Surviving the Mob - Dennis Griffin [77]
“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