings, with six bottles of wine and entrées, I went downstairs and put the plan into place. I used the pay phone to call the restaurant upstairs. Doing my best impersonation of Danny’s squeaky voice, I asked to speak with the owner.
“I said, ‘It’s cousin Danny. Are Andrew and the boys there? Good. Listen to me. Today is Tommy’s birthday. I’m supposed to be there, but I can’t make it. So make sure I get
the bill. Don’t charge anyone and I’ll stop by in a few hours and pay the tab.’
“I hung up the phone and went back upstairs. The owner stopped at our table a couple of minutes later. He said Danny had called and said our meals and all the trimmings—nearly a thousand dollars worth—were on him. There was a moment of silence as we all looked at each other and then burst out laughing.
“When we left the restaurant, we went down the street to a bar we frequented. Danny was dating a girl who worked there and we knew he’d show up after he stopped at the restaurant. Within an hour, Danny came flyin’ through the door. His face was beet red and he was waving the bill in the air. He yelled across the room, ‘Andrew, are you on fuckin’ medication?’
“We were all laughing so hard we could hardly breathe. We bought Danny a drink. In a couple of minutes he’d calmed down and was laughing with us. He knew he had it coming.”
During his confinement, Andrew met some other interesting organized-crime figures and gained valuable insights into the mentality of many of the bosses. The results were both disappointing and beneficial.
He met Andrew Russo at MCC. He’d been a Colombo boss at one time and in the streets his whole life. Still, he came across as intelligent and well-read. He had a wide range of interests and could carry on a conversation on almost any subject. Andrew’s time spent with Russo during their incarceration was definitely a learning experience.
Russo’s son Jo Jo was there too, on a conviction from the Colombo war. Jo Jo passed away not long ago. Andrew doesn’t relish speaking ill of the dead, but he says Jo Jo wasn’t like his father. He was more like a baby. Every day he whined about his conviction.
Surviving the Mob Page 18
