Surviving the Mob - Dennis Griffin [78]
“After that I was transported from Otisville every so often to be debriefed. And the cover story, that my trips were mostly about my fight with the parole people, seemed to work like a charm. None of my fellow organized-crime inmates acted different toward me or gave me any reason to think they were suspicious of me.
“But working both sides of the fence is something I wouldn’t recommend to anybody. I had to wonder how long it would be before someone got wise. I always worried about bumping into someone who knew me when I was coming in or out of one of those meetings. If I was seen somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be, I knew the word would get around quick. And everybody knows that prison isn’t a healthy place to be if they think you’re a snitch.
“While I was in Otisville, my cellmate was a Genovese capo called Nicky the Blonde. And I met another Genovese guy named Tommy Barrett who was good friends with the bank-robbery crew I had worked with. Tommy was doing fourteen years for bank robbery himself.
“After we became friends, I told Tommy that I was fighting a battle to get bail set in my parole case. If I could do that, I had a shot at bail on the federal charge too. With some luck, I could possibly end up back out on the street.
“Tommy said that because I’d robbed with his friends, he knew I was trustworthy. He said he had a connection with the Brinks company who’d be able to give us a money truck. If I got out, he wanted to use me to get that message to Joe Miraglia, Tommy Scuderi, and Sal DeMeo. They’d take down the truck and he could make a score while sittin’ in prison.
“I hadn’t been lookin’ for that information. It just kinda fell into my lap. At my next debriefing, I told them about it.
“The government wanted to have me out on bail too. Not just for the Brinks deal, though. They figured I’d be able to get close to Mike Yannotti and wear a wire on him.
“But when I finally had my parole hearing, the judge said no way was she going to let me out. She said that I shot people for a living and was way too dangerous. She wouldn’t have any part in releasing me back into society. The federal prosecutor’s recommendation had absolutely no effect on her. She gave me the maximum sentence she could on the parole violation—eight years. And I believe her decision to throw the book at me saved my life.
“Nicky wanted me dead. He thought I was holding back money from him. He also thought I was being a smartass by helping put money into the pockets of guys from other families. But I think his biggest thing against me was that I was the only person who could tie him and Mike Yannotti to Robert Arena’s murder. They knew it and I knew it. There was no doubt in my mind that if they got the opportunity, they’d kill me. They’d have felt they had no choice. If I went back on the street, I was a dead man, wire or no wire.
“Don’t get me wrong. If it worked out that way, I’d have fought for my life. But there’s no way you can win a fight with the family boss. Another crewmate or guys from another family, maybe you got a chance. But not when you’re up against the boss. Then there’s no winning, no chance for survival. Maybe I’d have gone out in a blaze of glory and taken Mike or some others with me. But after all was said and done, I’d have ended up being a ten-minute conversation in a bar and I didn’t want that. Under the situation I was in, staying behind bars was my best chance—my only chance—to stay alive.”
Andrew continued to play his dangerous game: maintaining his appearance of being just another gangster in trouble with the law in the eyes of his fellow inmates, while secretly greasing the wheels of justice during his clandestine meetings with government prosecutors. He