GOTTI’S DAILY GOONS GOT HIM, BUT GOOD
In the end, rats sent mob boss away for life
He was the Teflon Don.
Tie him to a specific crime? Get a conviction? Put him away? Fuhgeddaboudit.
For years, John Gotti was untouchable. Until the day he wasn’t.
Anthony M. DeStefano’s “Gotti’s Boys” recounts his story with new details about the mobster’s henchmen. On his orders, they consolidated power, eliminated threats, and sank evidence in the river. They were the secret of Gotti’s success, and helped lead to his failure.
DeStefano, a longtime crime reporter, begins his story on May 6, 1982, when a Learjet took off from Teterboro Airport, headed to Orlando. Onboard were a pilot, co-pilot and a married couple from Franklin Lakes, N.J., Steve and Stephanie Teri. Steve clutched a small briefcase.
Less than two hours later, the plane went down in the Atlantic Ocean. There were no survivors and no explanation. Whatever the crash didn’t destroy, the sharks finished off. No one ever found the briefcase. Steve’s severed hand was sent home for burial.
The real story, though, unfolded in Brooklyn. Steve Teri, it turned out, was really Sal Ruggiero, drug dealer, and mob associate. When he and his wife were charged with tax evasion in 1977, they assumed new identities and fled. Steve continued selling heroin, though.
Now his hoodlum friends held an emergency meeting. Sal’s brother, Angelo, was there. So was Gene Gotti. Gene’s brother John, though, stayed home.
Technically, dealing drugs was forbidden in the Mafia. Some bosses turned a blind eye. Others had dealers whacked. John Gotti decided to play it safe. He didn’t want word getting back to his boss, Paul Castellano.
But the flurry of activity caught the feds’ interest.
They bugged Angelo Ruggiero’s house. Ruggiero — nicknamed “Quack Quack,” for his motormouthed conversations — soon filled up the tapes. The more he talked, the more he said about the ambitious John Gotti. The FBI was listening. Gotti’s beginnings were humble. Born in the Bronx in 1940, he grew up in East New York, Brooklyn, the whole family of 15 crowded into one apartment. His father was abusive, and kids mocked John’s second-hand clothes and mismatched shoes.
No one made fun of him more than once, though.
A tough guy from the start, Gotti’s first arrest was for burglary. He was 17. By 1965, he was a soldier in the Gambino crew, collecting debts and hijacking trucks.
When boss Carlo Gambino’s nephew was kidnapped and killed, Gotti was part of the hit squad sent after the murderer. They got the job done, but were sloppy, and were nabbed. Roy Cohn represented Gotti and plea-bargained the charge down to attempted manslaughter.
Gotti served two years. By the time he was sprung in 1977, leadership of the Gambino family had passed to a cousin, Paul Castellano. It was under his reign that Gotti became an official Mafioso, “a made man.”
Eight years later, Gotti would ensure Castellano was unmade, fatally shot in the street.
The cold Castellano didn’t have many friends in the mob. He thought of himself as a legitimate businessman, unlike the crude gangsters who worked for him. Castellano took significant cuts of their earnings, while refusing to share with the other bosses.
Some of the more conservative mobsters flinched at his private life, too. The old man lived on Staten Island with two women, his mistress and his wife, and with his imperious attitude disrespected both. He carried on in front of his long-suffering spouse. He insisted his lover serve as their maid.
That just wasn’t right, the wiseguys muttered.
By the mid-80s, Gotti had more personal reasons to want Castellano permanently gone. Ruggiero and Gene Gotti were arrested for narcotics trafficking. All those tapes of Quack Quack were about to be played in court. And when they were, everyone, including Castellano, would know the Gottis were in the drug business.
That wouldn’t just mean another arrest. It could mean a hit. Gotti reached out quietly, to see who was with him.
It was time for a change in leadership, and it wasn’t going to happen peacefully.
On Dec. 16, 1985, six hit men drove up to Sparks Steakhouse on E. 46th St., where Castellano was expected for a meeting. Gotti and one of his men, Sammy “Sammy Bull”
Gravano, followed in a separate car and parked across the street. Castellano’s limousine pulled up at 5:30 p.m. He never saw it coming. As soon as Castellano stepped out of his Lincoln, he took six bullets. His driver caught nine. Bystanders ran, screaming. Gotti and Gravano glanced at the bloody corpses and drove back to Brooklyn.
That Christmas Eve, at the Ravenite Social Club in Little Italy, Mafiosi lined up to kiss Gotti’s cheek. The Boss is dead. Long live the Boss.
Gotti’s reputation as “The Teflon Don” was burnished.
Enraged by the Castellano hit, the Lucchese family blew up Gotti’s car, but the dapper don was elsewhere. Prosecutors brought three separate cases against him, for assault and racketeering. And, each time he walked — in style, of course.
Gotti’s simple yet effective strategy? Have his men tail the jurors home, then introduce themselves. Sometimes they offered a bribe. Usually, though, just saying, “We know where you live” was enough. Really, it was plenty when you consider the source.
Meanwhile, Gotti kept smirking and strutting, while his friends and fans cheered. After he beat the third rap, there were fireworks over Little Italy. No one could touch him, it seemed.
Except by now, the feds had a bug in the Ravenite.
In the end, it was Gotti’s own ego that did him in. Unlike other bosses, he demanded his men report to him weekly, in person. Each time they talked, they provided more evidence. So did Gotti, bragging about the big jobs they were planning. And the FBI was listening. Finally, on Dec. 11, 1990, they raided the Ravenite, arresting Gotti and Gravano. The don wasn’t worried, at first. Why would he be?
This time, though, was different.
Five murder charges accompanied this racketeering case. And far more troubling for the don? This jury was tamper-proof given that they were anonymous and sequestered. This evidence was clear and explicit. Worst of all for Gotti, the tapes included him bad-mouthing Gravano.
Gravano, who never liked his boss, was infuriated by the insults. He began to wonder why he should follow a guy like this to prison for the rest of his life. Maybe it was time to walk away. Perhaps it was time to cut a deal.
To hell with omerta –he would talk.
Once Gravano started blabbing, he didn’t stop. He admitted to his own role in 19 murders, sure. But The Bull also identified Gotti as the boss. He fingered him as the man who planned the Castellano hit, and personally ordered five other murders.
It took the jury only 14 hours.
Gravano served a few years and went into the witness protection program. Gotti got life imprisonment. He went in on Dec. 14, 1992, almost seven years to the day from the Castellano hit. Ten years later, he was dead of throat cancer. He was 60.
And by now, his rule is ancient history. His name, at best, is a memory. And the famous myth of the Teflon Don?
Fuhgeddaboudit.