by Joe Pistone
With the legend in place and rehearsed, as the new me I had to forget about my real background—an Italian-American immigrant heritage that helped shape me, that instilled a mental toughness in me, and that prepared me to serve in the way that I did all those years undercover for my country.
Both sets of grandparents were born in Italy and came over as immigrants. My mother’s people were from Sicily outside of Palermo. My father’s people were from Calabria across from Sicily on the Italian mainland. Both my parents grew up speaking Italian in their homes and they spoke it in our home to my brother, my sister and to me, the oldest. All of my aunts and uncles on both sides spoke Italian in the home.
My grandparents on my mother’s side met in Little Italy in New York City where they had each settled after their Atlantic crossings. Shortly after they met they got married and moved to Robertsdale, Pennsylvania, a coal-mining town south of State College. I was born in their farmhouse. It was a small farm, and most of what they grew was used to feed their large family of nine children. They had pigs for meat, chickens for eggs, and horses for plowing.
My grandfather had a general store, and a saloon and beer distributorship. His son-in-law, my father, worked for him in the saloon. The farmhouse had the saloon underneath it. Across the dirt road was the general store. We used the outhouse to go to the bathroom, what Italian immigrants called the “backhouse” because it was in the back of the house.
My grandfather had a little coal mine behind the farmhouse. It was a mom and pop coal mine. The whole family worked it. It was mostly for their own use because back then everything was coal. Everybody worked hard and set an example of hard work for us kids. I used to cross the creek and walk along the railroad tracks with a coal bucket and pick coal that had fallen from the trains. I’d fill a bucket and come back for another.
We had the best spring in the town. It was the purest and coldest water I have ever had to this day. One of my uncles still has that spring. My grandfather used to let everybody in the town come to his spring for their water. This generous philosophy of life was a lesson that served me well. It helped cement who I really was and what kind of people I came from while I dealt with the gimme and grabby men of the Mafia.
We lived in that unforgettable world till I was about four, but we returned and visited it regularly while I was growing up. It was like a country vacation, and a vacation in the Old Country.
Just before I started school we moved to Paterson, New Jersey so my parents could go out on their own. They chose Paterson because, for some reason unknown to me, most of my mother’s brothers and sisters had moved to Paterson. We lived in the Sandy Hill section, strictly an Italian neighborhood. My aunts and uncles who were there treated us like we were their own kids. They disciplined us when they thought we needed it.
My father ran neighborhood bars. For a while he was a part owner in one bar, but mostly he ran a bar for a good friend of his. In addition to raising three kids and taking care of the house, my mother worked from time to time for a book distributor. Who could imagine that one of her children would grow up to write books? We were poor, but nobody knew it because everybody you hung out with lived the same way. Everybody was in the same boat.
My mother was a very religious Roman Catholic. Although I was raised Roman Catholic I always went to public school. My father’s family had been Catholic in Italy, but when they got here they switched to Assembly of God.
In the fifth grade we moved to Erie, Pennsylvania in the northwestern part of the state. My father had grown up there, and that is where his family settled when they came over from Calabria. We moved because my father took a job as a laborer for his brother-in-law who owned a construction company and a toy factory.
We moved back to Paterson when I was in the eighth grade. Paterson was a great place for a young guy. The neighborhood had no crime. Nobody locked their doors. There were no drugs anywhere. Some people were bookmakers, and one time two of them disappeared. We figured it was for skimming from the Mafia. We didn’t know if they were dead or on the lam.
This was Genovese family territory. Everyone knew who was involved and who wasn’t. They had money and expensive cars. What you didn’t see in the neighborhood was all the devious stuff that went on in their lives—the struggle for power, whacking guys for way less serious offenses than skimming.
I think I got the law enforcement bug because of the terrific cops that were a part of the community. There was a beat cop who crossed the school kids and directed traffic, all the while singing Irish songs. Of course, all the cops were Irish in those days. For some reason, I always wanted to be a cop. When I got the chance I joined the FBI. I figured if I was going to be a cop, I might as well be with the best.
I attended Paterson Eastside High School. Lou Costello of Abbott and Costello went there. So did Larry Doby, the first black baseball player in the American League. Doby starred for the Cleveland Indians and came up to the majors shortly after Jackie Robinson integrated baseball. Paterson Eastside High was integrated before the American League, and everybody got along with everybody in the late fifties, at least in my neighborhood.
I played defensive back on the football team and guard/forward on the basketball team. I was a leaper and could touch the rim. I got basketball scholarships to college. The one I regret not taking was to the U.S. Naval Academy. It’s an honor in my mind. But I had a girlfriend and stayed close to home. I met my future wife at a high school basketball game. I had gone to watch the game involving other schools. A buddy of mine played for one of the teams. I fell in love with a cheerleader for the other team. We married while I was in college at William Paterson University, not far from my neighborhood. When I was sworn in as an FBI Special Agent on July 7, 1969—the summer of the moon landing—neither my wife nor I could have guessed where it would lead.
People often ask me how I could stand hanging out in social clubs when I was under. My answer is that that is how I spent my teenage years. All of the neighborhood guys belonged to the St. Anthony’s Club. It’s where you hung out. It was in the basement of the Catholic school. They had two bowling alleys for us. They had rooms with TV sets and couches, and a kitchen for our use.
The older guys in their twenties played cards. Very few from that neighborhood went to college. We learned the ropes from the older guys, and they looked out for the high school kids to make sure we didn’t screw up. The worst that would happen is that guys would come around with swag. Nobody ended up going to jail. Drugs were not even thought of. Nobody had to tell us not to do them because there were none to do. This was just a minute in time before all the drugs and the drug-fueled crime took hold in the sixties.
St. Anthony’s sponsored basketball and fast-pitch softball teams. There were fierce rivalries among similar clubs in North Jersey. I started shooting hoops at 8 a.m. at St. Anthony’s schoolyard every Saturday morning, weather permitting, throughout my teenage years. I had odd jobs like working at a car polishing business and as a waiter. But I always found time for the great outdoors in a schoolyard in the middle of a city, with never a thought that some other teenager might be high and packing a gun. The main job that all of us kids had was to be happy.
And let me tell you how happy we were when we got our own social club. The older guys thought it was about time the young high school kids had their own place, and so they went out and got us a storefront. It had a bathroom, a couple of couches, and a black-and-white TV. Well, all TV’s were black-and-white then. We still used the school basement for the bowling alley and to hang with the older guys at times, but for our own hanging out purposes, to be with people our own age—our own crew, so to speak—we had our own turf. So it was an easy, familiar, and comfortable fit later on when I started hanging out in social clubs in Brooklyn and Manhattan. I had been doing it my whole life.
As you can no doubt see, the legend I created for Donnie Brasco as a loner, an orphan, and a man without a family or ties to a community, is the exact opposite of who I am and wh
ere I’d come from. I had a family in my home and in the homes of my aunts and uncles, a family in the schoolyard, a family in the neighborhood that included a cop who sang when he crossed me at an intersection, a family of older guys, and a family of younger guys. Is it any wonder I married young and started a family of my own? Is it any wonder that so many of my neighborhood pals found their way into Donnie Brasco as movie extras?
Today in my sixties I’m still part of a close-knit family. I’m proud to say that my three daughters, thanks to their mother mostly, all turned out beautifully. While under, I got home two or three nights every few months and my family did not even know what I was doing when I wasn’t home. During a twelve-year period, my first six in the Mafia and my first six in the courtroom, my wife and daughters were forced to uproot and move lock, stock, and barrel six times, under an assumed name. Nevertheless, my daughters are all college graduates. The oldest has a master’s degree in social work and four children. Next in line is our family veterinarian, followed by our professional actress and model.
It took time and patience for all of us to rebuild after I came out. One of my daughters has yet to read my book, Donnie Brasco, because she doesn’t want to be reminded of those years. Another of my daughters attended the first trial to hear me testify. It was very helpful for me to have her understand what I was doing when I was away from home so much. She understood and I appreciated it.
I’m blessed with grandchildren now and I see them as much as I can. While the modern age has a lot going for it, I wish that my grandkids could have the sense of public safety and freedom to roam the streets without fear, the freedom that I had my whole childhood. Nothing for nothing, but I like to think that I contributed what I could to help reduce, for a little while anyway, the flow of drugs into our country.
CHAPTER 7
UNDER OATH
IF YOU’VE NEVER PUT YOUR HAND on the Bible and testified in a courtroom you have no idea what a naked feeling that is. After I came out, I spent the next ten-plus years putting my hand on the Bible and exposing myself under oath to examination and cross-examination. My memory was tested. My integrity was impugned. I even had an arrest warrant issued for me.
It was toward the end of the 1980s. My book had been out and I was in Hollywood negotiating for the screen rights. It was the Thursday before the Fourth of July weekend. There was a trial going on in New York, and I was in L.A. I got a message from home that the prosecutor was trying to reach me. I returned his call from L.A.
“I need you on the stand first thing tomorrow morning,” the prosecutor said.
“No one told me that,” I said. “I’m not coming. I’m in L.A.”
“What are you doing in L.A.?”
“What’s the difference what I’m doing in L.A.?”
“Joe, I need you to establish the structure of La Cosa Nostra. I need you to explain how the family works—the boss, the capos, the soldiers, the associates. I’ve got no other way to establish this. You’re the man.”
“I’m sorry, but you’ve got to make it next week.”
“Look, I’m out of witnesses. I have no other witness to call at that time tomorrow morning. It’s the slot reserved for you, and I already told the judge I was calling you first thing.”
“Well, you’ll have to tell him you’re not,” I said and hung up.
He called me back in less than an hour. He told me the judge had issued a warrant for my arrest.
“What?” I said in disbelief.
“He said you’re not running his courtroom. He wants you there at nine tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow’s the Friday before the Fourth of July weekend. You know as well as I do that the morning will start late like it always does with last-minute shit. Even if I do get on the stand, the judge will break for the day early so everybody can get a head start on the long weekend. I’ll be stuck in New York all weekend and I won’t even begin to testify until Tuesday.”
“Look,” he said. “I’m sorry about all this, but I’m only telling you what the judge told me to tell you. Meanwhile, you could get arrested.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“I checked the flights and there’s a redeye you could take tonight that would get you to court on time tomorrow, and if you do, he’ll retire the warrant.”
Although I had retired from the FBI by then and was on my own private citizen’s time without compensation, I thought in the back of my mind that someday I might like to return to duty. If I did, an arrest for any reason, but especially for missing a court appearance, would give my one enemy in the Bureau (see Chapter 11) ammunition to keep me out . I took the redeye. I showed up in court on time. The judge and the lawyers began by arguing some legal point, and I didn’t get on the stand first thing in the morning, as I knew I wouldn’t. They broke for lunch and then called it an early day, and I was stuck in New York until Tuesday. But at least I wasn’t in jail for contempt of court.
Tuesday morning I put my hand on the Bible and faced the jury. Before the prosecutor could ask me his first question, the judge leaned over and said, “You’re the agent I issued a warrant for, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, I was in California.”
“You wrote the book, didn’t you?”
“Yes, your honor,” I said.
“Ever get a movie deal?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. That’s what I was doing in L.A.—negotiating a movie deal.”
“Do you have a good entertainment lawyer?”
I gave him the name. I could see that the jury was all ears and fascinated by all this show business talk. I could also see that the defense attorney was none too happy about all of this.
“Excellent choice,” the judge said. “He’s the best in the business.”
“That’s what I hear,” I said. “He came highly recommended by my agent. But it’s all new territory for me.”
“Did he explain to you about the over-the-line expenses and the under-the-line expenses?”
“Yes, he did,” I said.
“Very good. I hope you get a good deal on the movie.” The judge turned to the prosecutor and said, “The Government may proceed with its witness.”
When the prosecutor got done with his examination, he turned to the defense attorney and said, “You may cross examine.”
The defense attorney stood up, looked at the jury, and said, “The defense has no questions of this witness, your honor.” At the break the defense attorney, who used to be an Assistant United States Attorney, came up to me and said, “Joe, I’ve got a copy of your book. Would you autograph it for me?”
That wasn’t the only time that a lawyer had passed up the opportunity to cross-examine me. The first time it happened was with a defense lawyer who I had seen around the nightclubs while I was undercover. He had bought a quantity of drugs from the wiseguy I was with, and he clearly remembered the incident—and could tell I recognized him—while in court. He was obviously afraid I would somehow reveal that drug deal during cross-examination. And in that case I wasn’t just testifying about the Mafia structure; I was testifying directly about his client’s involvement in crimes from my personal knowledge and memory. Everybody in the room was stunned, including his client, when that lawyer said, “No questions.”
In the beginning of my new career as a professional full-time witness, it was tedious and repetitive work, like it had been in the Mafia. The first thing I did after they told Sonny about me was to fly to Milwaukee to testify before a federal grand jury there. Then it was off to testify before federal grand juries in Tampa, Miami, Brooklyn, and Manhattan. I was finally out, but I was still away from my family—over and over again.
Over the years, I testified live in seventeen jury trials, sometimes as a fact witness on the particulars of the crime itself, and sometimes as a witness on the organizational structure of the Mafia and how it operates. My testimony helped convict over 200 Mafia bosses, capos, soldiers, and associates.
The thing I am most gra
teful for is the quality of prosecutors I had on all my cases. You can get a clunker; I never had a single one. They prepared me well and they were well-prepared, bright, aggressive, even-tempered, hardworking, and had great courtroom presence.
I worked with Rudy Giuliani when he was the United States Attorney for the Southern District of New York, which is Manhattan. He became United States Attorney just as my cases broke, replacing John Martin, who had become a federal judge. John Martin had helped guide a lot of the cases up to that point. Rudy did a great job taking over. We became good friends. Rudy was a terrific team leader and a superb manager of personnel, without micromanaging.
Louis Freeh, who went on to become a federal judge and then the Director of the FBI, tried a lot of my cases. So did lead prosecutor Barbara Jones, who went on to become a federal judge. So did Mike Chertoff, who also became a federal judge, and who is the current Director of Homeland Security. There were others too numerous to mention.The prosecutors I worked with comprised a who’s who of future leaders of our country. I feel good every time I see one of these people on TV in their new fields of endeavor.
The defense attorneys tended to be the best money could buy. After some seasoning in the first couple of trials, I noticed that criminal defense attorneys like to get you in a rhythm in order to give the appearance to the jury that you’re in their flow. The way to break their rhythm is by asking them to repeat their question. Also, you should never argue with a defense attorney. You’re not going to win. Tell him, instead, that you don’t understand the question.
After I asked one defense attorney to repeat a question twice, he asked me, in front of the jury, “What are you, a dumb lox?”
Now I started seething underneath, but I couldn’t show it. I had to remain professional. I couldn’t appear to be rattled, or I’d be playing into his hand. I just calmly asked him again to repeat his question, and I slowly pondered it.
You see, a defense attorney can lie in a courtroom. The government can’t, but a defense attorney can, at least in New York. They’ll claim to read from one of your FBI reports, what we call “302s,” and say, “Isn’t that right, agent?” To make sure he wasn’t lying, I would say, “Let me see what you’re reading from. I’ll read it and see if you’re right.” If they don’t give it to you, then you know they’re lying.
