Scores

  In fact, the majority of fisticuffs at Scores were either initiated by our bouncers or grossly aggravated by them. The most frequent fights involved, of course, the coatroom. Since every bouncer was coached on the importance of the coatroom revenues to the family, bouncers would congregate at the club entrance to ensure all coats and briefcases were checked. On the rare night when a customer would refuse to check an item, probably because of a prior miserable experience at the club or fear of losing a valuable possession, a bouncer would physically insist on the item being checked.

  Inevitably, some patron would stand up to the bouncer and the bouncer would attack, then run out the back entrance of the club with his small tail between his legs, leaving his mess for management to resolve.

  The club was also under financial attack from thieving contractors and employees. It seems that when you are a success in this business, everyone involved feels an entitlement to profits. For example, we printed our funny money at a private mint recommended by our mafia friends, changing the color every month; once the color changed, the prior color became worthless. One month, the color change was scheduled for a specific date and, as chance would have it, I was held up at a meeting and didn’t have time to bring the newly colored instruments to the club. No big deal. Right?

  Yet when I arrived at the club that night, both green (the old color) and red (the new color) bills were all over the place. This was impossible: all the red bills were safely locked in the office. Noticing customers were actually arriving with red bills in hand, I retraced their steps and found a man selling red funny money out of his car trunk around the corner. There was a long line of soon-to-be Scores patrons happily paying ten dollars in American greenbacks for twenty dollars in Scores currency. When the police arrested him, we discovered it was someone who worked at the company we were paying to print the money for us.

  * * *

  1995

  The mafia’s boldest gambit was an effort to seize ownership of the club and all its assets. That plan, we later learned from federal investigators, was conceived between Steven Kaplan, the owner of a strip club in Atlanta called the Gold Club, and the then acting head of the Gambino crime family, John A. Gotti, Jr., with his senior captain, Michael “Mikey Scars” DiLeonardo.

  It all began when a Scores employee, an acquaintance of Kaplan’s, complained about his treatment at the club by management. Kaplan, Gotti, and Scars perceived the complaint as an opportunity to register a protest, through a different family, and to seek a formal sit-down between families based on a demand that ownership of Scores be transferred to Kaplan.

  Kaplan recruited Angelo Prisco, a captain with the Genovese family, to file for and represent his interests at a sit-down; Gotti appointed Mikey Scars to preside over the proceeding; and Mike Sergio was advised by his superiors to prepare the club’s defense.

  Since inception, the Gambino family captain assigned to Scores had been Tori Locascio, son of powerful mobster Frank Locascio. The appointment of a representative captain is a normal process upon registration but, in our case, Mike Sergio was ineligible for the role as he was not a made guy. Sergio was required to inform Tori of the demand for a sit-down because he would be required to attend and defend. But over the years, Locascio had evolved into a very successful businessman and was no longer interested in participating in serious family matters such as sit-downs. Our captain immediately resigned, leaving us high and dry.

  Sergio was able to recruit a substitute representative—an acting Gambino captain from Westchester named Craig DePalma, son of the incarcerated captain Greg DePalma. The sit-down had thus initiated a significant shift of mafia power at the club; the DePalmas were now in charge and they assigned an associate from their crew, Willie Marshall, a longtime acquaintance of mine from my disco ownership days, to oversee their operations in the club in conjunction with Sergio.

  The sit-down was held and, purportedly pursuant to a plan within a plan, Mikey Scars ruled that ownership of the club would remain in our hands, but a one hundred thousand dollar fee would be required for the accommodation. We paid the demand in cash within days, and a trio of representatives delivered the funds directly to Gotti in Queens.

  I always believed the entire scenario was designed from inception as a six-figure shakedown of Scores with no intent to wrestle ownership. But the eventual ramifications of these events were more significant and far-reaching than anyone ever imagined at the time.

  * * *

  DECEMBER 1996

  In preparing for the presentation I am about to make about Scores and the mafia at the proffer with New York prosecutors, I realize that my experience at the club had been the ride of a lifetime, and that the ride is over. To me, the mafia had become an inextricably interwoven fabric of protection, intimidation, friendship, and fear. No matter how close and comfortable the mafia makes one feel, there’s always that hint of violence, that knowledge that if pushed too far, these unstable folk could bite.

  It may be hard to understand, but having mafia protection lands one in a comfort zone. Sure, financial concessions are constantly demanded or stolen outright, but they’re rationalized away because you’re made to feel safe and important. For the first time in my life, no one could fuck with me. No one could confront me, no one could hurt me, no one could say no to me, because I had an endless horde of monsters protecting my back. And that protection extended to my family, my lovers, and my friends. Who cared if, while my back was protected, the mafia was well paid and pampered?

  Understand this: it’s one thing to argue with mafiosos as they earn or steal millions from your business, it’s quite another thing to strap on a wire, capture mobsters in the act of committing felonies, and send them to jail. If I agree to go undercover and get caught, I know I will be executed without thought, hesitation, or regret—probably a bullet to the brain.

  But even worse, if I survive, after the smoke clears, this means I can never go home. I will have no home. It means a stint in a witness jail and then farewell to family, friends, and lovers. A new name, a new past, a new city, a price on my head, a lifetime of looking over my shoulder will be my ultimate rewards. For some that may sound bearable, but to me, it’s my worst nightmare. My life is my people; they are all I am. I can’t imagine going on without them, in an alternate universe where I am somebody else and everything I love is ripped away. I don’t know if I have the courage to do what’s being asked of me. Maybe it would be better to run, maybe it would be better to go to a real jail—at least I would eventually emerge as me.

  And all of this is for what? I will lose everything and accomplish nothing. The mafia will abide and overcome—count on it.

  I know what I’m doing is morally right; it will end the madness my life has become. It may be the only chance I ever have to do the right thing, to pay for my mistakes by risking my very life. But deep down, I know I will never be able to pick up the pieces; I will never be able to make things right. I am heading into unknown territory and I honestly think I’m losing my mind.

  PART THREE

  Dancing with the Devil

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The First Proffer: Time to Start Spilling the Beans

  WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 18, 1996

  Despite freezing wintry temperatures, I was sweating profusely; there were beads of cold perspiration running down my back and into my eyes from my forehead. But for the presence of my attorney, Sandy Weinberg from Tampa, I would have flooded the car with air-conditioning. Assuming Weinberg was already in winter shock, having just left the warm comfort of northern Florida that morning, I simply decided to crack open the power window.

  As we headed north on our way to the opening volley of my possible cooperation, my first “Queen for a Day” proffer, there was little conversation—just not much left to say after all the heated exchanges over the last week. I was achingly tired anyway, having spent a tortured and, for the most part, sleepless night.

  The whole concept of undercover cooperation against La Co
sa Nostra, the real-life mafia, still churned my stomach, retaining an aura of unreality. As an attorney with no meaningful experience in criminal matters, my only perceptions of covert stings were rooted, like everyone else’s, in movies and television.

  Of course, I kept reminding myself uncomfortably, none of this is yet written in stone. I would have to satisfactorily perform, an organ grinder’s monkey doing his dance, before any promises or rewards would be finalized and reduced to enforceable writings. And so that day, having decided not to break ranks with Pearlstein, and not to disregard our attorneys’ collective advice, the unfathomable journey began.

  Our car pulled into the circular driveway of a picturesque hotel in Westchester County, north of Manhattan. Adding to the day’s drama and my level of apprehension, the prosecutors had decided it would be too dangerous to hold the interview anywhere but a secret location. While the government was surely trying to convey concern for my safety, the expression of need for such ultimate secrecy only escalated my private visions of impending doom.

  The two of us, both wearing blue suits and red ties, traversed a floral-lined walkway to the hotel’s front portals. The beauty and serenity of the retreat-like location existed in sharp contrast to the excess of adrenaline coursing through my veins. To the outside viewer, and calling upon decades of experience as a trial attorney, my demeanor did not betray any of the raw fear tearing me apart. I was nothing less than an outward picture of confidence.

  Seated in the hotel lobby restaurant, waiting for orders of coffee and muffins, I looked up and unexpectedly focused on the face of Marjorie Miller, the second-chair prosecutor in the investigation. She took a seat just as the small breakfast order arrived. After the usual exchanges, everyone assuring themselves everyone else was just dandy, Miller stood up. “We have plenty of coffee and food in the room. I suggest you request the check and follow me so we can get started.”

  The government had rented a junior suite on the hotel’s ground floor. Upon entering, a narrow hallway led to a dining room area with a kitchenette on the right. Turning right at the end of the hall, we found ourselves in a large living room, with straight-backed chairs and armchairs forming a semicircle around a large couch backed to the wall.

  Carol Sipperly, the lead prosecutor, again wearing a conservative business suit, stood in front of one of the straight-backed chairs. Smiling, she motioned us to the couch and the FBI agents, Jack Karst and Bill Ready, extended their hands in greeting. Karst took a seat in a nearby armchair, Ready on a small couch, and Miller assumed the chair next to Sipperly. Everyone in the room, except me, pulled out large yellow notepads and started writing.

  Sipperly opened to Weinberg with an official air. “We’ve prepared the standard letter agreement we use covering proffer understandings and protections under Rule 11.”

  Handing the letter to counsel for review and reading mild confusion in my demeanor, she turned to me. “The long and short of this agreement, which our district uses for every proffer, is that you promise to tell us the truth about any and all criminal actions you have participated in or have personal knowledge about and, if you do so, we agree never to use your words directly against you. But we can use your statements if you don’t agree to cooperate in the end, and wind up taking the stand in your own defense and say something inconsistent. Then we can impeach you with whatever you say here.”

  I looked to Sandy for his reaction. He leaned over and whispered to me, “This is all very standard stuff. Nothing to be concerned about at all.”

  With that said and accepted, we all signed the short, two-page agreement. The questioning began with confirmations of harmless personal data, and with each answer, to my uneasy disconcertion, five pens scribbled furiously as if I was recounting the Sermon on the Mount.

  With preliminaries at an end, Sipperly leaned forward, took a deep breath, and said, “Tell us all you know about crimes committed by Mario Cuomo, Andrew Cuomo, and your law partners.”

  I almost fell off the couch.

  “Wait a second, you told me to be ready to talk about Scores!”

  Miller broke in. “We’ll get to Scores, Michael. We prefer to start with the law firm.”

  My mind started furiously reeling; I was utterly unprepared and hadn’t anticipated this line of questioning. As for the governor, I had only met him a dozen or so times and had no knowledge of any wrongdoing on his part. But as for my law partners, I decided in the span of a troubling second not to open Pandora’s box. I lifted my head and stared directly into Sipperly’s eyes.

  “I’m not aware of any crimes committed by the governor or any of my law partners.”

  “Oh come on,” Miller interrupted, adopting an exasperated tone of disbelief. “All those years in politics, and you never witnessed any violations of law?”

  I purposely measured my breathing and silently counted to five. “I have nothing for you. I just don’t. I’m sorry.” I tried to look and sound pathetic.

  I noticed a sidelong glance and a return nod exchanged between Miller and Sipperly.

  “Well, we want you to think about it,” Miller relented. “We’ll come back to this topic again.”

  For the next three hours, I told the story of Scores and answered an onslaught of pointed questions. By the time I came up for air, the room was in awed silence. These prosecutors, from a small suburban satellite office of the Southern District of New York, had opened their empty guns against Scores with nothing more than rumor, hearsay, and gut instinct: a true “shot in the dark.” They were now, to put it mildly, sitting atop a powder keg of possibilities. And even better, the crimes I was describing were ongoing and reached to the very highest tiers of organized crime’s hierarchy.

  Sipperly, Miller, Ready, and Karst collectively knew they’d hit a mother lode, perhaps the most significant inroad into organized crime of the decade. But they had no intention of sharing the value of this cooperation with me; I was a “diamond in the rough” needing careful polishing.

  After a break for creature comforts and private talks, the groups reassumed their original positions. Sipperly once again took control of the gathering, sitting very straight in her chair. “Michael, Sandy, we’re satisfied we’ve made an excellent beginning today. We’re not yet quite convinced we’ve heard the whole truth about your involvement with the Gambinos, but we’ll be having more proffers in the upcoming weeks and months with you. We’re also going to need to know a great deal more about your problems in Florida.

  “But as I said,” she continued, “we all agree this was an excellent beginning. Now let me explain exactly what we’re going to require from you. One, we want to go back into your law offices and reinstall cameras and recording devices in those areas where the mob privately conducts its business with you. Two, we want you to start working with Agents Karst and Ready as undercover operatives. They’ll train you on the wearing of body wires and on undercover techniques of questioning. They’ll protect you.”

  Sipperly stood up, walked over to the couch, and sat down next to me. It was the first time she seemed to consciously move out of prosecutorial mode and spoke softly, as if we were alone. “I’m not gonna soft-pedal any of this for you. What you’re agreeing to do is very dangerous; life-threatening is the only honest way to describe it. You may think these mafia people are your friends, that they care about you. Believe it or not, that’s quite a normal reaction. But you’re dead wrong; you’re nothing to them but a dollar sign, and not one of them would hesitate to end your life in a heartbeat if they learned or even seriously suspected you were working with the government to put them in jail.”

  Carol stopped and took a deep breath. “With that said, you also have to consider we have lots of experience protecting undercover cooperators, and if you just get it into your mind to follow our instructions to the letter, you’ll be safe. There’s just one rule you’ll have to start following from this moment on: other than your attorneys, Andrew, and the people in this room, you’re not to discuss your status with
anyone. Not your family, not your best friends, not your partners. You never know what someone, even someone who loves you, might say in a moment of anger or thoughtlessness.

  “It’s your life on the line and we can’t take the chance of having an inadvertent word result in your death. Even from our end, and this has been authorized by the highest levels in Main Justice in Washington, no one in law enforcement outside this room, even other prosecutors and FBI agents in our office, will know of your cooperation. You’ll be flying under the radar because we won’t risk your safety on a remark overheard in a hallway. Our highest goal—more important than the success of our investigation—will be your safety. Trust me.”

  I couldn’t breathe, silently wishing Sipperly hadn’t thrown in the word “death.” This was all happening way too fast to be reasonably processed; a million thoughts were flying through my rapidly numbing mind.

  “If I agree, when would all this actually start?” I weakly asked.

  Sipperly stood, nodding to Karst, and the FBI agent cleared his throat. “We want to go back into your offices to plant the bugs this Saturday. We’ll have to talk through the best way to get into the building without causing a stir, and we’ll definitely need you and Andrew with us.”