The Westies: Inside New York's Irish Mob (44 page)

It was in this state that Mickey stood for the verdict on March 29, 1986. When it came, he couldn’t say he was surprised, though the sheer finality of it was numbing.

The jury found him guilty as charged.

Sissy Featherstone cried as Mickey was led out of the courtroom and back to Rikers Island, where he stared at the bars of his cell. Even he had to appreciate the irony: In the past, he was found innocent of killings he’d definitely been involved in. Now, he had been found guilty of a murder he did not commit.

The setup was complete. Mickey had watched it slowly evolve over the months, and now whatever final doubts he might have had were gone. The final tipoff was when the black construction worker who had identified him in the lineup testified against him. Mickey knew that if he were still a valued member of the Westies, that construction worker would have fallen off a scaffolding somewhere either before or after he took the stand. But that never happened. The construction worker lived. For all Mickey knew, right this minute he was sitting in some far-off country sipping on a Piña Colada, spending the money he had no doubt been paid to finger Mickey Featherstone.

It wasn’t even necessary for Mickey to go over his options. He had done it so many times already it made him nauseous to think about it. He knew all along that when the guilty verdict came in, he would have only one alternative left. It was not an alternative he relished, but it was one he was willing to consider.

As the entire West Side was about to find out, Mickey Featherstone figured he had nothing left to lose.

15

IN THE INTEREST OF JUSTICE

I
n late April 1986, three weeks after the verdict in the Michael Holly murder trial, Mickey got an early morning visit at Rikers Island from two plainclothes detectives.

“You know what this is all about, I take it,” said one of the detectives after Mickey had been brought from his cell to the receiving room.

“Yeah, I know. And I don’t wanna go.”

“Look,” said the detective, “everyone went to a lot of trouble to set this meeting up. We had to get a court order, for Chrissake. So just come and listen to what they have to say, alright? What do you have to lose?”

“Whaddo I got to lose? My fuckin’ manhood, that’s what.”

“C’mon, Mickey. If nothin’ else, you can stretch your legs.”

Featherstone sighed. “Alright. Shit. Let’s go and get it over with.”

Still clad in his prison overalls, Mickey was handcuffed and led by the two detectives to a black four-door sedan outside the main gate. From there, they drove through the streets of Queens to a half-empty parking lot, where he and the detectives were met by another car. Featherstone was transferred quickly from one car to the other. In the front seat of this car, on the passenger side, was Jim Nauwens. In his early fifties, with thinning blond hair, Nauwens was an ex-cop currently working as a special investigator with the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York.

“How you doing, Mickey?” asked Nauwens.

“Not so good.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll be there in thirty minutes. No sweat.”

Featherstone shrugged. He wasn’t exactly sure
where
they were headed, but he knew all too well why they were headed there.

Ever since the Holly verdict, Mickey had been thinking about how shocked his friends would be if they knew he had “reached out” to the government—not once but twice. Throughout the 1970s, no Westie was considered more of a stand-up guy than Mickey Featherstone. He’d stuck by Jimmy, even defended him, when other folks felt Coonan hadn’t done right by the neighborhood. Even in recent years, as Mickey’s dissatisfaction with Coonan became well known, no one would have ever believed that Mickey Featherstone would turn canary.

In truth, Featherstone’s attempts to get out went back months
before
the Michael Holly murder. After trying to make it on his own, he’d come to realize that the gangster’s life was not one you were allowed to walk away from. It was late 1984, a few weeks before Jimmy Coonan was scheduled to arrive home from prison. Mickey knew that when Jimmy came back everything would start up again, only now there would be deadly rivalries within their own gang. Folks would get whacked. Bodies would accumulate.

It was then that Charlie Boyle, Mickey’s father, phoned the FBI. The FBI never returned his call, and Boyle didn’t pursue the matter any further.

The second time Mickey made efforts to reach out, he was in a far more desperate state of mind. It was November of 1985, one year after his father’s phone call, when he first contacted Ira Block, a former assistant U.S. attorney who had prosecuted him on his counterfeit currency conviction in 1979. He’d always felt that Block dealt fairly with him and was a man who could be trusted. Block, no longer with the U.S. Attorney’s office, put Mickey in touch with Nauwens.

In a meeting at Rikers Island three months before the Holly murder trial got underway, Featherstone told Nauwens that he believed there was a conspiracy afoot. Nauwens was dubious. The term most often used to describe Mickey Featherstone throughout his criminal career was “paranoid schizophrenic,” and the government investigator, at least for the moment, had no reason to believe Featherstone’s claims.

“In any event,” said Nauwens, “I can tell you right now the government isn’t likely to give up something for nothing. You’ll have to plead guilty to charges.”

A few days later, Featherstone met a government-assigned attorney named John Kaley at Rikers Island. Kaley, a former assistant U.S. attorney sometimes used by the government to facilitate their cooperation deals, told Mickey basically the same thing Nauwens had.

“But I didn’t do it,” Mickey replied angrily. “Why should I have to take a plea? I’m tellin’ you, there’s a frame goin’ down. Don’t that mean nothin’ to youse people?”

Kaley was adamant. “Look, Mickey, if you want to cooperate with the government now, that’s fine. But with your record, you’re going to have to take a plea. That’s just the way it is.”

Featherstone refused. He insisted he was innocent, and he’d rather take his chances in court.

Five months later, Featherstone was convicted.

Mickey knew the government would come calling again, only this time they held all the cards. He also knew that unless he wanted to rot away in prison the rest of his life, he had no recourse but to at least listen to what they had to say.

As the car crossed the Whitestone Bridge, Mickey stared blankly at the soft blue expanse of the East River. He sat quietly as they continued north along the Hutchinson River Parkway through the Bronx, past the city limits, and into Westchester County. After exiting the expressway and driving through the streets of some suburban area Mickey was not familiar with, they arrived at a nondescript hotel at a remote outpost.

Still in handcuffs, he was taken from the car into a hotel room. One of the detectives patted him down, then removed the cuffs. Coffee and buttered rolls were brought in while Nauwens and the detectives disappeared into an adjoining room.

After sitting alone for ten minutes, Mickey was joined by John Kaley, his newly assigned government attorney.

“Hello, Mickey,” said Kaley, dressed in a crisp new suit and tie. “Your wife’ll be in in a minute. She’s being searched by an FBI agent. Female, of course.”

“Hey,” shot back Mickey. “Why didn’t you tell these people me and my wife didn’t wanna come? I told you at Rikers I wanted to talk to her first.”

“It was too late when they called. Everything was set up.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Look. We’re here, okay? Let’s just see what they have to say.”

At that moment, Sissy walked into the room looking sallow and shaken.

“What’s the matter?” asked Mickey.

“I was just stripped naked in there and searched by some woman in the bathroom.”

Kaley, the attorney, interjected, “That’s security, Sissy. They have to do that.”

“Yeah, but she could’ve just searched me. Not take my clothes off and look inside me.”

“Well …”

“Forget it. I don’t wanna talk about it no more.”

Mickey and Sissy sat together on the couch, across the coffee table from Kaley.

“Okay,” said the attorney, “Look. Here’s what I’m going to do. Mickey, you claim you’re innocent, right? That you didn’t do this killing. I’m going to ask them to look into that.”

Sissy could hardly contain herself. She knew that Mickey had already been told if they were to look into his innocence, he would have to plead guilty to a federal racketeering charge, which carried a possible twenty-year sentence. “Hey,” she declared, “Mickey ain’t gonna take no twenty-year charge just so’s he can get help to prove his innocence. No way.”

“I understand that. Let’s just tell them you want help and see what they say.”

Kaley called the government people into the room. It was a large group led by Walter Mack, a rangy, blond-haired federal prosecutor. With him were Mary Lee Warren, another federal prosecutor, Jeffrey Schlanger, the assistant D.A. who prosecuted Featherstone for the Holly homicide, and Nauwens. Behind them were a half-dozen other men and women, a mix of FBI agents and NYPD detectives; all people with investigations—and careers—that would benefit greatly from the cooperation of Mickey Featherstone.

“Alright,” said Kaley, after they’d all taken their seats. “We know why Mickey and his wife are here, so let’s get to it. He says he’s innocent and he’s looking for help to prove it.”

“Okay,” replied Mack, who was acting as chief negotiator. “We can do that. But first he’ll have to plead to a racketeering charge, a RICO charge, and agree to cooperate. Then we can proceed from there.”

“No way,” Mickey said fiercely. “This is the same old shit. Why should I have to plead to anything? I was set up by my lawyer, man, and everybody else too. I can prove it.”

Sissy, who’d been on the verge of tears ever since she walked in the room, began to cry.

“Look,” Kaley said to Mack. “Will you be willing to tap their phones, have Sissy and Mickey wear a wire so they can get the real killers on tape? Would you do that?”

“Certainly. We’ll do all that.”

“And the Witness Protection Program? Sissy and her kids will be relocated and cared for when this is all over?”

“Certainly. They’ll have the full benefits of the Witness Program. But listen, I reiterate, none of this is going to happen unless Mickey agrees to take a plea.”

For the next twenty minutes the negotiations went back and forth with little headway. Mickey and Sissy couldn’t believe the government wasn’t the least bit interested in Mickey’s claims of innocence unless he was first willing to plead guilty to a federal racketeering charge.

“It’s the only way,” Mack insisted. “If we were to help you establish your innocence, and you were able to do so, what guarantee would we have that you’d cooperate? Your plea is the only backup we’ve got.”

Eventually, Kaley asked the government people to go into the other room.

“Look,” he said, when he and Mickey and Sissy were alone again. “Let’s be realistic, Mickey. You’re thirtyseven years old—right?—facing twenty-five years to life for a murder you say you didn’t commit. Now, there’s no way you’re going to win on appeal, if that’s what you’re thinking. Let’s face it—you are who you are. There’s no judge alive that’s going to reverse that conviction. You’re going to get twenty-five to life for this murder.

“Now, the government is offering a twenty-year RICO, okay? If you cooperate with them, it’s not likely you’ll get twenty years. Not likely at all. So if we can prove your innocence on the murder charge, get rid of that twenty-five to life … and your wife and kids’ll be taken care of in the Witness Program … I don’t know, that’s not such a bad deal.”

“No,” cried Sissy. “Maybe I can find a way to prove his innocence on my own.”

“And who’s going to believe you, Sissy? C’mon, let’s not be naive here. The only way you’re going to
prove
anything is if the government oversees it.”

When the government team returned, the argument resumed with little or no progress until the issue of bail was brought up.

“You can get me bail?” Mickey asked Mack, a glimmer of hope in his voice.

“If your murder conviction is overturned,” said Mack, “and all you’re facing is the racketeering charge, I wouldn’t object to bail.”

After the issues of bail and furloughs and conjugal visits had been tossed around for a while, Mickey and Sissy were left alone to make their decision. As Sissy tried to compose herself, Mickey glanced around at the empty room. For a brief second, he thought of just walking right out the door and starting to run. But there were cops and FBI agents all over the place. He’d just be caught and laughed at.

“Sis,” said Mickey, as depressed as he could ever remember feeling. “What the fuck else can we do?”

The most important thing, as far as both were concerned, was somehow proving Mickey’s innocence in the Holly murder. It was hard for them to think beyond that, to the hours of debriefings and grand jury hearings and trials that were sure to follow. They’d been told what might lie ahead, but it all seemed so remote. If they were somehow able to clear Mickey of the murder charge, and if at the same time he’d get bail and furloughs so he could be with his family, what else was there?

Everyone was called back into the room. Kaley conferred briefly with Mickey, then turned to Mack and the rest of the government team. “Now let’s get this straight. If Mickey cooperates, you’ll investigate his innocence on the murder charge. You’ll recommend bail, and once he’s sentenced on the racketeering charge he’ll get furloughs a few times a year. Also, his family will be placed in the Witness Protection Program. They’ll be cared for during and after the period of cooperation. Is that it?”

“That’s it.”

“Mickey?”

Featherstone looked up from the couch at the group, most of them middle-aged men dressed in conservative suits and ties. “I don’t know … you people got me in a situation here. I guess I got no choice.”

The government people all stepped forward to shake Mickey’s hand. A few of them told him reassuringly that he’d “done the right thing.”