Surviving the Mob

by Dennis Griffin

  “Those guys sat in MCC for seven years fightin’ and appealin’ their cases. I couldn’t believe they didn’t want to go to Otisville so they could at least get some fresh air. But they didn’t. They stayed at MCC the whole time.

  “It’s funny that you hear a lot about some of these guys, who are kinda like legends when they’re on the streets. But when you see them behind bars, you find out they’re human beings like the rest of us. They put their pants on like the rest of us and they’ve got their own strengths and weaknesses. That can be a letdown, because sometimes their street personalities aren’t as colorful when you meet them in person behind bars.

  “I learned a lot about some of those guys I’d thought were larger than life while I was locked up with them. What I saw contributed to my changing attitude about organized crime and the people in it. Most of what I’d thought it was didn’t really exist. The camaraderie, the idea that it was one big family where everybody took care of each other, was all bullshit. During my last several months on the streets, I’d learned that true friends were few and far between. And that guys like Nicky Corozzo didn’t give a fuck about anybody but themselves. When they could use you to make them rich and take care of their dirty work for them, you were okay. But if you stopped producing or got so good at your job that you became a threat, you became expendable. And make no mistake, we were all expendable.

  “People think that those of us who become government witnesses turned against the bosses. The reality is the bosses turned against us. The guys in middle management and on the streets have to follow certain protocols. But not the bosses. They change the rules or make new ones to suit their own situations. They take from their underlings until there’s nothing left. Then they put them in no-win situations where they either have to pay with their life or give up their life. And I’ll tell you something, anybody who doesn’t believe that and decides to get into the life is in for a rude fuckin’ awakening.

  “So those days gave me a front-row seat into the mindset of the big shots as they planned their strategy on how they’d defend themselves in court. I’ve heard it said that watching sausage being made isn’t a pretty sight. For me, seeing and hearing what was going on was the organized-crime version of making sausage. Those guys had no loyalty to anybody. The so-called principles that I once thought everybody, even the bosses, abided by were laid bare as lies. As those scenarios unfolded, on the one hand I felt like a real sucker. I’d bought into that crap hook, line, and sinker. On the other hand, it made me feel better about what I was doing. The whole Mafia thing in my day was built on lies and misconceptions. These guys didn’t feel the least bit guilty about what they’d done or were prepared to do. I was beginning to have no regrets either.”

  Andrew longed to see his son. But Dina wouldn’t allow it, citing the fact that because he was involved in a serious relationship with Charlotte, visitation wouldn’t be appropriate. That didn’t sit very well with him.

  “Dina was what I call a sauce maker. And I don’t mean in the kitchen. She seemed to cause trouble for me at every turn. She didn’t want to live with me, but didn’t want anybody else to have me either. I think she was relishing the fact that I was in prison and hoped that I’d need her somewhere down the line. I refused to kiss her ass and she used my son as leverage against me. So I didn’t see him at all for two years—while I was on the run and while I was in Otisville and MCC.

  In the late summer of 1998, Andrew went to court and admitted his part in the 1996 New Jersey bank robbery. Shortly after that, prosecutors informed him that the cases he had provided information on were moving forward and indictments would be forthcoming in the near future. He knew when that happened, the cat would be partially out of the bag. There would be suspicion at the least; eventually, the whole story would get out.

  “The first case was going to be against the bank-robbery crew,” Andrew said. “That made me kind of sad. But the choice wasn’t mine. And knowing they’d have had no choice but to give me up to Nicky somewhere down the line made it a little easier.

  “I appeared before Judge Charles P. Sifton on September third for sentencing on the bank-robbery plea. It was kind of a surreal experience. None of the cases I was helping with had been announced yet, so he’d have to take the prosecutor’s word about how helpful I was being. If he wasn’t convinced, he could have given me thirty years. That made me pretty nervous and I had butterflies when I stood before him. As he talked, he said he wondered how many generations organized crime would ruin. And then he started to cry. The first thing I thought was that he was going to use me as an example that society had to get tough on crime.

  “But he didn’t. He said he’d been told the extent of my cooperation and sentenced me to forty-eight months. He stated that he was uncomfortable giving me that much time and he ordered that his sentence run concurrent with the eight years I’d been given for the parole violation. He added that if I could rectify my parole situation, he’d consider bringing me back to further reduce the sentence he’d just handed down.

  “Under the circumstances, the news couldn’t have been any better. The almost twenty months I’d been locked up counted toward his sentence. Adding in my good-time allowance, my federal sentence timed out on November seventh, 2000.

  “Just days after the sentencing, a correction officer got me up around four-thirty in the morning and told me I was being moved to the Hole. Nicky the Blonde was my cellmate and he was concerned that the move was disciplinary. But I knew it was the first move in getting to the Witness Protection unit. Later that same day, the first arrests in the bank-robbery case came down: Paul Mazzarese, Tommy Scuderi, and Joe Miraglia. Sal DeMeo made an agreement to turn himself in, but went on the lam instead. The word quickly circulated in the newspapers and on the streets.

  “Right after that, correction officers who knew me from the compound would stop by my cell and ask what was going on. I knew better than to tell them anything, because any one of them could have been playing both sides of the fence.

  “One of the officers I knew a little better than the others told me that trouble was breaking out in the compound over me. Some inmates said I’d sold out and others said that would never happen. Speculation about me was running rampant. As tempers flared, organized-crime guys were getting into fist fights among themselves. I’m sure there were a lot of people, including Nicky, hoping my defenders were right. If they weren’t and I’d actually flipped, they knew there was trouble ahead.”

  The rumblings about Andrew’s possible cooperation with the government caused shock waves both inside and outside of the prison. Unfortunately, he had to stay in the Hole until he was formally accepted into the federal Witness Protection Program.

  WITNESS PROTECTION—

  HISTORY AND PROCESS

  The federal Witness Protection Program (WPP) was implemented in 1970 to protect crucial government witnesses whose prospective testimony put them in immediate danger. Since its inception, more than 7,500 witnesses and 9,500 witness family members have entered the program and have been protected, relocated, and given new identities. It is operated by the U.S. Marshals Service.

  The cost of operating the WPP is substantial. The total cost of bringing one witness and his immediate family into the program in 1997 was approximately $150,000. The operating budget for the program in fiscal year 1996 was $46.3 million. The following year it grew to $61.8 million.

  A 1997 article about the WPP by Ridson N. Slate states the case for such expenditures: “U.S. Attorneys throughout the nation state that the program is the most valuable tool that they have in fighting organized crime and major criminal activity. Over 100 mobsters are purported to be participants in the WPP. For example, the testimony of alleged protected witness Salvatore Gravano, who was reportedly involved in nineteen murders and actually acknowledged pulling the trigger in one hit, proved instrumental in sending mob boss John Gotti to prison for life. In addition, terrorists, drug traffickers, members of motorcycle and prison gangs, and
other major criminals have been adversely affected by the testimony of protected witnesses.”

  The same article further states that in all the cases involving protected-witness testimony since the program’s inception, the government has reportedly realized a conviction rate of 89%—an impressive statistic that makes clear that familiarity on the part of witnesses often goes beyond casual observations and includes involvement in the criminal enterprise. Ninety-seven percent of witnesses entering the program have had criminal records and been deeply involved in some type of criminal activity. And somewhat surprisingly, according to the United States Marshals Service, the recidivism rate for witnesses with prior criminal histories who entered the program and were later arrested and charged with crimes is less than 23%. This recidivism percentage among program participants is less than half the rate of those released from the nation’s prisons.

  The process for admission into the WPP isn’t automatic and involves input from several sources. However, final determinations are made by the U.S. Attorney General. Typically, applications for witness protection are submitted by various United States Attorneys and Organized Crime Strike Forces across the country. In addition to the sponsoring attorney’s application, the case agent from the investigative agency provides a threat assessment through his federal headquarters for review. In rendering its decision, the Attorney General takes into consideration information from the United States Attorney, the investigative agency, and the United States Marshals Service. The relevant information includes the importance of the testimony, the possibility of obtaining the desired testimony from someone else, a psychological evaluation of the prospective witness to determine the risk to the community to which the witness will be relocated, and a recommendation by the Marshals Service assessing the suitability of the witness for the program.

  Prisoner witnesses can also apply for protected testimony. The Bureau of Prisons is responsible for protection of prisoner witnesses while incarcerated. The Marshals Service provides secure transportation to and from court and safe testimony. Provided sponsorship is available, prisoner witnesses can also apply for protection upon release from prison.

  A federal investigation and consideration of the likelihood of the prospective witness’ death are essential elements in the assessment of applications for the WPP. Those who are accepted into the program cease to exist under their old names. A check for old records would show that the entrant never existed prior to his or her new identity. Participants may choose their new name as long as it’s ethnically compatible and is not a previously used or a family name. New documentation includes a driver’s license, Social Security card, birth certificate, and diplomas to the level of education that one has actually attained.

  Entrants into the WPP undergo an initiation and introduction to the program at a safe site and orientation center situated in metropolitan Washington, D.C. The location is highly secret and secure, bearing no address. In addition to name changes and new documentation, participants are familiarized with information regarding the area from which they supposedly originate. Though contacts back home are discouraged, participants can initiate, but not receive, calls and can keep in touch through secure mail-forwarding channels. Discretionary money is available for rent, furniture, clothes, automobiles, and so forth. Finally, in a signed Memorandum of Understanding, the responsibilities of participants and the Marshals Service are defined.

  According to the Marshals Service, “In both criminal and civil matters involving protected witnesses, the Marshals Service cooperates fully with local law enforcement and court authorities in bringing witnesses to justice or in having them fulfill their legal responsibilities.”

  However, in his article, Mr. Slate takes issue with that statement, writing: “As an analysis of the history of the WPP shows, along with litigation, and subsequent hearings, it is questionable whether such cooperation has always occurred. The witness protection statutes contemplated only the protection of witnesses and their families—not protection of the public from the witness. This Machiavellian approach of putting governmental interests first has served to taint the origins and development of the WPP.”

  The victim of a glitch, Andrew remained in the Hole for four months. The prosecutors and agents he was working with thought he had already been moved. While they were preparing to visit him in his new home, they found he was still in Otisville. Shortly after that, he was given and passed a polygraph exam and was finally ready to enter the first phase of the WPP on December 16, 1998. It was a move he welcomed.

  “Those four months in the Hole were pretty stressful for me,” Andrew remembers. “By the time they transferred me, I’d lost ten or fifteen pounds and hadn’t had a haircut in months and seldom shaved. I must have looked like somebody who’d been stranded on a deserted island for a while. I was pretty aggravated with the way things had gone. It was the kind of therapy I didn’t need. But I finally was formally accepted.

  “Entering the Program meant moving to a special housing unit with other inmates like yourself. These are usually smaller settings placed in strategic locations across the United States. I have too much respect for the marshals to name any of the locations. All I’ll say is that they’re federally run and the officers who work in those facilities are specially trained.

  “I was with guys from other organized-crime families throughout the country, motorcycle gangs, drug gangs—just about anybody who had been engaged in major gang or organized-crime activity. It was a real learning experience.

  “Being in a small setting, I got to meet and know everybody very quickly. And I found out right away that some of those guys weren’t satisfied to just do their time. They were always looking to get somebody else in trouble. They figured that by ratting on their fellow inmates, they could get a better deal for themselves and get some time shaved off their sentence. They spent their time scheming and plotting. It was a shame, because we were all in the same boat, fighting the same war. But that’s the way it was. Because of that, I limited the number of people I spent time with to a couple of guys I trusted.

  “For the rest of that year and into the next, I spent a lot of time with the prosecutors putting other cases together. One of them involved the Colombo drug-dealing operation. Another was against Wild Bill Cutolo in a shylocking and racketeering case, other drug cases, and the double homicide case involving the death of my friend Robert Arena.

  “And some of the guys on the streets were trying to get messages to me through my family that I should stop cooperating, because I was hurting some good solid people. That was all a bunch of bullshit. These were some of the same people who wanted me dead before I flipped. And then they had the fuckin’ balls to say I should protect them. Those bastards had no shame.”

  Andrew headed into 1999 with renewed dedication to his task. Progress was being made in the criminal cases he was helping put together. Unfortunately, another former friend wouldn’t make it through the year.

  20

  1999

  Two of the three major events for Andrew in 1999 involved the Colombo family. The third concerned the bank-robbery crew. First on the agenda was the case he was helping the FBI build against four Colombo drug dealers.

  Anticipating having to testify at trial against the Colombo men, it came as a pleasant surprise to Andrew when the four defendants made deals with prosecutors and entered guilty pleas. He and the other witnesses were off the hook. Although the convictions hadn’t been rendered by a jury, the pleas were a testament to the strength of the government’s case, which was based partly on the information he provided.

  On the heels of that news, Andrew learned that the bank-robbery crew members were also negotiating pleas. That included Sal DeMeo, who was in custody after an appearance on “America’s Most Wanted.”

  While these developments relieved a certain amount of Andrew’s stress, they didn’t remove it all. He was still confined with 60 other men, all of whom were government witnesses. And many of them were always looki
ng for an opportunity to come up with incriminating information against someone that they could swap to better their own situations. The small space allotted for the witness units limited recreational activities compared to a regular prison. But the lack of a yard large enough to play football or handball was somewhat made up for by one-man cells and television sets.

  No matter the accommodations, nothing could make the inmates stop worrying about the safety of their loved ones. Would the friends of a gangster imprisoned on his testimony seek revenge by harming someone the witness held dear?

  On the other side of the coin were the inmates whose families had turned on them over their decision to cooperate with the government. They received no support at all from their disgruntled kin. So everyone incarcerated in that facility had his own reason for anxiety.

  For Andrew, the seemingly endless hours of debriefing by FBI agents and prosecutors seeking every detail of his involvement in or knowledge of specific crimes was emotionally draining. Reflecting back on it now, he finds that was probably the most insecure period of his life. Nothing felt certain. He was always afraid of what the future held, always wondering how many cases he’d be called to testify at after the agents and lawyers had wrung every bit of information out of him.

  What would it be like when he got out of prison and had to start fresh as a brand new person who had never before existed? Andrew DiDonato, the career tough guy and criminal, would be gone. Who would replace him?

  And then there was his son, whom he hadn’t seen in two years. It didn’t appear that Dina was doing anything to help him salvage a relationship with the boy. That issue was never far from his thoughts. He feared losing his son to the very life he’d just walked away from. Even today, he gets nauseous when he remembers the feelings of sadness and helplessness he experienced at that time.