Made Men

by Smith, Greg B.

  “In case they come to get me,” he said, “I’ll be ready.”

  The agent asked him to describe what he meant by

  “they.” Sclafani stopped talking and continued to get dressed. As he dressed, he told the agents that he did a hundred to a hundred and fifty push-ups each day. He let them know that if he were a younger man, there surely would have been a disturbance when they knocked on his door at six o’clock in the morning. He told the agents how he was with the Special Forces when he was in the United States Army from 1955 through 1957.

  The agents nodded and remembered what they could without writing it down. They then escorted him out of his home and his Staten Island neighborhood and took the sixty-two-year-old pensioner into the city to face a list of charges that could put him in jail for the rest of his life.

  VINNY OCEAN The agents first visited Vinny Ocean’s isolated waterfront palace in the suburban town of Island Park. It was located in an island accessible by only two roads and was surrounded by the man-made channels that lead to the natural Broad Channel, which funnels into the Atlantic Ocean. It was a neighborhood that would clearly know when a stranger was driving through. It was a difficult place to get into and out of. The house itself lay behind an ornate six-foot cement wall with an eight-foot wrought-iron gate. In the dawn chill, the agents broke through the gate, drove past the basketball hoop in the driveway, and knocked on the front door. Palermo’s wife, Debra, and son Vincent Jr., came to the door. Debra informed the agents that she had no idea where Vinny Ocean was or could be. This would be the same Vincent Palermo she’d been married to for more than a decade who came home nearly every night. The agents left, in search of Vinny Ocean.

  They did not have far to drive. Palermo and several other members of the DeCavalcante family were known to hang around a certain beach house in nearby Long Beach when they wanted to avoid detection. The agents took the bridge into the popular beach resort town and drove to the beach house just as Vinny Ocean and one of his most trusted soldiers, Jimmy Gallo, were walking out of the house. Vinny Ocean was carrying two bags. One was packed with clothes, as if Vinny was considering taking a little trip. The other contained the two recording devices Vinny had used to create his own record in the event he was arrested by agents of the United States government, as happened to be the case.

  PRESSER By noon, thirty-three of forty defendants had been rousted out of bed in their underwear. FBI agents and New York City cops showed up with arrest warrants in towns across New Jersey, Long Island, and New York City. They found one gangster in an apartment in Scranton, Pennsylvania, and one in a house trailer in Las Vegas. All the locals were shuttled to windowless holding pens inside the upper floors of the FBI’s New York headquarters in lower Manhattan. They were herded into the same room so they could all get a look at one another. Some knew others well. Others had never met. In a few cases, low-level associates got to meet the bosses for the first time. Appropriate respect was shown, though discussion was kept to a minimum. One soldier of the Colombo family, Anthony Stripoli, recognized one soldier from the DeCavalcante family, Anthony Capo. He knew him from youth football on Staten Island. They talked about football. Another asked Stripoli about his uncle Jerry Lang, a Colombo capo sitting in jail. Stripoli looked at the guy like he was asking about the color of his sister’s underwear.

  “Jerry who?” he growled. The newly assembled group of friends and strangers began the tedious and mysterious practice known as “intake,” in which they would be fingerprinted, photographed, and interviewed by low-paid Justice Department employees with checklists of questions about their jobs and wives and prior experience with the criminal justice system. Usually they would all be presented to a federal magistrate who would hear them plead not guilty and assign them a District Court judge. Because there were so many bodies to process, nearly everyone involved— from defendants to prosecutors to defense attorneys to court workers to the judge himself—dreaded the day ahead.

  A press conference was set for 1:30 P.M. in the lobby of the office of Mary Jo White, the United States attorney for the Southern District of New York. The television people set up their bank of cameras, facing a podium with a blue curtain and the Justice Department seal as background. Blue, it was said, worked best on TV. Stacks of indictments were made available. At a little past the appointed time, White walked out and faced the gaggle of television, radio, and print-media representatives who usually showed up for her press conferences. This was a slightly smaller gaggle than usual. Lewis Schiliro, the head of the FBI’s New York office, stood nearby, along with a posse of FBI agents and detectives with the New York City Police Department. Many of the cops and

  agents looked like they hadn’t slept all night, which in fact they hadn’t. It was a time-honored tradition—the prosecutor faces the camera and says that she has struck a blow, hammered a dent, put the fear of God into organized crime. Inevitably there would be much discourse on the fact that all the different law enforcement agencies involved—the New York Police Department, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the police department of the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey—all had worked together, cooperating with one another. Inevitably someone would note that the indictment would “send a message” that “law enforcement will use any means necessary” to eradicate organized crime.

  Prosecutor White, a veteran of this performance, laid out the details and revealed the numbers. She referred to “the cooperating witness” or “CW.” She called Vinny Ocean an “acting boss” and Tin Ear Sclafani a “veteran soldier.” She mentioned that Joe O Masella had been killed in a golf-course parking lot. She never once mentioned the name of the real star of the show, secret informant Ralphie Guarino. She assured the public that “nearly” all of the $1 million stolen so long ago from the World Trade Center had in fact been recovered. She made the usual statement about how the indictment would hurt but certainly not kill the DeCavalcante crime family and organized crime throughout New York.

  “This investigation proves that those who declare the death of the mob do so at their own peril,” she warned. “We are not there yet, but we have done much in terms of progress.”

  The reporters were drifting out when White announced that nearly all of the intended targets picked up that morning were at that very moment being arraigned over in magistrate’s court. That got the reporters’ attention. With the speeches over, the gaggle quickly shut down their cameras and hustled out the door, headed for court and the chance of a good “Mafia shot.”

  COURT The classic Mafia shot is known to anyone who watches television news. The shot usually involves a large man in a nylon jogging suit or black turtleneck running either away from or at photographers trying desperately to make the shot. Sometimes the men hold carefully folded newspapers in front of their B-movie faces. Sometimes they throw coats over their heads. Sometimes they throw gestures at the photographers, who snap eagerly away in response. There are famous incidents associated with the Mafia shot. James (Jimmy Brown) Failla is the best example. Here was a seventy-four-year-old troll of a man walking down the sidewalk, a metal cane affixed to each arm. As the photographers approached, Brown produced a string of curses in his best guttural Sicilian and started swinging the canes like golf clubs, aiming for the faces of the startled shutterbugs.

  On this day, the photographers assembled outside the United States District Court, confident that at least some of the alleged and reputed members and associates of the DeCavalcante crime family would surely leave the building at some point. When they did, the cameras would be ready.

  Inside on the fifth floor, life was not nearly so dramatic. The suspects had been brought into court by van and now sat in the holding cell next to the magistrate’s chambers. They had been sitting for a while. It was Thursday—Part One day. That was the day when all indicted defendants were brought in one by one to the mag

  istrate to be assigned to District Court judges. It was a day when all experienced lawyers and defendants brought along pa
perbacks while waiting for the welter of institutions to come together in what no one ever described as ballet. It was taxpayer-funded chaos, every Thursday. With dozens of new DeCavalcante defendants brought in, the system quickly began to fall apart.

  Defendants were ready, but lawyers were not. Lawyers were ready, but defendants were still out of the building. Defendants and lawyers were ready, but the magistrate was not available. On and on it went, all afternoon.

  At one point, Westley Paloscio—the Mickey the Dunce bookmaker who lived at home with his mother—was brought in, shackled to four others. He had been charged in the conspiracy to kill Joseph Masella. That meant he could face the death penalty. He shuffled in, looking like a small animal trapped in the sudden glare of an oncoming tractor trailer. As the magistrate asked Paloscio’s lawyer if his client had read the indictment, Paloscio glanced around the court, nodding to his buddies and assiduously avoiding eye contact with his mother. The prosecutor, Maria Barton, was trying to convince the magistrate to keep Westley locked up because, as a participant in the murder of a fellow human being, he had demonstrated that he was a danger to the community.

  Westley’s mother began to pace in the audience. “Westley,” she kept saying in a stage whisper that got louder as the hearing unfolded. She was a small woman in her fifties wearing a winter jacket and new walking shoes. Her eyes seemed sad, and she alternately shook her head in disbelief and muttered in anger. The muttering grew in volume. Finally it was all too much. Mrs. Paloscio stood up in a rage and approached the wooden railing that separates the officers of the court from the people who pay their salaries. She started waving her hand to get the magistrate’s attention.

  “My son has a new job!” she cried. “My son has never been in trouble in his life. He just started the job. He’s not a murderer.” She was yelling. “He’s going to lose his job! He’s not a danger to anybody.” She was shouting; the United States marshals were moving closer to her. She began shrieking. “He finally got a job to get away from all this shit!”

  The marshals asked Mrs. Paloscio to step outside the courtroom. She complied slowly, walking out and watching as her son was led away in handcuffs, still studiously avoiding her eyes.

  Anthony Stripoli was with the group attached to Westley, but the prosecutor had not called him a danger to society and so he was allowed to leave. He stood up and smiled at his relatives, who clapped him on the back as he walked through the rail on his way out of court.

  “Look at you,” one of the relatives said. “You’re a movie star.”

  DMN Six days after his arrest, Anthony Stripoli the movie star and Colombo family soldier sat in the conference room of DMN Capital in the heart of Wall Street. There sat Jimmy Labate, Bonanno associate, and Little Robert Lino, Bonanno captain. Everybody knew what was what. Anthony had been arrested and charged with bookmaking, a charge he could live with. Mostly he was there because he needed money, and he needed to convince his friends to pay him what he felt they owed him for a pump-and-dump scheme that hadn’t worked out as planned. That way he could pay his lawyer. Mostly Labate and Little Robert wanted to know what was happening now that Anthony was busted. They seemed concerned.

  “What’s up, Anthony?” Labate asked. “How’d you make out?”

  “Six rats in the case,” Anthony said. “They just wrecked that whole family.”

  “It’s up to six already?” Labate asked.

  “Six rats. I don’t know any of them. They think I know them all.”

  “You’re guilty by association,” Labate offered. “Your name could have just been mentioned in passing.”

  “No,” Stripoli said. “My name was mentioned from Joe with the cell phone that got killed.”

  Stripoli was referring to Joey O. The very night Joey O was killed, Anthony Stripoli was supposed to meet him near the golf course way down in Brooklyn. He was not charged with killing anybody, never mind Joey O. But he was convinced he would soon be dragged into that part of the case, where the death penalty was lurking. He mentioned the death penalty several times.

  “I had been beeping him all night,” Stripoli said.

  “That kinda only shows you didn’t kill him,” Labate said.

  “I just called him,” Stripoli said, his voice beginning to rise. “I was freaking out—”

  “He’s already dead!” Labate hollered.

  “And his daughter answered the phone and said, ‘My father died,’ ” he said. “I was supposed to meet him at eight.”

  “On the golf course,” Little Robert said.

  “On the golf course.”

  Little Robert tried to assure him that everything would be okay, and although he seemed happy with circum

  stances, he needed some reassurance himself. “They got surveillance on you or me or anything like that?” “They didn’t tell me that,” Stripoli said. “They got my phone book with your name in it.”

  This did not make Little Robert happy, but he and Stripoli worked out a deal where Stripoli would get $40,000, most of which would wind up with his lawyer.

  Labate tried to be helpful. “Eighteen months federal,” he said. “When you come out, you’re like a fucking champ.”

  “Oh yeah,” Stripoli said. “I’ll be fuckin’ working out every day.”

  17

  April 5, 2000 A little past two on a sunny spring Wednesday, United States District Court Judge Lawrence McKenna strolled into his well-funded courtroom in lower Manhattan. He wore shirtsleeves, not bothering with his black robe. Judge McKenna began chatting with his deputy and clerks and the defense attorney and prosecutor who had come to argue in front of him. He was a tall, friendly man with snowy hair and a hesitant manner that seemed almost shy. His informality disarmed nearly everyone who came before him. He was considered one of the nicest men in the building. His court was fifteen stories above the city of New York. Far below, the city sparkled silently in the spring sunshine. Here no street sound could be heard. The criminal justice system went about its business in an orderly world of its own, high above the chaos.

  Here in the Southern District of New York, prosecutors were used to winning. They had a conviction rate of 96 percent, and when they stood before a judge and asked that a defendant be tossed in jail as a danger to the community, more often than not they got what they wanted. This was the case because most judges would rather be run over by a bus than be labeled soft on crime. A judge who’s called soft on crime is like a hockey player who is said to be afraid to brawl. Overcompensation is inevitable. A judge labeled soft on crime metes out extreme sentences and denies bail as a matter of course. In the Southern District of New York, Judge McKenna was an exception to this rule. While most of his colleagues usually gave the prosecutors the benefit of the doubt, McKenna tended to take that position with the defendant. Defense lawyers called this open minded. Prosecutors dreaded walking into his court.

  McKenna’s deputy got off the phone and told him the defendant had been brought up from the holding cell and was ready to be presented. The judge nodded and retired to his chambers. The informal chat was over, and the two adveraries—prosecutor and defense lawyer—took their appointed places. In a moment the United States marshals led in the prisoner of the moment, Joseph Sclafani.

  Sclafani had been sitting in jail for four months. He entered the walnut-walled courtroom without handcuffs, dressed in the baby-blue togs of federal pretrial detainees. He wore sneakers without laces and his pants were secured at the waist by elastic. In prison, shoelaces and belts were forbidden. He sauntered in with a kind of rolling strut of the seasoned wiseguy that conveyed the message “Who gives a fuck?” He nodded to his wife and two sons, who were the only spectators sitting in McKenna’s court besides a lone newspaper reporter. The Sclafani progeny smiled and waved at their father; the wife looked like she was about to burst into tears.

  The defense attorney, Francisco Celedonio, bent in close to Sclafani and began whispering. Sclafani pointed at his ear and Celedonio got up and switched sides
. Judge McKenna appeared in his robes and took the bench. The prosecutor, Lisa Korologos, a small, quiet young woman whose voice never seemed to rise above the level of benign conversation even when she was furious, quickly rose and smiled at the judge. She stood at a table in front of Sclafani and his lawyer, her back to them.

  Celedonio the defense lawyer paid no attention to the judge or the prosecutor as he continued to whisper to his half-deaf client.

  “ United States versus Joseph Sclafani,” said his deputy. “Is everyone ready?”

  Celedonio stopped whispering and averred that he was ready. Judge McKenna got right to business.

  “I guess I will begin by asking Mr. Celedonio: I am aware of the background in this case; would you just put on the record the package you’re proposing?”

  The package at hand involved the set of circumstances Celedonio the lawyer could present to convince all concerned that the release of Tin Ear Sclafani would not place the Republic in jeopardy. At least that was the way he saw it. He was there to get his client out on bail. Sclafani had been sitting in jail since the morning the FBI agents showed up at his house on St. George in December 1999, and he wanted out. The package would include collateral he could raise toward that cause combined with conditions that would assure the judge that Mr. Sclafani would be there for his next court appearance. Sclafani’s lawyer, Celedonio, proposed $30,000 cash and a bond of considerably more, backed by the faux Tara in Staten Island Sclafani called home. He suggested that the FBI could bug all of Tin Ear’s phones. He agreed that his client would wear an electronic bracelet that would set off an alarm should Tin Ear venture away from St. George Road. Sclafani would be confined to Tara and his gazebo with the fake bridge and the plastic raccoon, and would be allowed to meet only with his immediate family and his lawyer. If he needed to go someplace else, he would have to get permission. That was the package Celedonio earnestly presented.