Surviving the Mob (26 page)

“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.

“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.