Gotti John - Gotti: rise and fall

John Gotti was the last great Godfather, who thought he was invincible...

He rose from the streets of Queens to head Americas most powerful crime family and his path there was littered with bodies. He was a criminal, a killer, a womaniser and a celebrity. Known as the Teflon Don because no charge would stick, he loved to stroll out of the courtroom in thousand-dollar suits waving to the waiting crowd. Time magazine put him on the cover, but the Feds couldnt put him in jail.

But then the FBI assembled a special task force with the sole aim of bringing him down. Finally they identified Gottis weak spot and set the trap. His fall from the heights of Americas Mafia shook the underworld to its core. Organised crime reporters and bestselling authors Jerry Capeci and Gene Mustain use FBI tapes and a host of inside sources on both sides of the law to give the definitive account of the brutal story of John Gotti.

For my mother, Anna Capeci, who always did her
best for our family and still does

For Doreen, forever and again

PEOPLE LOVED ME . I coulda been fuckin president if I wasnt having so much fun doin what I was doin. You think Im kiddin? Whats that Bill Clinton got? A forty-three approval ratin in the polls? Stop any two people on the fuckin street, one of em would like me. That puts me seven points ahead right there.

Whatd he ever do I didnt do? He smoked pot, dodged the draft, and poked girls he wasnt married to. Went to Cambridge? Wheres that? Massachusetts someplace? I went to Green Haven. Takes cajones, thats balls to you, to go there.

I didnt even dodge the draft neither. Had this run-in with a cement mixer when I was a kid. Fucked up my feet. Woulda never passed the physical, if my juvenile sheet didnt already knock me out. I tried pot, but could never see what the big deal was. Me? Just give me a martini and Im happy as a cacumbero cucumber to you. Boodles, if you got it. Straight up. Dry as the desert.

Minchia! One of those sure would taste good about now.

People loved me all right. I got letters, I get letters. Thousands of em. From all over the fuckin world. They love me in fuckin England. Must be some Cockney connection. Heres one right here. Im not makin this up, these letters are for real, my lawyers got all the copies. Lets see I gotta get my readin glasses its from the Canadian Red Cross Society. I know that aint England, and Canada dont count in no election, but hold on a minute, Im just pickin one out of the pile. Just an example of what Im talkin about.

It says, Dear Mr Gotti, since your unique talent is unquestionably worthy of celebrity status, we would be very grateful if you would consider making a special contribution of some special item that could be auctioned.

It goes on, some stupid charity event. I love that, unique talent. But letters like that I dont bother answerin.

But heres one that got to me. From a lady in Pennsylvania. Dear Mr Gotti, she says. I am writing this letter to you to see if you would write a letter of encouragement to my aunt who is terminally ill with cancer. She and I both are great admirers of yours and if anyone knows about courage its you.

Aint that somethin? It goes on.

I know in my heart a note of best wishes from you would mean so much. God bless you and your family. I pray youll be reunited with your family in the very near future.

That one, I asked one of my lawyers to write the poor sick lady a letter. Give her somethin to smile about. I told her to stay strong. Which is one of my favorite sayins.

My men used to say I was like Jesus Christ. Im not foolin. They did. Right after I became boss, guy comes up to me, he says he always knew I was gonna be boss because, even when we were just kids on the corner, I had what it took. So now he says hes so proud of me because Im bringing peace to the family and makin everybody feel good. He says, Youre Jesus Christ.

Back in 87, when I beat this case a little girl prosecutor tried to fuck me up with, a real frame job, a guy comes running down the street. This was when the fuckin Mets werent no lay-down Sally team. The guy says, Queens has two world champions. The Mets and John Gotti!

I was on the cover of Time. People. New York. I dont know how many fuckin others. I lose track. They wrote songs about me and played em on Howard fucking Stern. Fuckin public television did a big show on me. It was right after one they did on Eleanor Roosevelt or maybe Winston Churchill, some famous fuck, I dont even remember.

They called me lots of names. Johnny Boy. Dapper Don. Teflon Don. Prince of Mulberry Street. Two with fuckin king in it King of the Volcano. King of Queens. Naturally, they also called me the Godfather. You gotta go read the book to understand them all, but just John suited me fine. People get famous, they only need one name. Cher. Madonna. Magic. Michael. John.

I did get pretty fuckin famous. I couldnt go nowhere and not be recognized. Uptown. Downtown. Motown. Notown. Made my work harder sometimes, but whatre ya gonna do? Run and hide? I told my men, We aint runnin scared. I wasnt like this boss they call Chin, a Mustache Pete if you ask me. Walkin around in his pajamas to make people think hes some loony tune. Not my style. People know what we are; people aint stupid.

I used to go down to Florida, to this rich kid friend of mine Lewis Kasmans place. Lot of celebrities there. Theyd all come by the pool and bother me. I was in a bar once, fuckin prime minister of Canada came up to me one night there we go with Canada again, but what the fuck, Im tellin you things that happened he came up to me and just asked to shake my fuckin hand. So I let im. Sophia Loren? Same thing. Eddie Murphy? Forget about it. I met so many people, I lose track. Have to write myself little notes.

One time, I moved right into a suite that that Dan Quayle just left. Could still smell his cologne, or maybe it was the fuckin Secret Service agents. You know how a dog can smell a mans fear? Well, I could always smell an agent. Same thing with rats informers to you, I had like a fifth sense, or is that a sixth? I forget.

Back up in New York, I used to have a martini or two at my buddy Carlo Vaccarezzas place on the Upper East Side. Real nice joint. Anthony Quinn came over to my table. Mickey Rourke came over. I met one lady there, Lisa Gastineau, whod knock your socks off. She did mine, have to tell ya. She was that football players ex-wife, and a real nice lady too. Called me Papa Schultz, like a lot of ladies did, cause I was such a throwback, a regular Dutch Schultz, brainy and ballsy and spiffy too, you know what Im sayin?

Those were the days. My kid Junior got married, I threw him a fifty-thousand-dollar banquet at the Helmsley Palace. Fuckin Cristal Rose at every table. One Christmas, I spent two hundred balloons, thats thousands, holding a little feast by the water, fancy catering hall over in Canarsie, thats in Brooklyn. Whole world was there, every good fellow in my family and other families too.

I came out of the Bronx. Didnt have two cents to rub together when I was born neither. When Vicky had our first kid, I had to beat the hospital out of the fuckin bill. Couldnt pay for my kid. Kids. I love my five kids. Ones gone, but I still count im. We still send him messages with little notices in the Daily News every year. Vicky and the other kids do.

Beautiful kid. Smart as a whip. It hurts to think about him, and Im one of the last of the fuckin tough guys.