Nothing But Money (39 page)
Authors: Greg B. Smith
The judge: “What did you do in furtherance of the conspiracy, what activity?”
Lino said, “I cleaned up the . . .”
The judge: “You cleaned up?”
Lino: “Yes, I cleaned up the . . .”
The judge, turning to the prosecutor, asked, “Is that sufficient for you?
Prosecutor: “Yes, sir.”
Then came the usual confusion that erupts when defendants are asked to admit that they are part of an “enterprise” that existed solely to commit crime. Often members of these types of enterprises prefer to wrap themselves in the gauze of euphemism instead of actually admitting the existence of, say, the Bonanno crime family. It is a quaint tradition.
The judge said, “In order for you to plead to the Rico count, the conspiracy count, it is necessary to acknowledge that such an institution or organization existed without any specificity—no specificity is needed as to who the members of the organization were. You are not being asked to state that this one was or that one was, just that the activities were pursuant to the activities of an enterprise, that these were not some unrelated acts of criminal violence.”
“Okay,” said Robert Lino.
“So you understand what has to be done here? It is a structural—it is a question of admitting, which you must do in order for me to accept the plea, that you were part of a racketeering enterprise.”
“Okay. Can I state something for the record?
“Sure.”
“Nobody ever told me I was part of the Bonanno family or a Massino family, for the record.”
This was a mistake. His lawyer tried to keep things moving, but it was not to be. Prosecutor Andres started in by claiming Lino had just committed perjury.
“Judge, I just—I don’t want to make this worse for Mr. Lino. He certainly can’t perjure himself. He is under oath. He certainly was told that he was part of the Bonanno family. I am not asking him to say that.”
“No,” insisted Lino.
Prosecutor: “He is not being asked to admit that to the court.”
The judge: “I am not asking him to admit that.”
Prosecutor: “I understand. But he is making statements that are false under oath. All he has to admit is that—or to acknowledge that he was part of the enterprise that is charged in the indictment.” He actually said at one point, “He doesn’t have to say it is the Massino family or the Bonanno family. But he has to acknowledge his membership. He has to acknowledge the existence of the membership—excuse me, the existence of the enterprise.”
Finally they agreed on language, and Lino admitted that he was part of an unnamed organization made up of unknown people who got together and shot people like Louis Tuzzio and Robert Perrino. Robert Lino was then allowed to go back to his prison cell to await his sentence.
Eight months later, they were all together again in downtown Brooklyn. Four FBI agents and Assistant United States Attorney Greg Andres arranged themselves in an efficient government manner on one side of court. Robert Lino’s wife, Carla Vitucci, her mother, and three other Lino family members occupied the other half of the courtroom. Both sides did their best not to look at one another. Outside a frigid rain fell from a sky as gray as a hearse. Both groups sat in more or less silence for forty-five minutes, until Judge Nicholas Garaufis finally took his place behind the bench.
A side door opened and Robert Lino was led in by two United States marshals. He wore a khaki prison suit and blue canvas laceless shoes. He waved with a small anxious smile and pulled on glasses. His lawyer, Barry Levin, and Prosecutor Andres stood in front of the judge at his bench and listened to a lecture on the difficult job of being a federal judge.
The problem was Judge Garaufis hated the deal worked out between the prosecution and the defense attorney. He wanted to be the judge. The agreement he hated was that Lino should get twenty-seven years in prison.
“I could get a clerk to come up here and sentence Mr. Lino,” the judge bellowed. He’d presided over a trial in which witness after witness described the inner workings of the Bonanno crime family, and in particular the nasty murders of Perrino and Tuzzio, and he was not satisfied with twenty-seven years.
“When I see there’s plenty of evidence of the brutal nature of these crimes, it gives me pause to swallow this kind of agreement,” he said.
Prosecutor Andres apologized again and again, but insisted that twenty-seven years in prison was not a walk in the park. And he praised Lino for actually taking responsibility for his actions, stating, “It’s such a rarity for somebody to accept responsibility and agree to a sentence like this.”
Robert Lino had a new daughter named Cassidy Rose. He’d sold off the house he’d inherited from his father and given the money to his wife. She had moved back in with her aging parents to raise their daughter, who—if the deal the judge hated actually happened—would likely be thirty-two when she got to see her father outside prison walls.
His wife, Carla, had written letters to this judge and the last judge, who’d sentenced Robert to eighty-three months for his role in the Wall Street case. Now this new judge would be adding to her misery. In her letters, she first pointed out that she had gone to school and graduated Brooklyn College with a degree in psychology. She then described her husband like this:
“I must admit, upon meeting Robert, his dry sense of humor and subtle sarcasm could have been quite unappealing. But it did not take me very long to see the side of Robert that is admired by many. He is a gentleman in the true sense of the word. He has a heart of gold and always a kind word or a kind gesture to those in need. He is the first to stop the car and help a pedestrian in need of assistance. He would not think twice about handing a homeless man the jacket off his back and has time and time again bought food from restaurants to give to a destitute person on the street. Robert would always be the one to talk to when you had a dilemma; he always has an honest opinion and is always straightforward with his thoughts. He would also try to lend a helping hand whenever possible.
“Lately Robert’s demeanor has been very calm and pensive. Over these past ten months I have regularly discussed with Robert what has been happening with his case and offering him advice on how to deal with his troubles. But Robert is very ashamed of his actions and constantly belittles himself for what he has done. He feels he is not worthy of my love and the love of his daughter. I could em pathize with what he is feeling but I, as his wife, know that Robert is a good man who made a bad decision. I in no way feel he should be excused from his responsibility, but do hope you can find it in your heart to have some compassion for Robert. His daughter is blameless but unfortunately the children of the incarcerated suffer the most.
“I will do my best to raise my daughter on my own to be well-adjusted socially, emotionally, intellectually and spiritually, etc.”
Then it was Robert Lino’s turn. He stepped up and kept repeating, “I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to say.” His lawyer took him aside, and he tried again. As he began to speak, his wife, Carla, put her hand over her mouth, closed her eyes and leaned forward.
“Your Honor, I would just like to put this behind me. I’m very sorry for anyone I offended. I’m sorry.”
The judge then cleared his throat and called the whole matter “a Greek tragedy.”
“No happiness comes from these events. I hope that you can put this behind you and you can have some solace in the future. This is an extremely large chunk of your life.”
And twenty-seven years it was. The judge stood to leave, and everyone followed suit. When the judge was gone, Robert Lino turned and shook his lawyer’s hand, then turned toward his wife and relatives and shrugged as if to say “What did you expect?” His wife smiled and waved as he walked through the door and was gone. She had not brought their daughter to see this.
Outside in the brightly lit white limestone hallway, the Lino family considered the fate of the young man who would not walk again as a free man until he was sixty years of age. He would go in with brown hair and come out with gray or none at all. In the hall, the family was asked why Robert Lino didn’t try to get away from all that business with the Mafia and the killings, etc.
Carla’s mother interjected, “He was born into that life. How do you go against your family? How do you go against your father? Your mother? All your cousins? Robert is not a coward. He did what he had to do and took it like a man.”
All that Robert had admitted, the murders of Tuzzio and Perrino, the burying of bodies in the middle of the night with his father, the lying, the cheating, the perpetual state of deceit—none of that mattered. What mattered—what really mattered—was the fact that Robert’s cousin Frank, a blood relative, a member of his own family, had gone and told the FBI all about Robert’s life as a criminal. This fact made the Lino family crazy.
“The betrayal of your family is the worst thing you can do in your life. There is nothing worse,” said one of the Lino cousins, who’d decided it was best not to reveal his name. “These informants, they walk away with no time.”
Robert Lino was certainly not going to walk away with no time. This was the fact that his family would have to live with—that he would spend twenty-seven years in prison. The family Lino contemplated how much time cousin Frank would spend inside a prison cell.
“He won’t get twenty-seven years, I can tell you that,” said Robert Lino’s wife, Carla, with not a little bitterness in her voice.
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