The Westies: Inside New York's Irish Mob (2 page)

After Warren left the room, the two federal marshals led Featherstone down the hallway and onto a dingy freight elevator with metal caging. As the elevator descended, the fear Featherstone had been feeling that morning slowly gave way to a more familiar emotion: anger. He felt anger at those who’d forced him into this position; anger at those who’d made it impossible for him to look at himself in the mirror without feeling disgust; anger at everyone everywhere who’d ever done him wrong.

By the time the freight elevator clanged open and Featherstone entered the courtroom, he felt better. For the first time in many months, he could remember clearly why he was here. He could remember his motivation.

Revenge.

“Mr. Featherstone,” asked Warren, standing in front of the jury box, “have you ever heard the term ‘Westies’?”

“Yes.”

“Is that a term that you use?”

“No.”

“Is it a term you heard used?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Where have you heard it used?”

“The newspapers and the police.”

“And what do you understand the term ‘Westies’ to apply to?”

“Me. People here. Different neighborhood people.”

“And during what period of time did this group operate?”

“Well, there’s always been a group in my neighborhood, since I could remember, committing crimes.”

Featherstone was not being coy. The Westies had always been a nebulous group, and until he took his place on the witness stand, not even he had known exactly who the defendants would be. Nor did he know the specific charges. He had a vague idea, of course, since the bulk of the government’s case was based on information he’d been giving them for the past eighteen months. But because he didn’t know exactly how they would corroborate his claims, and since they were legally prohibited from discussing the case with him in any detail, he couldn’t be sure who’d been indicted.

At first, he could hardly even tell where the defense area was. Room 506, known as “the showroom” to the local press corps who regularly cover the courts, was a majestic, high-ceilinged affair presently overflowing with nearly 200 spectators, a dozen lawyers, twelve jurors, six alternate jurors, and a half-dozen federal marshals lining the walls. Even if Featherstone hadn’t spent the last three years of his life cooped up in a tiny prison cell, it would have been an unnerving sight.

Eventually, after adjusting to the grandeur of the place, his eyes focused on the defendants and their attorneys, seated less than twenty feet away. Although dressed uncharacteristically in “respectable” courtroom attire—suits, ties and plain-colored dresses—these were, for the most part, the people he’d expected to see, the people he’d run with in the tough Manhattan west side neighborhood known as Hell’s Kitchen.

At the far left Featherstone saw the familiar faces of Tommy Collins and his wife Flo—both white-haired and in their fifties—looking like everybody’s favorite Irish aunt and uncle. To their left was Richard “Mugsy” Ritter, with thinning hair and a jet-black mustache, looking dapper in a brand-new pin-striped suit. Further down the table, seated with his attorney, was Billy Bokun, whose most notable feature was a large reddish birthmark that covered one whole side of his face. At thirty-one, Bokun was the youngest of the defendants.

At a ninety-degree angle, completing the expansive L-shaped seating arrangement, was another equally crowded table. First in line, as Featherstone looked from left to right, was lean, mean Johnny Halo, almost unrecognizable in wire-rimmed glasses and closely cropped black hair. Down the table from Johnny was James McElroy, known to Featherstone and just about everyone else on the West Side as Jimmy Mac. The tallest of the group at six-foot-one, McElroy had broad shoulders, dark hair, and the hardened good looks of a former boxer, which he was. And next to McElroy, seated with her attorney, was stout, formidable Edna Coonan, wife of James “Jimmy” Coonan, the man the government had already identified as the leader of the Westies.

Finally, Featherstone came to the eighth and final defendant, who sat closest to him. More than any other, this was the man he’d been waiting to see; the man whose actions, he felt, were the main reason this group of West Siders now found themselves in this strange environment, where highly educated people wore fine new clothes and spoke with impeccable grammar.

At five-feet-nine-inches tall, with blond hair, blue eyes, and a broad, cherubic face, forty-year-old Jimmy Coonan didn’t look like a cold-blooded killer. He looked more like a cop, perhaps, or an aging altar boy. But Featherstone knew this was only a facade. He’d stood by this man and at times actively participated with him in unspeakable acts of violence. Partly, he’d done so for business reasons. But also he’d done so out of allegiance, out of love.

In the old days, these violent acts had seemed almost acceptable to Featherstone. In Hell’s Kitchen—the neighborhood where he and Jimmy had grown up together—you chose between good and evil at a young age. If you chose evil, then violence became an important means of communication; a way of showing a friend just how far you were willing to go to prove your friendship. Featherstone had always believed that’s what he and Jimmy were doing—sealing their friendship. Sealing it in blood.

But those days were long gone now, lost in a haze of angry, bitter memories.

According to the prosecution, Coonan was guilty of extortion, mail fraud, illegal gambling, drug dealing, loansharking, kidnapping, multiple murders, and attempted murders, all as leader of the Westies. To Featherstone, this was only half the story. Greed, treachery, betrayal—in traditional organized crime circles these were far greater crimes. And in Featherstone’s mind, Coonan had already been charged with these crimes, tried and found guilty.

The sentence? Death. The executors of this sentence? Some of the very people Coonan now found himself seated next to, who, along with Featherstone, had been plotting his murder right up until their arrests for this trial.

As the witness looked out at the eight defendants seated in a large phalanx before the cold, imposing glare of U.S. District Court, his emotions shifted once again. Despite the enmity he had for many of these people and the justification he felt he had for testifying against them, he couldn’t get used to the idea of being on the stand. Every time he thought about what he was doing he began to sweat. But as his testimony proceeded under the calm, probing tutelage of the assistant U.S. attorney, something came to him, something that seemed so obvious he couldn’t believe it hadn’t crossed his mind before.

For the first time since he’d begun his long life of crime, he, Mickey Featherstone, was in a position to tell the truth.

There was some satisfaction in that.

“Mr. Featherstone,” said Warren, “let me direct your attention to a night on or around January 18, 1978. Did you have an occasion to know personally a Rickey Tassiello?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know him?”

“I knew him all his life, since we grew up in the neighborhood. I got arrested with him once.”

“Do you know what Rickey Tassiello did for a living?”

“He pulled armed robberies and he gambled.”

“Do you know how he supported his gambling?”

“With money from armed robberies and money from shylocks.”

In the early hours of the afternoon, Warren had begun to lead Featherstone through some of the more gruesome charges in the indictment. Tall and frail, with hopelessly frazzled light-brown hair and a pale complexion, Warren was dressed in a white, frilly blouse and plaid skirt. She didn’t look like the sort of person who would be comfortable talking about murder and dismemberment. She looked more like a grade school teacher, or a librarian. Yet, as she’d pointed out in her opening statement to the jury, throughout the trial she would be enumerating many horrible acts of violence. One of the worst, she cautioned, would be Act of Racketeering Number Nine: the Murder of Richard “Rickey” Tassiello.

Before Featherstone took the stand, the court had heard testimony on the Tassiello murder from Arthur Tassiello, a brother of the deceased, and from Anton “Tony” Lucich, another Westie who, along with Featherstone, had become a government witness. Arthur Tassiello, a bartender on the West Side of Manhattan in 1977, told of meetings he had with Jimmy Coonan about his brother. According to Tassiello, Coonan told him that Rickey was behind on his illicit “shylock” loans to the tune of $7,000, and he wanted the Tassiello family to either get Rickey to pay up or settle his debt for him.

It was Arthur who finally came up with the money. When he did, he pleaded with Coonan to stop making loans to his little brother because, as everyone in the neighborhood knew, Rickey was a “sick gambler.”

A few months later, Coonan showed up at Arthur’s place of business again. This time Rickey owed him $6,000. They worked out a payment schedule where Arthur would try to get his brother to pay $100 a week.

Months passed. Coonan showed up again. Rickey Tassiello had stopped making his payments. Exasperated, Arthur said there was nothing more he could do.

After Arthur Tassiello left the stand, Tony Lucich testified about the events following Rickey’s murder, which took place in his Hell’s Kitchen apartment at 747 10th Avenue. According to Lucich, he’d entered the apartment after the deed was done and helped cut up the body.

So the jury already knew there had been a murder, and they knew it was bloody. But neither Arthur Tassiello nor Lucich had witnessed the act itself.

Enter Mickey Featherstone.

The Market Diner, 11th Avenue and 43rd Street. Late afternoon, January 18, 1978. Featherstone and Coonan were sitting at the counter when Coonan got a phone call. He took the call and came back, telling Featherstone they had business to take care of at Tom’s Pub, just a few blocks away. In the car on the way over, Coonan told Featherstone they were going to pick up Rickey Tassiello and take him to Tony Lucich’s apartment.

Featherstone knew all about Rickey’s outstanding shylock loans. He also knew that when Jimmy Coonan had a problem with one of his loanshark customers, he usually dealt with it swiftly and brutally. He knew this because he’d been there many times and helped administer the punishment.

But this time he didn’t want to be a part of it. He’d known Rickey Tassiello all his life and couldn’t see why the kid had to be killed, and he told Coonan this. “While we were in the car,” said Featherstone quietly from the witness stand, “Jimmy was telling me he’s not gonna do nothin’ to Rickey. He just wanted to warn him. And he and Tony were gonna offer him a job so he could pay his loan.”

They arrived at Tom’s Pub on 55th Street and 9th Avenue. Jimmy went over to Rickey, who was seated with a group of friends, and said, “Listen, everything is alright. We just want you to go up and apologize to Tony.” Tassiello had pulled a gun on Lucich and his wife the night before.

“Yeah,” said Rickey. “Okay, I’ll go up and see Tony.”

Ten minutes later the three of them arrived at Tony Lucich’s 10th Avenue apartment. Mickey and Rickey sat down on the living room couch and Jimmy headed for a back room. “I’ll be right back,” said Jimmy. “I’m going to get Tony. He’s in bed, sick.” After Jimmy had left, Mickey got up and headed into the kitchenette area. “You want anything?” he asked Rickey. “I’m gonna get some Perrier water.” Rickey said no.

As Mickey was opening the refrigerator, he glanced through a doorway that opened onto the hall and saw Jimmy heading back towards the living room by himself. Then he heard the familiar sound of a round being loaded into the chamber of a gun. “What the fuck’s going on?” he heard Rickey shout from the other room. “What are you doing!?”

The next thing he knew Rickey was running into the kitchenette area. Mickey heard the silencer go off and saw a shot hit the wall. Rickey started to reach for some knives in a rack on the kitchen wall. “No!” shouted Mickey, as he grabbed Rickey to keep him from getting at the knives.

Just then, Jimmy stepped up behind Rickey and shot him in the back of the head. Rickey slumped down against the wall and the refrigerator, and Jimmy shot him twice more as he lay on the floor.

On the witness stand, Featherstone hardly moved, and his voice kept getting lower and lower. Four times the judge and prosecutor had to ask him to speak up, to enunciate more clearly. He told the jury that during the shooting he’d been hit in the head with something metallic, which later proved to be the casing from one of the bullets. But he didn’t know that at the time. He thought maybe he’d been shot, so he panicked and ran for the door. At that moment, Tony Lucich walked in.

Both Lucich and Coonan told Featherstone to calm down. Together they dragged the body into the bathroom and dumped it face up in the tub. Then, said Featherstone, Coonan told him to stick a knife in Tassiello’s heart, just to make sure.

“And what did you do?” asked prosecutor Warren.

“I stuck a knife in his chest.”

They went to the Market Diner after that. Jimmy and Tony sat in the dining area and ate a hearty meal, laughing and joking with the other patrons they knew. In the bar area, Mickey watched from a distance, drinking whiskey after whiskey until everything that was happening got blurry and quiet.

Around two o’clock in the morning, they went back to the apartment. Jimmy got some big kitchen knives with serrated edges, went into the bathroom and began hacking apart Rickey Tassiello’s body. There was blood everywhere—the floors, the walls, the tub.

“About this time,” said Featherstone, “Tony broke out some black plastic bags, and I started throwing up. I put a handkerchief over my mouth. Jimmy was joking about me not being able to take it …

“I vomited in the bathroom, in the toilet bowl. When he was goofing on me, I left the bathroom and went to the kitchen sink and finished vomiting in there. I sat on the couch in the living room and they called me in …

“I went in, and Jimmy was cutting his head off.”

“What was done with the body parts as they were removed?” asked the prosecutor.

“They were put in the black plastic garbage bags.”

“Who put them in the plastic bags?”