The Coffey Files

by Coffey, Joseph; Schmetterer, Jerry;

  The meeting was set for December 16, 1985. At about 6:00 P.M. Castellano and his driver-bodyguard Thomas Billotti pulled up outside the restaurant on East 46th Street. As the two men got out of their car, eight gunmen who had been hiding in the shadows of nearby doorways approached from all directions.

  It is unlikely Castellano and Billotti ever realized what happened. The killers opened fire. “Big Paulie” was halfway out of the car when the hail of small-caliber bullets tore into his chest and head. He was dead before he hit the gutter. Billotti actually made it to the street but never had a chance to protect his boss. The bodyguard died without doing his duty. The killers fled into the night. They would have to deal with forces that were sure to rise up against them, the same way the killers of Carmine Galante never lived to enjoy their rewards.

  When he heard the news about Castellano, Coffey traveled to the scene of the crime. Art Ruffles from the FBI was there. So was Dick Nicastro, supervising the work of his detectives. Most of the talk was about how Castellano was probably better off. He would have hated dying in prison. There was also a lot of talk about John Gotti.

  Reporters covering the assassination reasoned that Castellano was hit because he would not stand up to the pressure of the two trials he was facing. His mob colleagues were afraid he would sing, the columnists said, while law enforcement sources were quoted as saying that Gotti, the don headquartered at the Bergin Hunt and Fish Club, had ordered the hit so that he could take over the Gambino family before Castellano either went to jail or rolled over for the law to protect himself. Joe Coffey saw it a little differently: “Dellacroce was the only reason Castellano was alive to that day. When he died, Castellano lost his protection. There was no one else, especially not John Gotti, who was going to protect the Mafia code. No one else cared who Carlo Gambino chose as his successor. It was a sanctioned hit. The commission—‘Fat Tony,’ ‘Tony Ducks,’ Jerry Langella, and the rest—all approved it. It may be the last classic sanctioned hit in mob history. The way the Mafia in New York handled its own disputes changed forever the day Dellacroce died. There are no longer any ties to the original dons and godfathers—the guys who understood the importance of a commission. More and more families are letting their own in-fighting get in the way of making money.” John Gotti, in contrast, was a cowboy. He wrote his own rules as he needed them.

  A year earlier the murder of Castellano would have become the Coffey Gang’s number one priority. But Joe was no longer concerned with solving only homicides. He took notes and gathered all the intelligence he could but basically filed it away for future use. Joe would continue to concentrate on the mob-influenced unions. Of course he would be happy if there were a tie-in somehow to the assassination of the capo di tutti capi, and he would not be surprised if there were one.

  Over the next few months the bugs in the two carpenters’ union locals in Manhattan convinced Goldstock and Coffey that it was time to press the investigation harder. The key figure, the man the tapes seemed to indicate was the liaison between the unions and the mobs that were controlling them, was John O’Connor, the business agent of Local 608, the “Irish” local on West 51st Street and Broadway. O’Connor’s duties as business agent were much the same as those performed by “Sally Balls” Briguglio for Tony Provenzano. “We believed at the time,” Coffey says, “that O’Connor was the bag man for the union’s president, Pascal McGuiness. He visited the construction sites, made the threats, and picked up the money.” McGuinness was acquitted after a trial in the Summer of 1991.

  The decision was made to bring O’Connor into the White Plains office for questioning. However, because Coffey hoped to turn the business agent and convince him to rat on the mob to save his own skin, he set up a simple but effective plan to get O’Connor to the office without anyone’s noticing.

  O’Connor was an early riser, who usually left his home in the Putnam County town of Brewster a little after 5:00 A.M. in order to make the one-hour drive into Manhattan in time to get to the union hall when the members were arriving looking for work.

  On the morning of May 5, 1986, a New York State Police patrol car was positioned on the southbound shoulder of Route 684 about five miles outside Brewster. When the waiting trooper saw O’Connor pass, he followed for a short time. Then the trooper flashed his turret lights and sounded a short blast on his siren.

  O’Connor pulled over immediately, and the trooper pulled up behind. As if he was about to issue a traffic ticket, the trooper approached O’Connor. When he got to the driver’s side window he issued an unusual order. “Mr. O’Connor,” the trooper said, “please follow me. We’re going to the offices of the New York State Organized Crime Task Force in White Plains.”

  Without objection, O’Connor followed the cruiser down Route 684 about twenty miles to Coffey’s office.

  Coffey was waiting at his desk for the union man. O’Connor seemed a little stunned by the sudden developments. He knew he was not under arrest but obviously wondered just what was going down.

  “Mr. O’Connor,” Joe began, “I do not want you to say anything. I do not want you to answer any questions. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do may be used against you. There is something I want you to hear.”

  For the next three minutes Coffey played a tape recorded by an undercover agent. On it, the agent was heard offering a bribe and O’connor was heard accepting it.

  When the tape ended Joe continued, “We have enough on this tape and others to send you to prison for many years. But we also know that you have more to fear from the mob than from us. We’ve heard them repeatedly refer to you in less than flattering terms. They are not happy with the way you run your local. They think you are ripping them off. Today is Tuesday. I’ll give you until Friday to make up your mind. Join our team or you will be indicted. If you don’t come aboard, we will prosecute you. What the Mafia decides to do about you is up to them.”

  By 7:30 A.M. O’Connor was at his desk at Local 608. It did not seem possible that anyone knew he had been talking with Joe Coffey. The first thing he did when he arrived was call a priest he knew on Staten Island. He explained to the priest that he was under great pressure. He said he needed counseling and prayers. The priest agreed to meet O’Connor for lunch the following day.

  On May 7, 1986, at 6:30 in the morning, almost exactly twenty-four hours after being pulled off the road by the New York State trooper in Westchester, John O’Connor was shot five times in the back and buttocks as he entered the offices of Local 608. He was rushed to St. Clare’s Hospital by a city ambulance crew. When he arrived, his condition was listed as serious but not life threatening.

  “There was panic in White Plains when we heard about the shooting,” Coffey remembers. “It certainly appeared it was connected to our pulling O’Connor off the road. It looked like either we had a leak in our office, which would have been a disaster, or O’Connor himself told someone about meeting me, which would have been stupid. But instinctively I felt there had to be another reason. The shooting had to be a coincidence.”

  The office was in chaos. Investigators telephoned their mob sources. A hurried strategy session was in progress. The shooting incident could destroy years of work, and it would almost certainly scare O’Connor into not cooperating if he thought there was a leak in the task force.

  It was Eddie Wright, Coffey’s old friend from the DA’s office and the Frazier fight, who saved the day. Amid the chaos he walked into Joe’s office with a tape casette in hand.

  “Joe,” he said, “I think I know what’s going on with this O’Connor thing. Listen to this.”

  He played a recording made from the bug in the Bergin Hunt and Fish Club on February 7, 1986. On the tape John Gotti is allegedly talking about John O’Connor.

  In preparing a case against Gotti in 1990, the Manhattan district attorney charged that Gotti was recorded saying, “Find out who this guy O’Connor is. We’re gonna bust him up … we’ll murder him.”

  When the tape end
ed, Wright shared some other intelligence gleaned from the Bergin operation. He and Coffey were able to put together a scenario that explained the shooting.

  It was O’Connor’s responsibility, on behalf of his union, to pressure money from the owners of the Bankers and Brokers Restaurant in the Wall Street district. The restaurant was owned by the Gambino family. The money, usually in the form of a secret tax tacked on the charges for work performed by members of Local 608, was supposed to go to O’Connor’s boss, the local’s president, Pascal McGuiness.

  However, it was the conclusion of Wright’s investigation that O’Connor was holding out on McGuiness. To retaliate against O’Connor, McGuiness ordered O’Connor and three thugs to break into the Bankers and Brokers and trash it. They did about thirty thousand dollars’ worth of damage. As McGuiness expected, the action made Gotti furious. He believed Local 608 was supposed to protect his restaurant, and he knew O’Connor was being paid to make sure thugs did not break in.

  “The tapes and the other information made it clear to us that Gotti was up to his neck in this shooting and in the operations of the carpenters’ union,” Coffey remembers.

  Five days after the shooting, Coffey and Special Investigator Jim Killeen, who had also worked on the Ruling Commission case, went to St. Clare’s Hospital to see O’Connor.

  A nun was stationed outside the door of the intensive care unit where the labor racketeer was being cared for. She told O’Connor that Coffey and Killeen wanted to speak to him.

  O’Connor’s wife, who was sitting in the hallway, appeared to be on the verge of a breakdown.

  “Mr. O’Connor will only speak to Mr. Coffey,” the nun said when she came out of the room.

  Joe went into the room. He stood at O’Connor’s bedside for a few moments. Then O’Connor spoke softly. “Joe, who did this to me?” the wounded man asked.

  “John, you know who did this. I told you there was trouble waiting for you.”

  At that point Joe remembers O’Connor began shaking, convulsing to the point that Joe was afraid he was dying. He called the nurse. As he was being cared for, O’Connor said he would accept Coffey’s offer. He would cooperate.

  “For eighteen months we continued to gather tapes and listen to O’Connor. He gave us plenty of information on the Irish mobsters, including McGuiness, but he would never say a word against Gotti or any other mafioso. He was just too afraid.”

  On a Wednesday night in February 1988 the decision was made to arrest John Gotti for assault and conspiracy including the charge he had contracted Jimmy Coonan and the Westies to shoot O’Connor. Detectives were stationed at several different locations where the capo was likely to show up.

  Coffey took up position down the block from the Ravenite Social Club on Mulberry Street in Little Italy. Wednesday was “Capo Night” at the club, when the highest-level hoodlums of the Gambino family could come to pay their respects and talk business with the godfather. Coffey was sure that before the night was over Gotti would show up to hold court.

  In fact Gotti was already inside when Joe, a sergeant, and two detectives from DA Morgenthau’s office pulled their unmarked car to the curb.

  At 6:00 P.M. they saw Gotti and a capo named Jackie Giordano leave the club. When the godfather wanted to speak privately to one of his court without fear of being bugged, he would take the capo for a walk around the block. Carlo Gambino did it, Paul Castellano did it, Aniello Dellacroce did it, and that evening John Gotti did it.

  The detectives’ car followed the two hoodlums down the street. Two blocks away from the Ravenite, at the corner of Lafayette and Prince Streets, Coffey, who was driving, cut the two men off as they began to cross the intersection. With guns drawn the lawmen bolted from the car.

  “Stop right there,” Coffey ordered Gotti. “Turn around and put your hands on the wall.”

  Gotti had heard those words before and knew what to do. Without protest he spread his arms and legs. Giordano, who was not being arrested, quietly slipped away. He ran back to the Ravenite to alert everyone and make sure Gotti’s lawyer, Bruce Cutler, was called.

  With a small crowd standing around and backup cars pulling up to the scene, Joe Coffey expertly ran his hands up and down John Gotti’s arms and legs. He frisked him according to the book, patting the inside of his jacket to see if Gotti was wearing a shoulder holster. Then he ran his hands across Gotti’s waist to see if he had a holster on his hip. He did not expect to find a gun. Hoodlums of John Gotti’s stature usually did not carry weapons. So he was surprised when he felt something large and metallic in the front of Gotti’s belt.

  “Are you wearing a gun, you cocksucker?” Joe snarled. Gotti did not answer right away and Joe began to raise his fist. One of the DA’s men, afraid he would be witnessing a display of Coffey’s Martial Law, cautioned Joe to take it easy.

  “It’s only my belt buckle,” Gotti finally offered. Joe backed off. He took Gotti’s right arm and twisted it behind his back. Then he did the same with the left. From his own waistband he took a pair of handcuffs and placed them on Gotti’s wrists.

  X

  TEFLON GONE

  As Gotti sat in the back of the unmarked car being driven to the station house for questioning about his role in the shooting of John O’Connor, he turned to Joe Coffey and said, “Three to one I beat this rap.” Even with his hands cuffed behind his back, his expensive slacks and sport shirt crumpled in the seat as he was squeezed between two brawny detectives, John Gotti maintained the arrogance that had become his trademark.

  At the time of the arrest John Gotti was the reigning mobster in America. He took over the Gambino Family by gunning down Paul Castellano outside Sparks Steak House and he never looked back. As godfather he maintained the same reputation he had relished as a street hoodlum. He wore finely tailored suits costing thousands of dollars, got daily haircuts given to him in his private barber chair in the Bergin Hunt and Fish Club, and enjoyed expensive dinners in some of the city’s best Italian restaurants. But Gotti remained, in the eyes of his soldiers and the cops and federal agents who pursued his every move, a street thug. He was ruthless, sadistic and rough around the edges like no capo di tutti capi before him. He was a degenerate gambler and still, even as supreme leader of New York’s underground, willing to slap around a subordinate.

  “You could hear him on tapes we had hidden in his club and the Ravenite in Manhattan. He had the vocabulary of a Bensonhurst teenager. And every other word out of his mouth was ‘Fuck this’ or ‘Fuck that’. Next to him Paul Castellano and Funzi Tieri sounded like Rhodes Scholars,” says Coffey, who was involved in placing the bug in the Bergin Club.

  By the time of his arrest in the O’Connor case, Gotti had become a fixture in the city’s tabloid press. He had a public persona that would have made the likes of Meyer Lansky and Vito Genovese wince. Mafia dons, with few exceptions, learned that one way to lead a long life was to lead a quiet life. Stay out of the public’s eye. Don’t rub your success in the face of the law. Don’t let less talented underlings get jealous. Don’t bring heat on your family. But John Gotti loved the spotlight. He loved playing the part of “Mr. Big.” He was Hollywood’s version of a mobster. Gotti was life imitating art imitating life. He looked the public in the eye and snarled, “Fuck you.” This was something George Raft might do in the movies, but not Frank Costello in real life.

  “Every time we’d see a picture of Gotti on the front page, whether he was going into court or into a restaurant, it would make us more determined to bring him down. He was so arrogant, you knew he’d have to fall and fall hard,” remembers Coffey. “The only question: would we get him before rival mobs?”

  It was known in law enforcement circles that the more low-keyed bosses of the Genovese and Luchesse families, who were investing more and more mob money in legitimate businesses every day, were not happy with Gotti’s notoriety. Lucky Luciano may have gotten away with being part of New York’s gossip columns. But John Gotti was no Lucky Luciano.

 
; There was, however, one area in which John Gotti remained very true to the ghosts of past godfathers. He lived his life by the Mafia Code of Omerta. He did not snitch on friends; he did not cooperate with law enforcement. No one doubted he would take a bullet in the head before rolling over on the family. That was a quickly disappearing quality among the Mafioso of the final two decades of the twentieth century—a fact John Gotti would soon learn the hard way.

  Joe’s arrest of Gotti for the O’Connor shooting would lead to the third highly publicized trial of the mobster, who each time he was indicted claimed to be a salesman for a plumbing and heating company in Ozone Park, Queens.

  In 1984, in an altercation that grew out of a traffic accident, a refrigerator repairman told police that Gotti and another man beat him up and stole his wallet after he double-parked his car in front of theirs. Later, in Queens Supreme Court, while sitting in the witness chair with his arm in a sling, however, the salesman could not identify Gotti, and the case was dropped.

  Before the official dismissal of that case Gotti was indicted, along with nine other members of the Gambino crime family, on a RICO charge stemming from the stickup of an armored car. Coffey and Ken McCabe were deeply involved in the investigation and Kenny “The Rat” O’Donnell was a valuable undercover informant.

  At the time, the State Organized Crime Task Force had a bug operating inside Gotti headquarters. “One day we overhead Gotti’s daughter call up. She was in tears telling John she was afraid her mother was leaving because Gotti was spending all his time away from home. ‘What’sa matter?’ Gotti barked at his daughter. ‘If I beat both of these raps I’ll be home in three months. If I don’t I’ll be home in thirty-five years. Go fuck yourself.’”

  Gotti did beat both of the cases. The RICO trial turned out to be a disaster for the government. Witnesses went back on their promises to testify and some tape recordings which were key to the case were barely audible in court. Gotti was acquitted.