Surviving the Mob (25 page)

“A couple of mornings later, a correction officer woke me up around four-thirty and said I had to get ready for court. I told him I didn’t have any court scheduled, that I was being held on a parole violation. He insisted. So I got dressed and they moved me to the holding pens where inmates waited for transportation to court or other appearances. Names were called out and guys left. It was now past court hours
and I was the only one left in the cell. I complained to a correction officer that they’d just rousted me to bust my balls. There was no court for me.

“The officer said, ‘Oh no. You’re somethin’ special. The marshals are comin’ for you.’ That’s when I knew additional charges were about to be filed against me. They took me to Cadman Plaza in Brooklyn. I was met there by Michael Callahan, Vince Girard, and a couple of other guys. I was arrested, but only on a federal weapons charge at that time. That was because the serial number on the machine gun they found in my apartment had been filed off, making it a federal charge. After processing me, they wanted to talk.

“My choices were to tell them I didn’t want to talk, would only speak with them if I had my lawyer with me, or talk with them right then. My mother had found a non-Mob lawyer for me and I already indicated to him that I was thinking about becoming a government witness. So I let it be known to them that I was open to a cooperation deal. I told them, though, that I was concerned about several things. I said that I wanted to get my lawyer involved and maybe something could be worked out. I said that any agreement we reached would have to include me doing any time as a federal prisoner.

“Because I was now in the federal system, I figured I’d be going to MDC [Metropolitan Detention Center] in Brooklyn where Nicky and Lenny were being held. But they had issued a separation order that we couldn’t be housed in the same facility. In addition, I learned later that another guy housed at MDC, Timothy Lynskey, had been a friend of Robert Arena’s and thought I was responsible for Robert’s murder. For those reasons, I was sent to MCC [Metropolitan Correction Center] in Manhattan instead.

“When I arrived at MCC, I was assigned to the eleventh floor. Almost immediately, I was approached by Danny Marino, a capo in the Gambino family. A lot of other organized-crime
guys were there from the various families. They treated me well, but I was in a very uncomfortable position. Although I was still on the fence, if they knew what I was thinking about doing, my treatment would have changed real quick.

“Meanwhile, the federal prosecutor’s office was in contact with my lawyer. They told him they understood my situation and that I’d definitely been marked for death. That became crystal clear when I was arraigned before a female federal magistrate. When the subject came up, she said she’d consider setting bail. The prosecutor told the judge there was credible information that not only was the Gambino family plotting my murder, but other organized-crime families as well. If I went back onto the streets, it was unlikely I’d live to return to court.

“The magistrate said that because of the parole hold on me, I couldn’t be released anyway. But if the parole situation got resolved, I’d have to decide whether or not I wanted to pursue bail, knowing the dire picture described by the prosecutor.

“The government continued to talk with my lawyer and they were playing hard ball. Their position was that they had me cold on the weapons charge and they were ready to file on me for drug dealing. My suspicions going back to the drug arrests in Vegas and the cops knowing about my fake identification when they arrested me were confirmed. My partner and the document guy were both government informants.

“And if I didn’t cooperate, they planned to convict me and go for my throat at sentencing. They’d seek the maximum sentence on each count and ask that they run consecutively. Including the eight years I was facing for the parole violation, I was already looking at around forty years. But the kicker was they hadn’t even mentioned the bank burglaries and robberies yet. And I didn’t believe for a minute they didn’t know about them. Adding those in, I’d be an old man
when I got out of prison—if I got out at all.

“It was getting near crunch time. The feds wanted me on their side, but they wouldn’t wait on me indefinitely. After cutting through all the bullshit, I had two choices. I could spend most of the rest of my life in prison to protect the man who wanted me dead and a bunch of guys who’d just as soon kill me as look at me. Or I could try to avoid that by becoming something I’d been taught to hate since I was a kid. I could switch sides and become a rat.

“I thought about it real hard. I honestly believe that if it was just a matter of doing the prison time, I’d have taken it on the chin. But what did I owe Nicky Corozzo? With Nicky, loyalty was a one-way street. He thought he was owed everyone’s loyalty, that allegiance went up the ladder, but not down. At one time I thought Nicky walked on water. But I’d come to see him for what he really was. Over the last several months, I’d awoke to the fact that Nicky and the whole fuckin’ life weren’t what I’d thought they were when I was younger. So the answer to my own question was I didn’t owe Nicky Corozzo a goddamn thing.

“Even realizing all that, it was still a hard decision—the hardest decision of my life. I’d been moved to the federal facility in Otisville, New York [located approximately 70 miles northwest of New York City]. I remember sitting on the bunk in my cell crying to myself, wondering if there was a truly right way to go.

“I have to say the most decisive factor during my internal deliberations was Michael Callahan. When we’d talked, he admitted he couldn’t promise me anything. He said if I flipped, it wouldn’t be an easy road. But when it was all over, my life would be my own. As far as I was concerned, during the past year he was the only one who told me the truth. His honesty impressed me and moved me along in the right direction. His truthfulness probably saved my life.

“After I made my decision, I told my lawyer that I wanted
to get serious about a deal. I mean, up until then, the government couldn’t be totally sure how much value I’d have as a witness. And I didn’t know exactly what they’d bring to the table. It was time to meet with the prosecutor and find out.

“Because of my parole thing, it was easy for me to leave the prison without creating suspicion. Whenever I was taken out, the other inmates assumed it had something to do with that. My first meeting was what’s known as ‘queen for a day.’ That’s when you can tell all you know and nothing you say can be used against you. The prosecutors can evaluate your credibility and how much of an asset you’d be.

“I must have made a good impression. After talking with me for about twenty minutes the prosecutor said I was a ‘treasure trove’ of information. She also said that what I was telling them would require a lot of investigation. There probably wouldn’t be any visible action taken against Nicky or anyone else for about eighteen months. That said, she was ready to talk a deal. It boiled down to me promising to put it all out there as truthfully as I could. If I got caught lying or holding back, any promises the government made to me or any sentencing recommendations were out the window. And about the only real promise they made was to protect me and my family.

“After that I was transported from Otisville every so often to be debriefed. And the cover story, that my trips were mostly about my fight with the parole people, seemed to work like a charm. None of my fellow organized-crime inmates acted different toward me or gave me any reason to think they were suspicious of me.

“But working both sides of the fence is something I wouldn’t recommend to anybody. I had to wonder how long it would be before someone got wise. I always worried about bumping into someone who knew me when I was coming in or out of one of those meetings. If I was seen somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be, I knew the word would get around
quick. And everybody knows that prison isn’t a healthy place to be if they think you’re a snitch.

“While I was in Otisville, my cellmate was a Genovese capo called Nicky the Blonde. And I met another Genovese guy named Tommy Barrett who was good friends with the bank-robbery crew I had worked with. Tommy was doing fourteen years for bank robbery himself.

“After we became friends, I told Tommy that I was fighting a battle to get bail set in my parole case. If I could do that, I had a shot at bail on the federal charge too. With some luck, I could possibly end up back out on the street.

“Tommy said that because I’d robbed with his friends, he knew I was trustworthy. He said he had a connection with the Brinks company who’d be able to give us a money truck. If I got out, he wanted to use me to get that message to Joe Miraglia, Tommy Scuderi, and Sal DeMeo. They’d take down the truck and he could make a score while sittin’ in prison.

“I hadn’t been lookin’ for that information. It just kinda fell into my lap. At my next debriefing, I told them about it.

“The government wanted to have me out on bail too. Not just for the Brinks deal, though. They figured I’d be able to get close to Mike Yannotti and wear a wire on him.

“But when I finally had my parole hearing, the judge said no way was she going to let me out. She said that I shot people for a living and was way too dangerous. She wouldn’t have any part in releasing me back into society. The federal prosecutor’s recommendation had absolutely no effect on her. She gave me the maximum sentence she could on the parole violation—eight years. And I believe her decision to throw the book at me saved my life.

“Nicky wanted me dead. He thought I was holding back money from him. He also thought I was being a smartass by helping put money into the pockets of guys from other families. But I think his biggest thing against me was that I was the only person who could tie him and Mike Yannotti to
Robert Arena’s murder. They knew it and I knew it. There was no doubt in my mind that if they got the opportunity, they’d kill me. They’d have felt they had no choice. If I went back on the street, I was a dead man, wire or no wire.

“Don’t get me wrong. If it worked out that way, I’d have fought for my life. But there’s no way you can win a fight with the family boss. Another crewmate or guys from another family, maybe you got a chance. But not when you’re up against the boss. Then there’s no winning, no chance for survival. Maybe I’d have gone out in a blaze of glory and taken Mike or some others with me. But after all was said and done, I’d have ended up being a ten-minute conversation in a bar and I didn’t want that. Under the situation I was in, staying behind bars was my best chance—my only chance—to stay alive.”

Andrew continued to play his dangerous game: maintaining his appearance of being just another gangster in trouble with the law in the eyes of his fellow inmates, while secretly greasing the wheels of justice during his clandestine meetings with government prosecutors. He was frequently moved between Otisville and various courthouses. Sometimes he spent a night or two housed at the MCC. A conversation he had with a Lucchese capo during one such stay in late 1997 is etched in his mind.

“One night around Christmas we were sitting in a cell talking. He said, ‘Look at us. We’re sittin’ here in jail like two idiots. Our friends are out drinkin’ and laughin’ and havin’ a good time. But they don’t realize that their lives are on oxygen tanks too.’

“Then he pointed out the window toward the courthouse and said, ‘Do you see that building across the street with the offices all lit up? They’re working over there around the clock
to put you, me, and our friends away forever. Our friends go to sleep, but those guys never do. They’re always out there buildin’ their cases. So while our friends are celebratin’ Christmas, right in one of those rooms somebody’s signing their indictments. The government has too much money and too many people. We can never win this war.’

“He was right and me and him knew it. But there were a lot of guys still in the life that didn’t.”

19

In 1998, Andrew came to realize that his decision to become a government witness was a bed of thorns, just as Michael Callahan had predicted. Although he was comfortable with providing information against Nicky Corozzo, Mike Yannotti, and others, he would also be required to share what he knew about those he considered to be friends, such as the bank-robbery crew. And even his mother wasn’t completely supportive.

He also knew that when his information bore fruit and indictments and arrests became public, his role would be exposed. That would likely be followed by having to face his former associates in a courtroom. This was not a pleasant prospect. But the alternative was worse. So, in spite of those drawbacks, Andrew honored his agreement with the government.

Besides, as Andrew reflected on his life and on organized crime in general during his sessions with prosecutors, he experienced a true appreciation for how that life had affected him, his family, friends, enemies, and victims. When looking at the total picture, he was stunned by the havoc he and his associates had wreaked. Many people had been hurt who didn’t deserve to be hurt. Several were dead who didn’t have to die. His decision to cooperate became more than just a
means of survival for him. It also presented an opportunity to atone for his own actions and perhaps help him to move on in a positive direction after his deal with the government had been fulfilled.