Last of the Gladiators: A Memoir of Love, Redemption, and the Mob by the Son of the Legendary Trial Lawyer Jimmy LaRossa 9781610882392, 9781610882415, 9781610882422, 1610882393

Citation preview

LAST OF THE GLADIATORS A Memoir of Love, Redemption, and the Mob

James M. LaRossa Jr.

Copyright: James M. LaRossa Jr. 2019. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote passages in a review.

Hardcover: 978-1-61088-239-2 Kindle/Mobi: 978-1-61088-241-5 Ebook: 978-1-61088-242-2 Audio: 978-1-61088-243-9

Cover and Interior Design by Tracy Copes Creative Author photo: Kyle Munson Published by Bancroft Press “Books that Enlighten” (410) 358-0658 P.O. Box 65360, Baltimore, MD 21209 www.bancroftpress.com Printed in the United States of America

For My Father James M. LaRossa Esq. Prince of The City and the Most Joyous Man I Have Ever Known

TA B L E O F C O N T E N T S THE SKINNY ON JIMMY PREFACE INTRODUCTION A FLY ON THE WALL

BOOK ONE LOVE & MADNESS CHAPTER ONE: CALL ME ISHMAEL CHAPTER TWO: ADIOS HERMANOS, ADIOS CHAPTER THREE: AUGUST 9, 1974: GOODBYE TO ALL THAT CHAPTER FOUR: REVELATIONS: THE SHOEMAKER AND THE FISHMONGER CHAPTER FIVE: SEMPER FIDELIS: TO WAR AND BACK CHAPTER SIX: GIGLIO CHAPTER SEVEN: ALL IN THE FAMILY

BOOK TWO LAWYERS, GUNS, AND MONEY CHAPTER EIGHT: DADDY GOT HIS GUN CHAPTER NINE: THE BLACK LIMOUSINE CHAPTER TEN: THE POINT OF NO RETURN

CHAPTER ELEVEN: THE UNTOUCHABLES: MAURICE NADJARI CHAPTER TWELVE: ON THE WATERFRONT: THE UNITED STATES v SCOTTO CHAPTER THIRTEEN: DECEMBER 16, 1985: THE BEGINNING OF THE END

BOOK THREE THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA CHAPTER FOURTEEN: OVERWHELMING UNDERDOGS: THE DUCK STORY CHAPTER FIFTEEN: THE CANNABIS CONUNDRUM CHAPTER SIXTEEN: HONOR THY FATHER CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: CHARLEMAGNE CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: A NEW LEAF CHAPTER NINETEEN: THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA

EPILOGUE: ONE MORE CUP OF COFFEE BEFORE I GO

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS POP’S MEATBALLS & SAUSAGES INDEX ABOUT THE AUTHOR

“He wastes his tears who weeps before the judge.” —Italian proverb

“I may live [my] life wrong, but it certainly makes it more interesting to write about than if I lived it right.” —Karl Ove Knausgaard

THE SKINNY ON JIMMY

My father and I share the same name. For the purposes of this book, there is only one Jimmy—my dad, trial lawyer Jimmy LaRossa. Though I never addressed my father by his first name, the decision to refer to him informally throughout parts of this work was done to better represent Jimmy LaRossa as the extraordinary man that he was, and to avoid redundancy.

What follows is based on actual events. Pseudonyms and initials are used throughout the work to protect the anonymity of living characters who may be compromised by their depiction in this true story. For the most part, trial scenes are based on the original transcripts as well as direct quotes from contemporaneous press reports. James M. LaRossa Jr.

P R E FA C E

Each generation identifies with a small group of people said to have lived lives exemplifying the vices and virtues of that generation. If one were to choose a trial lawyer whose life reflected the unique characteristics of America’s “Wild West” of a criminal justice system in the latter half of the Twentieth Century, that person likely would be my father. New York City of the 1960s until the turn of the twenty-first century was the world’s epicenter of organized and white-collar crime. During those four decades, the most feared Mafia chiefs, assassins, counterfeiters, Orthodox Jewish money launderers, defrocked politicians of every stripe, and Arab bankers arriving in the dead of night in their private jets, sought the counsel of one man: my father, Jimmy LaRossa. Once a Kennedy-era prosecutor, Brooklyn-born Jimmy LaRossa became one of the greatest criminal trial lawyers of his day. He was the one man who knew where all of the bodies were buried, and everyone knew it. It seemed incomprehensible that Jimmy would one day just disappear from New York. Forever. After stealing my dying father from New York Presbyterian Hospital to a waiting Medevac jet, the LaRossa Boys, as we became known, spent the next five years in a place where few would look for two diehard New Yorkers: a coastal town in the South Bay of Los Angeles, aptly named Manhattan Beach. While I cooked him his favorite Italian dishes and kept him alive using the most advanced medical equipment and drugs, my father and I documented our notorious and cinematic life together as equal parts biography and memoir. This is our story.

INTRODUCTION

A FLY ON THE WALL “If your eyes could speak, what would they say?” —Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

There exists a recurring theme in books and movies that some people must come “full circle” in order to face the true story of their lives. And so it is with me. One of my first memories is of my mother waking me from a dead sleep to watch my father on television. At the time, he was a young prosecutor. Over the subsequent decades, as he gained influence and power in law and politics, I would find myself trying to catch a glance of his picture in The New York Times over someone’s shoulder on the subway. A friend would call me from Rome, excited that he had just seen my dad on TV. Once, I was passing an electronics store on 72nd Street when all of the TV screens in the display windows simultaneously showed a close-up of my father’s face. I was with a woman I should not have been with, and for a brief second, I thought my all-knowing father had caught me again. By all accounts, Jimmy LaRossa may be the most famous lawyer you’ve never heard of. For the thirty-plus years in which he was in his prime, Dad was always in the middle of a great maelstrom of lawyers, guns, and money, smiling that enormous, knowing smile of his and taking no prisoners. My father was referred to by newspapers as the “last of the gladiators,” a term he coined to define trial lawyers. Though he was a man of gladiatorial personality and talent, I refer to him throughout this memoir as my “true north.” This term of endearment is not just a snappy metaphor. A person adrift in the middle of the ocean is not lost if he has a bead in the sky on true north, a meridian of longitude. When I lacked direction, I needed to look no farther than to my father to reacquire my bearings. Dad was the ultimate realist, with a razor-like ability to shine a corrective lens on some of my more quixotic moments. He had a strong inner core of tranquility and reasonableness—qualities that he endeavored to pass on to me as his life

wound down. Jimmy was and always will be my true north. Before he became a criminal defense lawyer, Dad was Robert Kennedy’s shotgun man in the U.S. Attorney’s Office in New York’s Eastern District. As a former prosecutor and Marine Corps officer, he had learned to speak truth to power. More accurately, perhaps, as a born and bred New Yorker who received a thoroughly Jesuit education, he was a natural prodigy in the ways of outsmarting power. Knowing the ways of all these worlds later made him a new, revolutionary kind of defense lawyer who dramatically changed and improved the methods of the defense bar. This is a widely acknowledged fact among lawyers, and not merely a son’s braggadocio. Law professor Lawrence S. Goldman summarized Dad’s life succinctly: “Jimmy LaRossa was ‘the last of the gladiators.’ He was one of the last of a dying breed of old-fashioned criminal trial lawyers who tried big case after big case, often with little time for preparation. For him, cooperators were snitches and cooperation akin to treason. He was an extremely talented lawyer, with great courtroom presence and a lightning quick mind. He was probably the best cross-examiner I have ever seen in a courtroom. He was [among] the last of a generation of courtroom gladiators who were combative, never brought their clients to the prosecutor’s office to make a plea proffer, and fought the government at every turn.” Born in 1931, Dad came of age professionally in the one place at the one time that really mattered. New York City was the gladiatorial epicenter of the criminal world. In 1979, Dad tried United States v. Scotto, the first major case in which the government used the 1970 Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, known as RICO. Dad pioneered defenses to thwart the government’s guillotine of a statute. John Gotti’s killing of the Gambino Family crime boss, and my father’s longtime client, Paul Castellano, in 1985, just moments after leaving a meeting with my father, was one of the seminal crimes of the twentieth century and hastened the demise of the American Mafia. By September 11, 2001, organized crime (OC) was so decimated that federal task forces that had spent decades fighting OC were reassigned overnight to the war on terrorism. In 1977, Denis Hamill wrote a feature story about my father in New York Magazine headlined, “Jimmy LaRossa: The Bionic Mouth of White Collar Crime.” After that, everybody referred to him as “Jimmy,” which was

confusing because my mother called me Jimmy and my father Jim. (Later, when my publishing career took off, I migrated to “James,” which stuck.) No matter. It had become quite obvious to me that my five-foot-nine father had become an important fellow. I have been trying to steal my name back ever since. I was still his namesake, after all, so at an early age, he taught me to conduct myself like an important man. Part and parcel of whether I received his approval was, without exception, my presentation. I learned that if I prepared my request carefully and came to him with a yellow legal pad of notes as to why he should grant my request, he took me more seriously and often granted me the privilege I sought. Make no mistake, he sent me back more than a few times to rethink the matter, knowing that if it was important enough, I’d find a more convincing way to make my argument. I was the son of a man blessed by the universe, and some of his luck rubbed off on me. If I had to choose one and only one mantra to repeat for eternity, it would be, “I can’t help it if I’m lucky.” Jimmy gifted me that luck, sure as shit. Dad’s propensity to defend the underdog and to question power with knowledge nudged me in the same direction. I was the only kid in middle school, for example, who read three newspapers a day, dissected the transcripts of the court-martial of Lieutenant William L. Calley for the 1968 My Lai Massacre, and had witnessed an oral argument before the United States Supreme Court in which the government was the defendant. Great trial lawyers like my father’s idol, Edward Bennett Williams, live in the grays that mirror the impurities and variable winds of criminal acts. These cases are especially complex because virtually everyone involved— witnesses, defendants, and even the government itself—is already irreparably compromised on Day One. The great trial lawyer thus must have an intuitive sense of those things that do not fit easily into neat boxes. At a posh Miami resort, Dad was poolside having a quick bite in between depositions of his client, a New York congressman about to stand trial. In the pool, the famed lawyer and former Commie hunter, Roy Cohn, was frolicking with a young man. When Cohn noticed Jimmy, he popped out of the pool to say hello. Dad introduced him to the congressman. They made lawyerly small talk, then Cohn jumped back in the pool and went right back to his antics with the other man. Jimmy didn’t like much about Roy Cohn, but he admired that the man owned who he was, regardless of who was

watching or what they were thinking. When I penned the first words of this memoir in my chicken scratch on the beach, I did not fully understand how much my personal, circular journey with my father would match that of our nation’s current state of affairs. Dad joined the Marines during the Korean War to fight for democracy. His sense of right and wrong was a product of what he saw as the gross inequity of segregation and, above all else, the abuse of power that Watergate represented. Dad had felt the sting of prejudice when he was rejected by a big-name law firm because of his Italian-American name, and was defensive of his many Jewish friends who had experienced the same type of ethnic-directed bias. Dad was old school through and through but abhorred any kind of prejudice, taking to heart the axiom that, regardless of race, or the pedigree you may or may not have been born with, “character is destiny.” It is true that my father was regarded as a “hired gun” by much of the media of his time. As his son and confidant, I knew intimately that at his core was the distrust of an unchecked government. His life experiences, and especially his time as a federal prosecutor, further solidified that core belief. Like so many people who came “of age” in the late 1950s, my father felt that the era of the Kennedys would deliver to our nation something profoundly better. Dad was a bona fide Kennedy-era member of the Democratic Party, which has little or nothing in common with the Democratic Party of today. That must sound quaint to some, but it meant everything to Dad and (his protégé) me, who still longed for the promise of hope that the Kennedys once represented. In a story by the writer Pete Hamill (Denis’ brother) that I plucked off a shelf as a young boy and have never forgotten, Hamill describes a man whose car breaks down in a poor, rural area of Mexico where a gringo can go missing with little or no fuss. When the driver fearfully knocks on the door of a ramshackle house looking for help, a large, unshaven man answers. Before anything is said, the stranger glances into the entryway to see candles illuminating two figures on the wall. The first is the Virgin Mary. The second is that of John Fitzgerald Kennedy. As Pete Hamill describes it in the most breathtaking and meaningful moment I had ever experienced in a book, the stranger knows at that moment that no harm will come to him. Dad and I, likewise, would greet that man as our brother, knowing in our hearts we would be safe with a person who

shared our love and respect for what could have been so long ago. Every morning, for what seemed like a hundred years, I watched my father decked out in an immaculate blue Brioni suit, Zegna tie, and Ferragamo shoes, say his goodbyes to us like a warring conqueror, and head down the elevator to his waiting car. I thought to myself, “That is what men do,” so I followed his example. As I was raising a family and growing a New York publishing company (beginning in 1994, when I was thirty-five years old), Dad reveled in my success, which I have no doubt was a result of watching him lead a fearless life. Part of my “success” was through happenstance. My emergence to professional adulthood in the 1990s—the decade in which my children were born—marked the pharmaceutical discovery of a magic “cocktail” that would enable me to control the near-homicidal mania I had struggled with throughout my twenties. As counter-intuitive as it may sound, being able to manage my newfound mania would come in handy as I fought to save my father’s life time and again during our last five years together. (Last of the Gladiators itself is a lesson in what is possible when happenstance is imbued with the divine. This true story was drafted in eight months while the profound grief of my father’s death was still upon me with fury. It was accepted for publication within just weeks of its completion. The final edits were penned in the California dawn hours in between World Cup games beamed live from Russia. Other than these salient facts, how I got here is largely a mystery.) Dad was nothing if not lucky. And so, it seems, am I. Thus, in honoring one of my father’s first lessons, I find myself, at this very moment, a grown man with three children in college, perched on a beach chair just yards from the Pacific Ocean with a stack of yellow legal pads and a box of black Flair pens. My purpose is to document the journey of a lifetime—one in which I have truly come full circle. From our house in Manhattan Beach, California, you can hear the foghorns toll at night in the Pacific when a marine layer blows in. The last night of my father’s life, the horns were blowing in the distance. For a man who, by the end, had little or no functioning lung tissue, Dad’s last breath was the deepest, longest, most powerful breath I had ever heard pass his lips. Strong man. Strong life. Strong goodbye. Friends and family have thanked me for “saving” my father and “giving”

him those last five years. The fact is, I didn’t save him; he saved me. I became a better man and father thanks to him—a more joyous, grateful, and grounded soul. I think Jimmy knew I’d write this story someday, and that doing so would help ease the immense heartbreak I still experience every day without him. This memoir has a unique undercurrent running through it: the love story between a father and son, a subject not often tackled in American arts and letters. We were birds of a feather who trusted and relied on each other without question throughout a long and storied life. As you will come to know first hand, I was not the perfect son. Think of me as a fly on the wall of this big, ribald story, watching and biding my time until the whole tale could be told. It is no coincidence that the start of this book echoes the classic novel Moby Dick. Like Melville’s narrator, Ishmael, it may be my voice you hear, though I am but a secondary character. I was lucky enough to witness some of what transpired. Dad told me the rest over the course of his final five years. This true, fantastic tale was the last of the many gifts my father bestowed on me. It is my honor to be able to share it with you. —James M. LaRossa Jr. Manhattan Beach, California March 2019

BOOK ONE

LOVE & MADNESS

CHAPTER ONE

CALL ME ISHMAEL “It is not down in any map; true places never are.” —Herman Melville, Moby Dick

So. I have spent much of my life trying to tease out the dissonance and harmonies of life in order to quantify them, as if I practiced long and hard enough, the secrets of the garden would reveal themselves to me and me alone, and I would lie with Eve and see all that came before and after, until I could no longer stand all the things I knew. Try as I might to suckle on the minds of great thinkers and to bathe in the chronicles of one-of-a-kind lives, it wasn’t until my father died in my arms on a balmy autumn night that I truly knew the folly of “knowing.” At that moment, I was transformed. Don’t confuse that with being struck by lightning, or acquiring a brain tumor enabling one to recite the periodic table in Latin, or any of that crap. My transformation was hard-won. In the days preceding his death, this great orator, who had argued successfully before the Supreme Court of the United States, went silent. Still, I knew what I had to do to fulfill the sacred oath I had made to my father. The treasure trove of time we had spent together dueling as parent and child, one-upping each other as teacher and student and, most recently, bickering as intimate, spouse-like friends, swept over me, and I knew in my heart of hearts the meaning and intensity of what we had accomplished together. For more than fifty years, we were the dynamic duo—Batman and Robin, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, Santiago and Manolin, the Green Hornet and Kato, Thelma and Louise. I was a sentence ahead of most people, and he was four ahead of me. So when my father was about to take his last great breath, I was not expecting a final statement that would knock the Earth off its axis. If he could have spoken those last few words, here is what he would have said: “Sayonara, Son!”

Dad just died. These things happen in a split second, like a hundred miles per hour fastball before it cracks you upside your head. Jimmy once said to me as I was topping off his bowl of bucatini all’Amatriciana, “Kid, when I’m dead, I’m fucking dead.” And I’ll be damned if he wasn’t right. Always the joker, my dad! And playing the good son meant being a dutiful straight man, which I was. When I was a boy, Dad and I would sit in a diner on Lexington Avenue and try to guess the profession and/or oddities associated with the other patrons. It was fun as I got to learn adult things way before my time. I learned that older women had a reputation as bad tippers, that toast was always smeared with butter—unless you explicitly requested otherwise—and that some black waitresses could curse in Yiddish like champs. My father’s days were a whirlwind of people vying for his attention, so getting Dad to myself was always a treat. Sometimes we would go for a steam at the New York Athletic Club. There were always a few lawyers or judges hanging about who chatted us up. These big, hairy guys got a kick out of seeing this skinny string bean of a kid without a speck of hair on his body walking around with Dad. One day, when I was sixteen, we had the steam room pretty much to ourselves, so I broached a topic that had me more than a little worried. There is no other way to say this, dear God, so please forgive me: My father had unusually large testicles. Attached to long, leathery sacks, they looked like fist-sized brass nuggets blessed by Zeus himself. It was really rather alarming to me, considering you needed an electron microscope to find mine at the time. “Dad, did yours look like mine, and will mine look like yours? I’m not trying to be a wise guy…” I had barely begun my query before the few other men in the steam room quickly left while trying to stifle their laughter. Dad gave me the look and I dropped the subject. In my family, there were two mortal sins, and if you committed one or the other, you were a nudnik and were cast out. Someone who was a stool pigeon was worse than a pedophile. Such rats died horrible deaths in the family dungeon. Even our dogs had a certain ballsy swagger, as if to tell the other dogs that “we know things you don’t.” My upbringing suggested that the Ten Commandments existed as a kind

of celestial test to see if you could outwit them without being caught. Children were off limits, and the innocent should be spared; otherwise, it was GAME ON! That takes judgment, which was the second family commandment. Keen objective judgment, above all else, was mandatory and gave us kids a kind of smart-ass moral compass, however cockeyed. My father was my true north, so I bought into his exuberance lock, stock, and barrel. My three siblings, all infinitely wiser than me, had other fish to fry. So they went on with their lives, knowing I would kick up a huge fuss to find the answer to the unknowable, no matter what. Although this tale is as much theirs as mine, one of my sisters has requested anonymity, which I will steadfastly honor. (“Not all the fingers on your hand are the same.”— Guatemalan proverb.) The quest for the meaning of life is a journey better accomplished solo, like the great sled race in Alaska, the Iditarod. If I’m going down with the dogs, I’d rather not have anyone cooking s’mores on my best Cubans and laughing their asses off at me as I freeze to death. There’s little doubt that my day of ultimate reckoning is coming soon enough. In our years in Southern California, I not only indulged Dad beyond all reason, but I was responsible for keeping him alive against all odds. In those five years, hobbled and on oxygen, he used every tool in his sizable arsenal to get my kids to transfer to colleges in California, steal my good friend’s wife for himself, sneak a dog he named Hootie into the house the one and only weekend I wasn’t there with him, suggest we raise wild boars in our modest backyard to slaughter and age for ragu, and somehow tiptoe a rare cigarette into the house at the risk of immolating our entire block should a spark hit the powerful oxygen machines that pumped day and night. And that was an average weekend. As a man, Dad was a force of nature—a fact not lost on many of his closest colleagues and friends. His lifestyle was both alarming and mesmerizing, like the proverbial car wreck we cannot turn away from. A thousand jury trials by day while carousing all night: Where in the Bible does it say that can’t be done? He must have known that his daring life had a gigantic HAZARD warning stamped on it, much like the cigarettes he used as props throughout much of his life. He wholly ignored those warnings, fully confident that he could beat the odds no matter what. Every now and then, those brass balls of his would come to haunt him in the form of his “Mini-Me.” Yes, ladies and gentlemen, if you live by the

sword, you die by the sword. Thanks to one of Jimmy’s drivers, who took me under his wing at an early age, I became the ace behind the wheel of almost any car, so it shouldn’t have surprised anyone when my father woke me at dawn in a raging blizzard to drive him from our house in Connecticut to Kennedy Airport. Dad had to catch a plane to God-Knows-Where and his driver couldn’t make it from The City. At the ripe old age of fifteen, and with a mere Connecticut driver’s permit, I, of course, took this as a gift from The Divine. My father had been up all night drinking with friends. In those days, it was gin on ice in summer and whiskey on ice in winter. You always knew the season in our household. Well, as luck would have it, when Dad got into the back of my mother’s giant Buick Estate wagon and took a decidedly unprofessional prone position, I knew he had dipped into the elixir of death, B & B (Bénédictine and brandy) the evening before. The Mother Jones of hooch was at the top of the top of “The Boozer’s Periodic Table of HeroinEquivalent Substances.” This was going to be fun. I made sure to hit a giant snowdrift at the foot of our driveway, putting Dad on the floorboards. As he was making some sort of medieval deal with the devil about never drinking B & B again if he was allowed to live, I careened down the closed Merritt Parkway at such a barrel roll that the state troopers dotting the exits let us fly by, telling each other that the water of some guy’s pregnant wife must have broken, or some such lazyass cop nonsense that they reserve for one another. I had installed a new eight-track stereo in my mother’s beast of a car so I could host the entire football team at the local graveyard, where we got high before games. As Dad recited his devilish encyclicals in the back, I turned up the one eight-track that was in the car—a little ditty called “Smoke on the Water.” I was having a grand old time listening to Dad plead for his life as I sang at the top of my lungs, hurtling toward JFK in the world’s biggest Molotov cocktail. I certainly had the upper hand, which was not likely to happen again for a good long time, so I milked the opportunity for all it was worth. Not only was I fully aware of the fact that Dad had forgotten his luggage and probably didn’t know where he was even going, but I was certain that Kennedy would be closed as the season’s biggest Nor’easter set straight down on us like the clap at Woodstock. Every now and then as Dad’s begging went quiet, I’d

utter something just loud enough for Jimmy to know I was giving him the business, but quietly enough to give me deniability. I had learned from the master, baby, and as I made sure to hit as many snow-covered guard rails as was humanly possible, I could see in the rearview mirror that he was dying the death of a thousand cuts. When I pulled up to Kennedy, I got out, advising Dad to stay put until I found out what was going on. The “Smoke on the Water” eight-track had burned up by then, so I left Dad in peace while I bummed a cigarette from a porter, who confirmed that the airport was, in fact, CLOSED. I don’t know whether my father viewed the news as good or bad. I turned around and put another six dents in the “Homicide Wagon” on the thirty-five-mile trek back home. Afterward, I cooked Dad a big breakfast and put him to bed. My mother actually cried when she saw what was left of her car. I just shook my head, not wanting to be a stool pigeon. She gave me a good whack and went off to cry some more. “BAD DADDY,” I muttered under my breath.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I did—once and only once—embarrass myself as the ultimate wheelman. Ironically, it happened the very first week I possessed a full and valid Connecticut driver’s license. That day, I had caddied two loops (thirty-six holes) with two bags and had a cool seventy-six dollars in my pocket. Borrowing a later model of my mother’s Buick Estate wagon—the one with the fake wood on the side—I stopped to buy French fries at McDonald’s and headed down a back road littered with long driveways leading to giant estates. I dropped the fries. I went down to pick them up and lost track of time. Dad’s driver could teach me how to drive, but common sense was still my own cross to bear. While I was retrieving the fries, I crossed over to the oncoming lane. I looked up just in time to say hello to a giant stone estate marker. After eating a substantial chunk of the steering wheel, I stepped out completely dazed and bloody. The next thing I knew, I was in a surgical theater, doped up, looking up at a young resident and a cop. My mouth was stuffed with gauze so I couldn’t speak.

“You’re a lucky young man,” the resident said. “Everyone says that was quite a wreck. One of the hospital’s best oral surgeons is on his way.” “We pulled your father off the golf course, kid,” said the cop. “He’s on his way.” My heart hit my throat, but all I could do was groan a faint, “UUUHHHGG, NNAAAHHOOOOO.” My mind started to consider my fate. Sure enough, golf cleats on hard tile floors could be heard in the distance, coming hard and fast. Police radios were also approaching. The cop and doctor looked to where the noise was coming from, then looked at one another as the human hurricane approached, then backed away from me. The cleats, now in the surgical theater, suddenly stopped. I couldn’t turn my head sideways, but I didn’t need to. I braced myself. It sounded like the surgeon had arrived and was sputtering some nonsense to placate the maniacal tumbleweed dressed head to toe in Izod that had just arrived by police escort. “He’s had some periodontal collapse and will need some teeth capped and quite a few stitches, but all in all, he came out of that wreck quite miraculously. I passed the car on the way here.” Suddenly, a large, hairy hand grabbed my face and turned it so he could better see the damage to my mouth. The surgeon pleaded with him. “Please, we need to keep him sterile.” I looked up at my father, JAMES M. LAROSSA ESQ., and I managed a slight snicker, and to get a small piece of my tongue out of my mouth. He withdrew his hand and nuggied the top of my head with his knuckle—not too hard because I was on an operating table. A huge baritone voice uttered the unmistakable word: “ASSHOLE!” The cleats began to move away now that he knew his beloved namesake would live to torture him another day. Even though my face was still stuffed with gauze, I tried with all my might to counter my father. “AFFFFFFFSSOLLLE!” I yelled as loud as I could to no avail. The cleats were clicking on the hard floor, getting farther away, as my father sang out: “ASSSSSSHHHHHHOOOOOOOLLLLLLE!” With the cleats and police scanners suddenly gone, I started to laugh uncontrollably and to say “AFFFFSSOLLLE,” but the cotton shifts and blood filled my mouth. “Clean the kid up, for fuck’s sake,” said the rattled surgeon to his

resident.

At an early age, I somehow knew that I was living a unique life in my father’s wake. To this day, I often find myself saying out loud what I have often thought: I just can’t help it if I’m lucky. (For me, being lucky was not a matter of a “son’s entitlement,” but the tacit acceptance that—as my father’s son—I was fortunate to have experienced the “luck of the draw.”) No matter how fertile the imagination, life with my father could not be depicted as any crazier than it truly was. Things just happened out of the blue with great regularity. Between Dad’s at-home antics and his frenetic “day job”—the lawyers, guns, and money—our lives were like a circus act without a net. Dad was brutally sharp when lawyering, but he could be immensely charming when court was not in session. In fact, he might well have been the last lawyer in New York who was loved by other defense lawyers, judges, and even prosecutors, however begrudgingly. Jurors fawned over him in open court. For more than thirty years, Dad had his hand in every major criminal prosecution of note. There was just something about Jimmy that could charm a juror from Queens as readily as the most blue-blooded judge. Dad could bring a Mob boss to tears on the witness stand. That same mobster, at the defense table, would shudder at Jimmy’s toughness and guile. As was said more than once about my father, “He’s a mean motherfucker, but he’s MY MOTHERFUCKER.” You should know from the start that this memoirist was not the model child. In fact, if you had known me at thirteen, you’d be amazed that I could even string this sentence together. Nor would you likely care because I was an immense dick—a real wiseacre, as my grandfather, Pop, used to say. My mother, who was a cross between Lucille Ball and Rocky Marciano, received the overwhelming brunt of my dickheadedness. I was somehow convinced (wrongly, it turned out) that my mother was stupid. Not just stupid, but lacking in anything of interest. Why? Because my mother was not my father. On those rare times he was home, Dad could do no wrong. Mom, who was always there, tried to corral me with hands as quick as lightning, but

since she weighed 105 pounds soaking wet, I baited her as easily as Lord Voldemort baited Harry Potter. I waited for my father to roll up the driveway in the big, sparkling Caddy to save me with the magic that he and only he possessed, or so I believed in my dickweed of a brain. It wasn’t long before Dad smoked me out and I learned that my act wouldn’t cut the mustard as long as I disrespected my mother. My father didn’t have to raise a hand. One of his disappointed looks could render me, well, dickless. “What went on while I was gone?” No hello or hi, Son. Just BOOM—the boot came down. I tripped over my words. He was not one to wait. “Tell me…if you even know.” “Well, Dad, she won’t…” “SHE? You mean YOUR MOTHER?” “Well yes, she…” “YOUR MOTHER.” I don’t know how many talks started that exact way, with me using the subconscious and disrespectful “she.” Why the Old Man never hauled off and knocked me upside my thick head is still a mystery. I guess he knew I’d come around eventually, that I was not a mean kid, just dim-witted. He also knew that Mom was an easy mark for me, and that I was no bully. Just the opposite. I had grown up defending my younger brother, who underwent numerous eye surgeries that often left him wearing an eye patch to school—a subject of ridicule among the other kids. I was equally protective of my much younger sisters, who bunked in together during the awful spring thunderstorms that hit our high patch of land in chronic succession. On those nights, I would roll up in a sleeping bag in the doorway of their bedroom to calm their screams. At that time, I would wait for my mother to arrive home late on Wednesday afternoons. She would invariably return from her therapist with more emotions than answers, and I would sit with her while she cried. Later that year, Mom made a serious suicide attempt while Dad was trying a case in Philadelphia. Before she fell unconscious, she called her psychiatrist’s answering service to say, “This is Mrs. LaRossa. Tell the doctor it wasn’t his fault.” The smart service person alerted the local authorities. My siblings were all asleep. I was watching Sanford and Son on TV in the library when squad cars poured into our circular driveway from both entrances. The police swarmed into my parents’ wing with me close behind

and they threw my mother into a squad car, raced her to Greenwich Hospital, and barely saved her. Later that day, I found in her room a bottle of red wine, a pill case of Quaaludes, and Helter Skelter, the 1974 book by Los Angeles District Attorney Vincent Bugliosi on the Charles Manson murders. I could not imagine how profoundly deep a hole she had been in while I was watching Redd Foxx cracking jokes and pleading for mercy to his best prop, his dead wife. When Mom woke in the hospital safe and sound, she swore she would not try that again and regained her footing. For a long while, she was her own giddy self. When she was well, my mother, Gayle, was a happy and light-spirited person. Her physical countenance was as buoyant as her personality; she was a long, lean, beautiful woman, with slight buckteeth, whose effervescent smile could light up a room. Until she took up alcohol in her mid-thirties, this is the way I remember her. (I was born when my mother was just nineteen years old.) My mother’s parents, Frank and Mary Marino, were second cousins. (My grandmother, herself born a Marino, did not need to change her name when she married.) Mary’s grandfather was the Italian Consulate to Canada. Many of my mother’s childhood summers were spent up north. Mary’s politically connected grandfather gave her a foolhardy sense of superiority, which she dished out to everyone in her path. From what I was told growing up, she didn’t get along with any other living creature, other than a rattlesnake, as Dad used to remind me. Mary’s husband, Frank Marino, attended Columbia Medical School’s College of Physicians and Surgeons but ultimately decided to become a pharmacist during the heyday of drug compounding, at which he excelled. He opened a small pharmacy in Brooklyn. Mary drove away many of Frank’s customers with her back-biting mean-spiritedness. My grandfather, a rather nice, capable fellow, who had long relinquished the pants in the family to his overbearing wife, became a journeyman freelance pharmacist until they retired to a small condo in South Florida with a central view of an illuminated gas station sign from their front porch. As Mary sunk further into a morass of affective mental disorders and physical illnesses, she decided to send her only child, who had graduated from high school at sixteen, to “finishing school” instead of college. My mother suffered greatly at her mother’s hand. My parents—two neighborhood kids—met when my mother was seventeen.

After my parents married, Mary’s small-minded coup de grâce was picking a fight with my father. Dad had decided to work for the Justice Department instead of becoming a lawyer for an insurance company, a job Mary “preferred” because of its steady forty-hour-a-week future in any economy. “Who does that man think he is?” Mary was heard to muse about my ambitious father. After all, her grandfather was the Italian Consulate to Canada—don’t forget that! What did that little guinea think would come of him? Did he really believe he could climb to the top of the legal pyramid? Foolish man. A lasting, epic clue to the “Marino Legacy” comes in the form of Mary’s racial prejudice, which peaked with anti-Semitic ranting. My father could not stomach it, so he barred her from his house. I now know that Mary’s antiSemitism held a secret riddle: For those who relish hatefulness, there is no better satisfaction than that of self-hatred. (Feel free to quote me if you’d like.) Mary could not know that, years earlier, during those summer holidays in Canada, her prominent grandfather had taken a shine to his smart, pretty, granddaughter, Gayle. Mom finally put it all together with her therapist. When I was seventeen, she confided in me after one of her Wednesday afternoon sessions. The many friends that traversed my parents’ life were all either Italian or Jewish. Our tiny bit of Jewish heritage wasn’t much of a surprise to me. After all, until I lived in Rome (1984-1985), I was better versed in Yiddish than Italian. In my early twenties, we moved permanently back to New York City. Perhaps my father was right: We may have had the biggest house in Greenwich, but we were just passing through. Everything settled down and my mother and I grew closer. My parents always had acrimonious spurts. It all came down to Dad wanting MORE and Mom wanting LESS—travel, parties, houses… you name it. My father was the son of a postman and housewife, raised in the same Marine Park area of Flatbush, Brooklyn, where the baseball legends Frank and Joe Torre hailed from. Dad slept on a couch until he went to the Marines so that his younger sister, Dolores, could have her own bedroom. Mom wanted more alone time with Dad. This was the last thing Dad wanted. He was a social animal by nature and could not stop himself. Dad deeply loved my mother, yet he rationalized that the privileged life he worked

to give her made up for his absence. Dad didn’t care much about cars, but he collected houses and apartments like some people collect stamps. My educated guess was that he was never going back to that living room couch in Flatbush, no matter who or what got in his way. Then something happened that I never saw coming. When my mother was diagnosed with adult MS in the early 1990s after falling in the middle of a Paris boulevard, Dad dug in and was by her side every step of the way. His transformation lasted about seven years. Shockingly, it was not Dad who broke the peace. It took us by surprise when Mom asked for a divorce and sentenced Dad to the guest room. I was not present the night my mother used the “D-Word” for the first time. We met as a family for more than a decade at a restaurant in the West Village called Ennio & Michael’s whenever a family birthday or celebration appeared on the calendar. Ennio was a stocky, powerful man who idolized my father. Michael, a worldly, slightly aloof fellow, was my confidant. The celebratory event we missed at Ennio & Michael’s turned sour in the car on the way home. I never got the straight poop from Dad’s driver, Neil, but my sister, Susan, finally told me what had transpired. By the time Neil drove the gleaming Caddy to the Upper East Side, Dad had been sentenced to the guest room. A vengeful rift like we had never seen before was in full view. At thirty-eight years old, I became a frantic emissary between my parents in order to patch things up. I was no marital expert, but after almost four decades of my parents’ marriage, it seemed impossible that this was really the “end.” I pushed and prodded and cajoled. Mom wanted Dad to attend therapy sessions with her; she had tired of the busy life that my father had engineered for them. Dad just wanted things to return to the way they were. When Gayle refused to travel to St. Bart’s a few months later for our yearly family holiday, I saw something “break” in my father. We used to shop in town for French provisions before anyone woke up; a nice seven-year tradition between us. Dad was always buoyant on these outings, stopping our roofless Jeep for coffees and pastries and planning the day to the utmost detail. On this trip without Mom, though, Dad was detached and preoccupied. Looking back, I can see that this trip was the final straw. If Gayle was going to monopolize his time to keep him from his grandchildren, he was going to

move on, simple as that. The gavel came down! I learned years later that Dad had gone into a lawyer friend’s office and broken down in tears, unable to make sense of things. By the time Mom realized her mistake, and we had returned from St. Bart’s, Dad was making the rounds and was never coming back. “James,” he told me one night when we met for dinner, “I am an endangered species on the Upper East Side.” He was, at that short moment in his life, one of the more vagina-obsessed people I had ever seen. When I think back to that day, and recall that that man was my own father, it is a little alarming. Truth be told, I was most upset at the realization that my father was having a much better time than I was. With three small children and a thriving business, women were the last “vice” on my mind. As always, though, Jimmy could easily put things into perspective. One night, as we were stoking the Weber Cooker, I said to him, “You know, Dad, for the first time in my life, I think more about money than women.” Without missing a beat, he countered, “Don’t worry. That won’t last.” I’ll be damned if he wasn’t right. Dad went on to remarry, live the high life for the next ten years, and continue to mesmerize juries across the land. I don’t think my mother ever forgave herself for throwing Dad to the street. My parents, as opposite in personality and temperament as two people could possibly be, always retained a certain tenderness toward each other. Before Dad and I departed New York for good, he insisted on seeing Mom “to make sure she was OK.” My father was a full eight years older than Mom, and despite spending months in New York Hospital’s pulmonary rehab in 2007–8, Dad truly loved the experience of living more than any other person I have ever known. He loved being around kids and young adults and never lost sight of a potential adventure around the next corner, even when in a wheelchair and on oxygen. He badly wanted to live, and that’s what he did. My mother, on the other hand, was worn down by the demons that plagued her as the only child of a cruel, mentally ill mother. By her seventieth birthday, Mom’s post-suicide promise had worn thin and she proceeded to die a slow, self-inflicted death via cigarettes and cheap white wine. I last saw my mother right around my fifty-second birthday. Dad had been with me in Manhattan Beach for a few years. Mom was the happiest I

had seen her in decades, living in a lovely assisted care facility in the Russian River Valley in Northern California. Dementia from chronic oxygen deprivation had set in. I knew she was angry with me for “putting your own life on hold to care for your father,” as she put it on more than one occasion, with more than a little disdain. I stood by her bed while she went in and out of consciousness. Finally, she looked up at me, as small as a fragile bird curled in her nest of pillows, to say the last cogent words I would ever hear from her: “You know, James, you have the larceny of your father.” She died forty-eight hours later, and that was that. I knew they were just words, but I also knew that Mom had adopted some of her own mother’s cruel behavior those last years. In his own way, Dad was upset by Mom’s death, so I did not tell him what Mom had said to me until the right moment. I spilled the beans six months later over some awesome grilled whole snappers, sautéed bok choy, and martinis. We cracked up like a couple of drunken hyenas. “LARCENY! IS THAT ALL SHE COULD COME UP WITH?” Dad coughed his martini into the oxygen cannula in his nose, and I had to hit him a good blow between his shoulder blades to stop the symphony of coughing. “Look what you’ve done, Son. Now I need another martini,” and we hoisted our glasses to Gayle, more than a little bittersweet that night.

How I wound up in the perfect place at the most opportune time of my life in order to save my father from certain death is still a mystery that borders on the divine. I had shuttered my SoHo medical publishing company and moved to California in September 2006, when I was forty-seven, with the ultimate plan of marrying a woman in Santa Monica whom I had recently met. We planned to spend a year in California, marry, and move back to New York City the following year. When the relationship tanked, I spent days riding up and down the coast on the same bicycle I had ridden around the World Trade Center at 6 a.m. on 9/11. I instantly fell in love with an area in the South Bay of Los Angeles, comprised of three towns built on bluffs overlooking the Pacific: Manhattan

Beach, Hermosa Beach, and Redondo Beach. For a guy who had never been on a surfboard, I had landed squarely in Surf City, U.S.A. I hadn’t been single in quite a while, so the beach communities with their “clothing optional” attitude and uninhibited bleach-blond divorcees suited me nicely for a short rite of passage in which I acted very badly. Many of these glamorous and well-traveled women hadn’t experienced the underbelly of Hollywood and were only too glad to leave the kids with the nanny and partner up with me. My son Gianni and I lived in a light, airy triplex in Hermosa Beach with a small view of the Pacific. He had started high school in neighboring Manhattan Beach. In a stroke of pure happenstance, when Gianni’s mother and I decided that he would leave New York and live with me in Southern California, I was residing in the district with the second-best public high school in the entire state of California. Before that day, I didn’t even know where the school was physically located. I volunteered to work in the school library, cooked Gianni his favorite meals, and struggled with him over hours of biology almost every night. I was up at dawn getting Gianni ready. After I dropped him at school, I would spend the morning working on my medical journals, breaking midday to rendezvous with my “girlfriend,” after which I would ready the house for my son’s return. Often after school, we would ride up and down the coast on our bikes to keep Gianni’s mind off how much he missed his mom and sisters, who flew out to visit us most holidays. I bought a Christmas tree and began to collect ornaments. I somehow remembered my grandfather’s recipe for Sunday meatballs and sausages, and we invited friends over for boisterous meals. I purchased a two-man hammock, and Gianni and I swung on the porch on weekends, head to foot, in between Family Guy marathons. As much as fortune shined down on me by having my son attend the best public high school in Los Angeles County, I lucked out again by putting down roots in the only part of L.A. rarely affected by humidity or pollution, with a yearly temperature range between fifty degrees at night and eighty-five degrees during the day, even in summer. My father was dying of advanced pulmonary disease, among other things. The South Bay was about the best climate on earth for him. I didn’t know it yet, but somehow I had awkwardly swung the bat and hit a grand slam! When Dad started his rapid descent into illness in 2009, I received a call

from his doctor and lifelong family friend, Louis J. Aronne, MD. Lou didn’t come out and say it, but it was clear to me that Dad was experiencing a cascade of interrelated illnesses that would lead, rather rapidly, to mortality. I settled Gianni, a high-school freshman at the time, with his best friend’s family and grabbed the last red-eye from LAX. My plane hit the tarmac at dawn and I went straight to New YorkPresbyterian Hospital. Dad’s wife was MIA; she was with a boyfriend in Europe, having made it crystal clear that she “didn’t sign up to care for a sick man. She wanted to go scuba diving,” and other such nonsense. I found him alone in a glass-enclosed room within the ICU. He had been on a respirator for some of the night, but was off and resting nicely, hooked up to every bag and machine imaginable. Hints of two former hospitalizations were evident. Dad’s arms were bruised and purple in spots from frequent blood drawing. His color was good, but he was no longer the eternally tanned and beaming man I’d known; he had taken quite a beating. While he rested, Lou and I had a frank discussion. I sat on a chair at the end of Dad’s bed and hung my head. How could this have happened to my superman of a father? Jimmy had dodged so many bullets in his crazy life that he had surpassed the nine lives cliché a long time ago. When I heard his voice, it was hoarse but still deep and strong. “SON.” I stood over him with a shit-eating grin on my face. It had been a long time since he’d seen me in a suit and tie and he smiled. “When did you get in, kid?” After I brought him up to speed, I gathered my emotions and started. “Dad, I want you to come with me to California. I’ll be with you every single day. You’ll never be in pain. I swear it.” Dad balked; he said he was just about to start a big federal case. I was unrelenting. “Dad, you’ve got to quit practicing law and come live with Gianni and me. Otherwise, you’re not going to make it.” He started to say something and then hesitated. “Look, Dad,” I started, emotion creeping into my voice, “you’re just not going out like this, not with all you’ve done and the people you’ve saved. No fucking way. I’d rather lie down right here on the floor and die myself.” I was brushing back a tear when all my siblings rolled in, worry written all over their faces. I spent nine days on a cot in the corner of his vaulted room in the hospital’s exclusive Greenberg Pavilion. It was touch and go for the first few

days. Alarms buzzed every forty minutes all night. His room filled with nurses who gave him injections to regulate the blood sugar spikes. The massive amount of steroids he’d been on had made him diabetic. He would have to die a little before he got well. On the fourth day, he asked me to get him some pistachio gelato, and that’s when I knew he’d make it. As he slipped farther into a morass of illnesses, our most daunting problem, bar none, was keeping Dad’s megalomaniacal client from pestering him to death. He truly believed that only Jimmy, as sick as he was, could get him through an SEC trial. This very wealthy guy was in a world of trouble. As the principal of a publicly traded company, he was in double trouble. In effect, as Dad got sicker and sicker, this one billionaire monopolized every bit of what little time Dad had left. By order of the court, the client’s movements, by means of a GPS cuff, were restricted to a residential building he owned on the East Side. He went so far as to set up an apartment for Jimmy in the building, where he’d barge in day or night. Of all the mobsters, gunrunners, and crooked politicians I had met in my many years with Dad, it was this very wealthy guy who had the largest scarlet letter of guilt emblazoned on him. I wasn’t about to let Dad go out this way. Getting Jimmy out of New York would be a small miracle that would call for a monumental plan of action. First, I had to get back to California to see to Gianni and to get all the necessary medical equipment ready for Dad’s arrival. Dad had around-the-clock nurses at his New York apartment, but they just couldn’t handle the legal zoo that his world had become. He was trying to manage a team of lawyers that the client had hired, and they were all jockeying for position. Another few months of playing referee with these guys would have meant the end of the line for Jimmy. By the time I returned to New York in the middle of January, the trial had started. I found Dad in worse shape than ever. He had been working around the clock and could barely make it to the bathroom without assistance and oxygen. Meanwhile, Dr. Aronne and I quietly planned Dad’s stealthy escape from New York before his billionaire client could unwittingly kill him. Getting Jimmy and the hundreds of pounds of medical equipment to the Medevac plane would be a challenge. Wheelchairs, portable O2 compressors with FAA-approved backup tanks in case of electrical failure, nebulizers that pumped inhalable steroids into Dad’s lungs, and cases of medical records and

drugs were an integral part of my father’s life from that day forward. American Express, along with Dad’s health insurance, assisted in the leasing of a Medevac Gulfstream jet on January 30, 2010, to take us from Bruckner Aviation at Teterboro Airport to LAX with a physician onboard. I packed up Jimmy’s clothes and any other possessions he had in FedEx Ground boxes. There was one last person who would test the very limits of my homicidal rage. I invited Dad’s soon-to-be ex-wife over—She Who Shall Not Be Named —and over a few glasses of red wine, tricked her into spilling her guts about the boyfriend and her unwillingness to be “saddled” with a sick man. She had never had a relationship that lasted more than twelve years in her entire life; her acute sense of narcissism wouldn’t allow it. Dad was more than a little heartbroken to hear about her lack of humanity or loyalty, and that was that. Jimmy filed separation papers, executed a new will, and we headed for the airport. At dawn, as the private ambulance rolled through the quiet streets of New York, Dad had three concerns. Q. Can we watch all the Knicks’ basketball games on TV? A. Yes, I bought the package. Q. Can you get the ingredients in California for your grandfather’s meatballs and sausages? A. Yes, I know two places. Q. Can we have spaghetti aglio e olio for dinner tonight? A. Yes, if I have to squeeze the virgin olives myself. Good sign, I thought. What happened next will be etched in my mind until the day I die. It was one of those rare moments in life when you know in your heart of hearts that the course of your life has been altered forever: Dad was loaded onto the jet with help from the ambulance attendants and doctor. The pilots were standing by the stairs. I stowed the medical cases and supervised my father’s positioning in the plane. I gave the onboard doc a copy of Dad’s discharge papers and a printout of his medications and dosages in alphabetical order. The doc let me sit next to Dad’s bed. While his vitals were measured, I went up to the cockpit. “Do you gentlemen need anything from the back before we go wheels up?” “We’re squared away. Thanks.” “The thanks are all mine.” I will never understand why exactly, but raw emotion began to overwhelm me at that instant. This is it, I thought.

We had worked so hard to get to where we were at that exact moment. I had not doubted for a second that our journey would be a difficult one. But I’d be damned if Dad wasn’t going to live out his life the way he deserved: free from pain and loneliness and bad hospital chow. Nevertheless, the momentousness of our journey began to sink in. Dad’s life was in my hands. I headed back down the aisle, taking deep breaths to shake off the sudden impact of the moment. I settled in next to Dad and took his thin, bruised hand in mine. “You OK, boss man?” “Piece of cake. I just want to get there.” I snapped my lap belt in place as the doors were secured and the jet engines quietly started to rumble. I looked over at Jimmy. He was already nodding off. I sent a quick text to Gianni. It’s been a long morning…a long few months! A phone on the console next to Dad gently began to beep. “This is the pilot. Are you ready to taxi and lift off?” “Yes, by all means, sir.” I quietly replaced the phone so as not to wake Dad. I leaned my head back, closed my eyes, and just let the tears run down my face as the engine turbines spooled and the plane moved into position.

CHAPTER TWO

ADIOS, HERMANOS, ADIOS And we rode that Black Mariah Through the streets of Spanish Harlem Calling old friends on the corner Just to lay their prayers upon them Crying Adios, Hermanos, Adios, Adios Hermanos, Adios. —Paul Simon, The Capeman

When born and bred New Yorkers permanently leave New York City, they spend a good chunk of the rest of their lives asking themselves why they ever left. And so it was with Jimmy and me. When I left New York City for good, it was difficult to encapsulate in words the loss I felt. How could I live somewhere else after all the neighborhood connections I had made? The Greeks who owned the local diner knew to tip me off when the split pea soup was just right. The guys who worked in the old Jefferson Market for a generation would run forgotten ingredients to my apartment and proudly refuse a gratuity. Where would I find another hardware store owner who could tolerate my ineptness? When I first moved to New York’s West Village as a twenty-something, I would food shop in the very early mornings for a date that night. I didn’t have the money to eat out, so I cooked in the hopes of impressing my guest. The famous chef and author James Beard lived on my block about ten doors west. He, too, was an early shopper and would make goo-goo eyes at me in front of the butcher while I tried in vain to remain expressionless. He was so over the top, though, I had to laugh, and we became passing acquaintances from then on. He addressed me as “Jimbo-Man.” I, of course, called him “Mr. Beard.” Some years after he died, I was invited to his foundation, located in the same townhouse where he had lived, and couldn’t help but marvel at how his oversized presence was in such contrast to the mornings when he and I alone dueled with the Jefferson Market butcher. My first two children were born in the now-defunct St. Vincent’s Hospital, just

across the street from the Beard Foundation in the West Village. On New York days marked by ambivalence, calamity, homelessness, deep differences in economic status, and bouts of weather that make one feel more rhinoceros than human, all of us have thought about quitting The Big Apple. Invariably, though, that “magic” day would arrive when your car is waiting for you at the parking garage just as you stroll up and you chase the deep, beautiful rivulets of early sun that crease through the buildings from the east as you fly uptown. The bank manager greets you by name and facilitates your deposits, and pretty women in swingy dresses bounce with life and limitless expectations on the way to the subway. FedEx has already delivered the checks you had been awaiting, and your freshly ironed shirts are hanging in the closet when you arrive home. Everything in the world is going your way, and you ask yourself rhetorically, “Where else on Earth could I feel like this?” When the day came that it all stopped mattering, no one was more shocked than me. For those first few years in Los Angeles, I ached for New York. Random conversations with other New York refugees left me so empty that I stopped even mentioning my origins. Out of sight, alas, out of mind. Los Angeles is a city of contrasts to those of us who did not grow up here. To “inherit” an infrastructure of family and friends is not an easy task. In terms of sheer human contact, I make more conversation in an hour at a New York diner than in a month of tooling around The City of Angels. There is an inherent suspicion here. Striking up a random conversation with a stranger seems to elicit the unspoken question of “What do you want from me?” I surmise that this attitude is also the reason that people spend so much of their income on expensive cars. These vehicles are not just a status symbol but places to hide. I have met people here who drive $200,000 Bentleys but live with three roommates. No matter where Jimmy and I went, when we defined ourselves as born and bred New Yorkers, that definition was met with universal admiration and envy. The lyric “If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere” is part of the fabric and myth of The City. No one would deny that Dad had certainly “made it.” Jimmy and the great chef Jean-Georges Vongerichten had been friends since the chef opened his first restaurant (Jojo). Jean-Georges’ partner, Phil Suarez, and his wife, Lucy, were close family friends. I have an amazing picture of my kids swinging in a hammock in Phil and Lucy’s awesome

compound on the island of St. Bart’s. Dad was recognized in virtually every fine restaurant in NYC and, whenever he walked in without a reservation, a table would magically appear. Leaving the limelight and notoriety of New York, as Dad did overnight, was a life and death decision that we planned to the utmost detail. There was no denying our fate—we did what we had to do. So we tried to live our new lives with a sense of contentedness. Often, we would fall into each other’s arms at the close of the day, like two loyal soldiers holding down a mythical fort. If the truth be told, Manhattan Beach was the right place for me. After the first two painful-adjustment years in Southern California, I was done with New York. Three kids in private schools, two cars in City garages, a fourbedroom apartment, a weekend country home, and a business overhead of $3 million to pay before I took home one dime were all part and parcel of the “treadmill” associated with living in New York City. For most of my life, my family had owned a home on the dunes of Fire Island or in the Hamptons, so I was used to the majesty of living on the Atlantic Ocean. I was a strong swimmer and could body surf for hours. Nothing could prepare me, though, for the intense spiritual pull of the Pacific. One glance at the Pacific Ocean from the hills of Manhattan Beach warmed my very soul. The worst days melted away as I walked from south Manhattan Beach to the north section, known as The Playa, where, adjacent to a stone jetty, surfers collected to ride the biggest waves. My father was not one to regret any decision once it was made. His fondness for Southern California, in fact, predated mine. His days at Officer Candidate School at the Marine Corps’ Camp Pendleton base, about eighty miles south of Manhattan Beach, had been a magical point in his young life. What Dad griped about was the food, so while he was often disappointed in the restaurants of Los Angeles (which are improving year by year, I might add), I made up for it by making our kitchen what he often referred to as “the best Italian restaurant in L.A.” We settled into a large two-story house in Manhattan Beach. A 1,200square-foot master bedroom suite was converted into a quasi-medical facility. We had just about everything you’d find in a well-equipped hospital room, including backup systems for anything that malfunctioned, or if an earthquake shut down our electricity. Our cars were always fully gassed and ready to go. If disaster struck Los Angeles, we could hold out until critical

patients were treated, so I could take Dad to the UCLA Medical Center in an orderly fashion. A running track with a grass infield a quarter-mile north could accommodate a rescue helicopter. A large shower that Dad could be wheeled into was equipped with anchored handles so he could occasionally stand. I installed a small refrigerator for some of his meds and a large-screen TV with a sound system so Dad could watch his beloved Knicks, Giants, and Mets. On consecutive nights, we would marathon-watch Band of Brothers, The Pacific, and even House of Cards. Our pantry was always stocked with enough provisions that I could cook Marcella Hazan’s landmark The Classic Italian Cookbook front to back. Three or four different olive oils, vinegars, beans of every variety, anchovies and sardines, bucatini, spaghetti, pappardella, linguine, fettuccine, tagliatelle, penne, rigatoni, fusilli, and risotto were always within arm’s reach, as was every spice imaginable. I would simmer glace for hours and freeze it by the ounce as base. On any given day, I could whip up at a moment’s notice almost any pasta under the sun, in addition to Roman-style fava beans, artichokes al Judea, broccoli di rabe, calf’s liver, chicken fra diavolo, whole fish stuffed with fresh herbs and lemons, zucchini blossoms, veal trundles in rich brown sauce, escarole and rice, sautéed spinach and, for kicks, split pea soup just like the local diner on 72nd Street made it. There exists a profound misunderstanding that most Italian sauces need to simmer for hours. True, sauces infused with meats and wine need time to draw out the flavor to the sauce. But anyone learning from scratch to cook real Italian fare must master the basics, from red sauces to white clam sauce, which all are flash-fired from pan to plate in twenty minutes or less. For almost five years, my father refused to die so that he could enjoy the dinners I would make for him. While we ate, we retold each other the stories of our lives. That was the way we hung on to one another, day in and day out. My ability to cook was just one of those things I was inherently good at for no apparent reason other than my grandfather, Pop, who lived a few doors down from us on Stuart Street in Flatbush, Brooklyn, and with whom I was quite close. On Sunday mornings before dawn, when I was just six or seven years old, Pop would find me waiting at his kitchen table to watch him start the preparations for his renowned meatballs and sausages. Making meatballs, sausages, and (sometimes) a rolled, stuffed round steak called braciole was an art form, the mastery of which Italian men

considered a badge of courage because of the sheer time and effort it took to complete the dish from start to finish. If Mama cooked three-course meals the remaining six days a week, it barely registered, but if the husband could manage the Sunday feast, that was all anyone talked about. Pop worked so slowly and laboriously that he was my perfect first teacher. After Dad bought the big house in Greenwich, Connecticut, Pop stayed with us for the holidays and for most of the summer. The recipe was never written down, so when I took over the Sunday ritual, I continued to perfect what I had first learned in Pop’s little kitchen in Flatbush. After Gambino boss Paul Castellano was indicted, my father walked out of his Madison Avenue building to face a throng of press. I remember it like it was yesterday. In a theatrical press conference, he spit the words out at the cameras: “There is no LA COSA NOSTRA,” he said with such authority that the press just stood there. “So if the government really believes there is A LAAA COZZAA NOSTRA,” which he pronounced like “cozy nosy,” “THEY ARE GOING TO HAVE TO PROVE IT TO ME,” and that was that —game on. Years later, I was eating with Dad, Mr. Castellano, Tommy Bilotti, Thomas Gambino, and a couple of other gumbas at the famed Mob eatery Rao’s, known for making a very decent meatball, when some Mob captain started piping off about how he and only he made the best meatballs. He quoted all this mumbo jumbo “proof,” like how he used a special wine and nightshade roots. Then, believe it or not, they all started to argue about who made the best meatballs and sausages, which is something mobsters often do. Well, that, ladies and gentlemen, was my “La Cosa Nostra” moment. I slammed my hand on the table. They all stopped talking. I was Jimmy’s usually respectful son, James, after all, so they all were surprised by my overt display. “THERE IS NO,” and I spit the remaining words out like Dad had done, “FUCKING MEATBALLS OTHER THAN MY FUCKING MEATBALLS.” There was a beat’s pause, and then the whole place exploded in laughter. My father bellowed, “It’s true. My own father taught him, and his meatballs and sausages are tops.” I thought Mr. Castellano was going to throw up he was laughing so hard. I ran to the bar and brought him a glass of water, which only made him laugh harder.

Except for his big, photogenic melon, which my son, Gianni, shares with him, my father was not a big man, but was surprisingly strong and nimble. Until he fell deathly ill in 2008, Dad had enjoyed a relatively disease-free life. In all that time, I don’t even remember him complaining of a backache. I discovered over the course of our five years in Manhattan Beach, as he was forced to endure scores of invasive treatments, just how tough he really was. Prior to those last years, the worst “illness” to happen to him was one of the great running jokes among lawyers throughout the 1970s and ’80s. Dad was about to sum up to a jury in a big trial. The night before, he woke in terrible pain and immediately called our next-door neighbor, Marc Newburgh, MD, who happened to be our family doctor. “Marc,” Dad screamed into the phone, “I’m having a heart attack…IN MY ASS.” Marc rushed over, pushed Dad’s dislodged hemorrhoids back where they belonged, and synched the tissue with a couple of stitches. Dad had his hemorrhoids removed surgically the next day. After a three-day adjournment in the trial to let Jimmy’s poor ass heal, Otis, Dad’s driver, collected him to resume the trial. A few moments after my father left, I heard my mother scream in horror. Dad had forgotten to take the donut-like cushion the surgeon had ordered him to sit on for a week. Mom and I hopped in the car to chase Dad down. When we arrived at the courthouse, we found Dad prancing in the middle of the courtroom as he addressed the jury. The judge stopped the proceedings as my frantic mother came running into court. Dad was dumbfounded. When my timorous mother shyly announced in open court that she had brought Dad’s donut to sit on, everyone from the judge to the jury exploded with laughter. The judge was so taken with my mother that he had his bailiff take the donut to his chambers, assuring Gayle that her husband could use his chambers during breaks. Dad didn’t live that down for quite a while. After being miraculously transported to Manhattan Beach, Dad’s profound illnesses did not dampen his lust for life or his many interests. A large part of what kept him ticking were the dinners and cocktails we would share each night. I could never be a “wife” to Dad—he was a man who loved the company of women above all else—but I ran my kitchen like a professional: fast and efficiently. I hoped that would somehow make up for my obvious deficiencies.

As major holidays like Thanksgiving, Easter, or Christmas approached— when we’d entertain twelve or more for dinner—Dad would torture me for weeks, making lists of foods, cheeses, condiments, and guest lists until my head was ready to explode. Sometimes I would ignore his lists just to rile him, but I never lost sight of the absolute fact that he was the brains and I was the brawn of our partnership. Ultimately, I’d tuck his lists into my pockets, “just in case.” For Thanksgiving, I’d make two perfect wild turkeys with all the trimmings. Every year, after we bid our guests goodbye, Dad and I would enjoy the silence over a last glass of wine and talk about the meal. Invariably, he’d say, “You really outdid yourself this time, kid.” Then same time the next year, we would begin the identical torture all over again. He’d go crazy with the thought of not having the makings for his signature Caesar salad, or that the cheese, God forbid, was still in the refrigerator, until I reminded him that it was 8 a.m. and guests were due at 4 p.m. So “unless you want French rounds of expensive soupy cheese, pipe down, capo, or I’ll lock the chair and leave you up here.” He’d pout for a while until it was showtime. I’d place him at the head of the table and he would hold court as if he was forty-five again. As soon as Dad felt settled and got a good dose of California sunshine, he surprised me by talking about two things he had never before mentioned in any detail. The first was his time in the Marine Corps in Okinawa, Japan. The second, which was most out of character, were his dreams. One early morning, I was sitting next to his bed reading The New York Times and watching him breathe through a new mask we were trying out. His eyes blinked open and I removed the mask. He was smiling broadly. “You wanna hear something amazing?” he asked me. “I dreamt about my mother last night. My father stopped the car on the Bronx River Parkway so she could pick dandelion greens for dinner. She put them in pasta with cauliflower.” That was the first time my father had ever mentioned his mother to me without prompting. He adored her and never fully came to grips with her death the year he started law school. The remainder of my day was dedicated to replicating his mother’s meal in exact detail. This was the start of what would become my arch nemesis. Imagine, if you can, a man dubbed the “Bionic Mouth of White Collar Crime,” whose New York Times obituary characterized him as the “last of the gladiators…in decades of spirited courtroom battles on behalf of Mob bosses, politicians,

labor leaders and judges”—still sharp as ever but physically immobilized in a California beach house with unfettered access to the bane of my existence: THE FOOD CHANNEL! It took every ounce of guile I could muster to keep Dad on the straight and narrow. All it took was one food segment to completely turn my day upside down. I’d be stuck in L.A. traffic, doing some Christmas shopping, when—BANG—the car phone would ring. “James, I’m watching that kid Rocco, and he’s making this amazing meal in this little kitchen in Florence. Change of plans! We gotta have that! You don’t mind, do you?” I’d snake to the highway’s shoulder and exit as horns blared. Then it was off to buy the items on Dad’s new and elaborate list of provisions. When Dad was well enough to come downstairs for dinner, I’d start cooking at four, then head upstairs to clean him up, after which he’d ride the mechanical chair down to the kitchen, yards of oxygen tubes snaking behind him, as I conducted “Hail to the Chief.” I’d push his wheelchair up to a perfectly set table, pour us Kettle One martinis, and the games would begin. Often at the end of the night, I’d have to beg him to return to the safety of the master bedroom. Oftentimes, he wouldn’t get back in the mechanical chair until I had delivered a nightcap to his bedside table. Until he got his way, his typical line was, “I’m starting to think you’re not my biological son.” One night we both had too much to drink. When Dad got out of the mechanical chair, he started to fall. I caught him and spun him on top of me before he hit the floor, where we lay for hours, arm in arm, unable to move. Dad was snoring away when I heard the front door open. “MARTA, MARTA,” I called, as our trusted housekeeper ran up the stairs. “We fell. My legs are asleep. Push my feet, Marta, and I’ll grab the rail.” All Marta could say in her light Central American accent was “YOU CRAZY GUYS. OH, MY GOD… OH, MY GOD.” I couldn’t help but indulge Jimmy. He was dying, after all. And if push came to shove, he’d go to any lengths to get his way. He’d call the police and claim elder abuse, after which I’d find him sitting at the table drinking a Borolo, regaling the cops with stories. Just for fun, they’d throw the cuffs on me. At our local Whole Foods, when the deli guy was too slow in cutting the mortadella, Jimmy took the entire fucking thing and ordered me to push him out the door. The deli guy ran after us. Not until Jimmy heard the requisite amount of begging did he give the poor slob back his mortadella. It was like

watching Sophia Loren in that great old movie out-argue the JFK authorities when she was barred from bringing mortadella into New York from Italy. Moving Dad anywhere took preparation and muscle. There was the wheelchair, oxygen, spare batteries, meds, and inhalers—even special tools in case the wheelchair broke. He loved being out in the sun and so did I. He’d sit with his iPad reading while I ran. One of our first outings in Southern California was to the end of the iconoclastic, wooden Manhattan Beach pier to throw his platinum Cartier wedding band into the Pacific Ocean. Dad had heard enough stories about betrayal by his second ex-wife for a lifetime. After the ring had likely settled on the bottom, I locked the wheels on his chair and took the long jump off the end of the pier to celebrate. I swam back to a half-dozen very angry lifeguards. I tried to explain the situation to them, told them to fuck off, and went to fetch Dad. As I wheeled him down the pier, the story had spread and a crowd gathered to applaud. Of course, Jimmy demanded to stop to take a bow. “Are you married?” he asked a pretty middle-aged woman. That was the first of many times I heard him propose to a complete stranger. There’s a little restaurant and bar off the plaza housing the Apple Store in Manhattan Beach. Dad’s iPad had crapped out, so I left him at a bar table with a cold beer while I went to sort things out with Apple. When I returned, Dad had written a list on a napkin of all the places he wanted to go. It read: “Italy/Sicily, Vietnam, Paris, Hawaii, and… Poland.” Sitting across from him, I was reading the list upside down, so I thought I had misread Poland. Dad confirmed that yes, he wanted to go to Poland. “Why Poland?” I asked. There had been a terrible Polish tragedy the month before. Virtually the entire leadership of Poland had been killed when their plane went down en route to a memorial in Russia. “I saw the funeral for those Polish politicians,” he explained, “and I’ve never seen so many buxom blondes in all my life. And now they’re all single,” he said. I couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re a maniac! You know that?” I asked rhetorically, and he smiled that contented, slightly wicked smile of his. The climate is not the only factor that makes Manhattan Beach a perfect place to live for someone like me. The town is chock-full of newly divorced forty-year-old blondes. They were local, which was critical because I could leave Dad safely for only about ninety minutes at any one time. These

women all had horror-story ex-husbands, so they would delight at being cooked for and fawned over by Jimmy and me. I began to notice a pattern: If I brought the same woman home more than a few times, the famed trial lawyer would “advise” my friend that she was “probably settling” by going out with me and might be happier with an older, more sophisticated man. “He’ll take you to the beach,” he’d say, pointing to me slaving over the burners. “I’ll take you to the opera!” Have you ever wanted to strangle someone but you couldn’t because you were laughing too hard? As the house chef, I kept myself in Dad’s good graces. But it was my transformation from a medical publisher/beach bum to the benevolent bully of the UCLA Medical Center that proved just as important to our future. I always bought a case of good Barolo whenever we went to UCLA for all-day tests. While the pulmonologists and their nurses marveled at the wines, I “borrowed” nebulizer steroids being tested on cystic fibrosis patients and raided closets of oxygen tubing, cannulas, hose connectors, piss pots, blood oxygen meters, sterile rolls of gauze, four-by-fours, and scissors. I also helped myself to diabetic injectables, testing kits, and the latest inhalable steroids. The doctors were good enough to grant me every code and password, and I could tap into the medical intranet and review the results of Dad’s latest tests. I badgered an incredibly gifted pulmonologist with a strong Philly accent named John Belperio to take us closer and closer to the cutting edge, which he did willingly after falling in love with this enormously sick old man with a perennial tan and smile, who never missed an opportunity to propose marriage to a pretty nurse. For almost five years, we had dared Death when it was thick in the room. “Sorry, Death,” I remember saying the day after Dad had been given last rites (again), “but the hospital valet closes soon, so we have to get the Benz and head out to grab some pork chops and broccoli di rabe. See you next time. Sayonara, sucker!” And we would gleefully run for the car, heading for Korea Town to eat the hottest, gangliest creatures we could stomach, and drink cold vodka and beer in high tumblers. Dad’s hospital tags and bruised purple arms were testaments to the latest war he had fought and won. To the Asian waiters, who watched him from the kitchen door in secret, I’d refer to him as the “White Devil.” Somehow, they knew that this old warrior was not altogether of this world. It wasn’t merely a shaky hand that delivered the cold

beer to his puffy, dry lips. It was sheer, super-human willpower. My father was given last rites on three occasions. We had an ongoing twenty-dollar bet that he could not make me laugh during the solemn ceremony. When the priest was praying over him, he’d make pig faces and gurgling sounds. I never once won that darn bet!

Dad had been in Southern California for six months and he was just starting to feel alive again when he declared one summer morning out of the blue that while Gianni was in New York visiting his mother and sisters, we should travel to Vietnam “for the food.” After weeks of military-like preparation, we spent July 4th on the Mekong Delta, the famed river spanning Vietnam and Cambodia/Laos. I hired a young guide, who was very taken with this crazy, bulletproof father/son team, and did whatever we told him—the law be damned. We never figured out how to pronounce his name, so we came as close as we could by calling him Jerry, in honor of our mutual buddy in New York. Dad, “Jerry,” and I took on the personas of characters in the film Apocalypse Now while boating down the Delta. To be honest, my Marlon Brando imitation often slipped into Don Corleone, so Dad kept yelling at me to get back into character. Critics! A few days later, we headed for the belly of the beast, Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon), for a suite in a swanky French hotel and back-to-back restaurant reservations. We took in a few great meals before the famed Saigon pollution set in and Dad started showing signs of pulmonary distress. I worked the Internet and, a few hours later, we bolted from our ornate French hotel for the beaches of Nha Trang on Vietnam’s central coast, leaving poor Jerry behind. En route to Nha Trang, I was pushing Dad through a small airport in a place we shouldn’t have been when guards leveled their carbines at either side of my head. “I’m his doctor,” I yelled without slowing, nudging one of the boys out of our path as Dad tried to kick the other. As we hurtled off, we lost them, laughing our asses off, and Dad cursing at the boy-soldiers. A few hours later, we were at a yacht club on the water drinking beer and eating succulent spring rolls without a cloud in the sky, mocha-skinned girls in bikinis as far as the eye could see.

Another ten months in idyllic Southern California brought a nice rhythm to our lives, but so did medical setbacks. By that time, Dad was on oxygen around-the-clock. Nevertheless, it shouldn’t have surprised me when dozens of books about Italy appeared one day on our front stoop. The Old Man lobbied to go to Tuscany for the remainder of the summer. Dad insisted we stay in a villa just outside of Pienza, where he used to take my mother. Typical of Dad, he started pushing the envelope, insisting on adding a week in Rome to the trip. I reminded him that he could very well die making such a journey, and that moving him took so much equipment and coordination that it was closer to a Marine Corps operation than a vacation. You guessed it. “I’m starting to think you’re not my son,” he cracked. When he gave me his ultimate rationale, any further argument was useless. “Kid, when I’m dead, I’m fucking dead.”

A few months later, I am leading airport security escorts up the galley elevator with my father in a portable checkerboard-designed wheelchair. I am carrying the critical steel medical supply briefcases, as Dad holds a portable O2 compressor on his lap. He is dressed in colorful PJ bottoms, a long-sleeve Arrogant Bastard beer tee shirt, and a tan cap. No one will ever guess that the famed trial lawyer is the man under that hat. We make our way to two side-by-side business class seats and begin the long, careful process of getting Dad comfortable, stowing all the overhead gear and tagging the wheelchair for the luggage hold. I wave off any help and do everything myself, well versed in the efficiencies of this complex drill. I tip everyone, and we settle in. When traveling with Dad, it is critical to carry a minimum of one hundred ten-dollar bills. You can’t pull off an operation like this without plenty of help, so everyone gets a ten-spot and verbal encouragement. “Have a cigar. You’re going to go far.” A steward comes by and we order Grey Gooses, club soda, and limes. We are the first people on the plane. It will be another forty-five minutes before the plane pushes off. United and Continental have just merged, and we are on an ancient wide-body jet. There isn’t even a cigarette lighter outlet in the cockpit. After a first leg from Los Angeles to NYC, Dad is busting for breakfast at a café near the Pantheon in Rome.

One glance at my pale father and I know something’s not right. I pull a blood/oxygen meter from my blazer and put it on his index finger. The numbers are alarming. I go to repower the unit with no success. “Shit!” I exclaim, while Dad looks out the window, humming. I know what he’s thinking: “My son is always making a fuss.” I had put two new $500 Siemens batteries in the compressor at the gate. I try everything. Nada! I put the batteries we used on the first leg back in and the unit powers up. I make some calculations in my head and gather my strength to break the news to him. “Dad, we only have three and a half hours of battery life left for a sevenhour flight. We have to get off the plane.” “You’re kidding? Fuck that. I’m having breakfast at the Pantheon, man. You’ll think of something…You always do,” he says. “Wait till we’re three hours out. Then they can’t turn around,” he advises. There is no arguing with him. I lower the compressor level to two liters and take a nap. I may as well rest now, I figure, because all hell’s going to break loose in three hours. Dad reads from his iPad a while and naps. At the three-hour mark, the head steward accompanies me to the cockpit to explain the situation. They patch in a service every airline depends on in medical emergencies—Medlink. The Medlink docs are professional but fearful. “Look,” I assure them after a full medical briefing, “I know everything there is to know about oxygen. You must have onboard tanks for the pilots in case of emergency decompression.” They confirm that they have eight tanks. “If I leave you with five hundred psi in each tank, that’s plenty in case of an emergency.” “Don’t worry, we’re all set,” I tell Dad upon returning to our seats. “I’m not,” Dad says. “You’re a first-class fucking maniac. You know that, right?” When the first of the large gunnery metal tanks arrives, Dad starts to bitch when he sees that he has to wear a full face mask. Just then, the compressor on the floor shuts down; Dad would have been dead within the hour.

We streaked over the Mediterranean at sunrise and hit the tarmac at Fiumicino hard. Immediately, the plane’s brakes fully engaged and we came to a screeching halt, surrounded by ambulances, police vehicles, and fire

trucks. Emergency personnel started coming onto the plane through an emergency door. “Shit,” I said. “They’re here for you. They are going to want to take you off.” Dad starts screaming into his mask. It sounds like this: “FUPK EM MEATING AT DA PANTEEEN,” which means “FUCK THEM. I’M EATING BREAKFAST AT THE PANTHEON!” I assured everyone that my patient was stable and could wait until everyone else deplaned. I signed some papers and the plane moves to the terminal. Suffice it to say that one hour later, Jimmy was sipping an espresso at a café on the Pantheon, happy as a clam. I downed beer and shots of grappa as fast as humanly possible to calm my shattered nerves. As we started to head for the hotel, Dad’s wheels got stuck in between cobblestones. When, with all my strength, I attempted to pull him out, my right bicep tendon tore, bringing me to my knees. I had rented a large fivespeed manual wagon to drive from Rome to Tuscany. Now I would have to learn to drive and shift with my left arm, a relatively minor problem compared to what the near future held for us. We checked into a little boutique hotel off the square and I started the usual drill of unpacking the medical cases of drugs, machines, and powered converters. Dad was resting comfortably, but then all the power in the hotel died. Our machines had blown the main fuses. I quickly rounded up every hotel engineer and manager I could find. They succeeded in getting the power up. Five minutes later, everything went down again, and one of our nebulizers started to smoke. I went to the electric room and, to my horror, I saw that this boutique hotel, charming as it was, had never upgraded and was running on glass fuses. While the engineers scrambled, I ran to a little hardware store a few blocks away, explained the situation, and bought every glass fuse in the store. The owner promised to order as many fuses as he could for the next day. I walked into a Pharmacia around the corner, grabbed a nebulizer off a shelf, threw 300 euros on the counter, and ran, my dead arm hanging like Quasimodo’s as the pharmacist yelled after me “Prescription. Prescription.” I love Italians. Making it home from the Old Country required something close to a miracle. It took ten days in the hospital at UCLA and a good long while after that before Dad could make it downstairs again for dinner. No matter. I brought him piping-hot plates of his favorite foods and a little wine while we

watched the Knicks, or a movie, or just talked. Dad’s energy spiked that last winter, just in time for opera season. Nothing compares to the Met in New York, of course, but the Los Angeles Opera at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion with Placido Domingo as director was good that year. We bought a series of six operas in an orchestra section where Dad would be comfortable in his wheelchair. We had early dinner at a little bistro down the street and settled in for a performance of Tosca. Dad and I were big fans of anything written by Giacomo Puccini. When I first bought my farmhouse in New York, I decided I needed a big-ass dog, so Dad and I set out to visit an American Kennel Club approved breeder of Chesapeake Bay retrievers. We were on our way home with an eight-week-old male, the unquestioned pick of the litter, when he began to howl for his mother. I had Madama Butterfly in the CD player. When the opera began to play, the puppy, who would grow to a hundred pounds, immediately stopped howling and quietly listened. We named him Puccini on the spot. Tosca, my favorite opera, is a heartbreak of a story, and usually the artist who plays her is as large physically as vocally. This Tosca was massive, with a voice to match. According to historical analysis of Puccini’s libretto, Tosca takes place in the afternoon, evening, and early morning of June 17-18, 1800. Italy had long been divided into a number of small feudal states. Napoleon invaded Italy in 1796, entering Rome almost unopposed. In September 1799, the French, who had protected the republic, withdrew from Rome. As they left, troops of the Kingdom of Naples occupied the city. Tosca concludes with a complex double-cross, resulting in the execution of Tosca’s lover. When she realizes the awful truth, Tosca evades the guards rushing to stop her and runs to the parapet. Crying “Avanti a Dio!” (“We meet before God!”), she hurls herself over the edge to her death. That night, the opera ran long. We were on our way home in our Mercedes sedan when the warning bells sounded on Dad’s oxygen compressor. Try as I might to diagnose the problem while driving, the alarm suddenly changed, signaling that we had just minutes of oxygen left. We were close to the Manhattan Beach exit on the 405 freeway, so I put on my hazard lights and took off. Dad slumped in the passenger seat but was conscious. “Easy breaths, Dad. I’ll have you on electric in just a few

minutes.”

An L.A. police cruiser follows me off the exit, lights going and sirens blaring. I know these roads well, so I get around other cars easily and speed toward the beach. A black Manhattan Beach SUV cruiser joins the chase. I am running lights and speeding as carefully as possible. We’re going to deadend at the water, so they can’t be very worried we are trying to get away. The last few blocks are a maze of small back streets, which I take tight and fast. Dad has been off oxygen for ten minutes. I’m fifty yards from our garage when I hit the opener on the visor and the house lights go on. I skid into the garage and engage the door. I scramble to the back seat and roll out the door as the cops start pounding on the garage. I have industrial cables on a cart Dad used in better times. I pull the cables, plug the compressor in, and wait for the lights. The cops must be using their billy clubs, I surmise, because the banging is getting louder. I’m just waiting for one of them to go around front and break down the door. The green lights on the compressor fire up and the machine begins to rumble. Dad has managed to open his door and throw his legs out. His color is bad. I raise the compressor to five liters, its maximum. “Hang on,” I say to Dad as I walk to the back of the car, open the garage door, and raise my hands high. The doors swing open. Two officers have guns leveled at me, and the other two have their hands on their holsters. “DON’T MOVE.” “Please don’t shoot, Officers. I’m a doctor,” I lie. “My father’s oxygen compressor malfunctioned.” “Why did you close the garage door?” “I had to hook the compressor up to the electric in the house. If you stopped me, he’d be dead.” Everyone holsters their guns. “Do you need a bus, Doctor?” I turn to look at my father. He is breathing deeply. The compressor is pumping for all its worth. Dad puts his hand up to indicate he’s OK. “I don’t like his color, but he’s getting five liters now. He should be fine. I’m really sorry, fellas. I had no other choice. We barely made it.” “Just let us know if you need a bus. We’ll wait.” I go to Dad and eyeball a vein in his neck, as I was taught. It looks strong.

“We’re going to be OK, Officers.” They go to get back into their cars. I give them a thumbs-up. “The opera was good tonight,” I say. “It was great. You see the size of that Tosca?” “Yeah, she was big, all right.” I engage the door and seal us up good and tight. “You want a nightcap?” “You read my mind, Son. Hey, imagine if I didn’t make it tonight. You could tell everyone I was killed by the fattest woman on Earth.”

CHAPTER THREE

AUGUST 9, 1974: GOODBYE TO ALL THAT “We’re not going to have another Watergate in our lifetime. I’m sure.” —Bob Woodward

Nineteen seventy-four was a banner year for Jimmy and me. I joined him a few nights a week in the exclusive Penn Plaza Club in Madison Square Garden, where we’d watch the first half of the Knicks game on closed-circuit TV. We would eat and drink (soda in my case) and chat up the barman. Then, that magic moment arrived: We’d pass through the secret door that led us out to the smoky, vibrant, electric Garden to take our seats. The bass of the organ, the crowd, and the haze of smoke that hung in midair ripped through my body. It was like walking into a carnival. Though we were 200 feet from our seats in the club, there was nothing like the feeling of exiting through a trap door to the lower level of the world’s greatest basketball arena. There was Clyde, Earl the Pearl, Willis Reed, DeBusschere, and Bill Bradley—in the flesh! I was flying with adrenaline and glee, and I think Dad was too. Then there was the fight of January 28, 1974. Dad, my brother, and I sat ringside at The Garden while Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier fought the second bout of their legendary trilogy. We were so close that when Ali used an arm to block a glancing blow from Frazier, his sweat popped off his body, with much of it landing on me. I must have looked shocked because I remember Dad reaching over to ruffle my hair to pull me from my trance. As Dad and I shared a small piece of sports history, we were surrounded by the usual glitterati and mobsters I grew to know and love, yet it seemed as if I had Dad to myself. Another day that year, August 9, 1974, marked a new chapter in my life with Jimmy. We both woke early after a night of grilling steaks and sipping Heinekens in a rental house on Martha’s Vineyard. My mother, whom Dad

feigned anger at for renting a house without a TV, was arriving the next day, so Dad and I were up and out early. Dad had something on his mind; he woke turbocharged, as if it was summation day, so I just hung on until the mystery revealed itself. Soon I found myself standing on a wharf trying to catch the eye of a pretty girl who must have been a production assistant on a film that had the whole town buzzing. The crew making Jaws was off that day, and she stood next to the mechanical shark, nightmarishly emerging halfway out of the water, its mouth open and snarling like something pre-historic. Before the girl could even notice me, Dad put a box of donuts in my hands. “Come on, we have something important to do.” We jumped in a 1972 Mercedes coupe to head for the other side of the island. “We need to find a TV. Something historic is going to happen today and I want you to see it. It’s something you will never forget.” He certainly was right about that.

At almost sixteen, I was at the wheel, finessing the fussy three-speed across this island of small, criss-crossing roads as we set out to find a television come hell or high water. The event that day was still a secret to me, but if you haven’t recognized the date yet—August 9, 1974—my father wanted me to watch with my own eyes as Richard Nixon, thirty-seventh president of the United States, walked to a Marine helicopter on the South Lawn of the White House, made that awkward wave, and disappeared into history to end the long national crisis called Watergate. There had been no coup d’état or revolution, just the majesty of American constitutional law working out one of the worst kinks of the twentieth century. I had learned from my father to relish the newspapers every morning, but it was Watergate and the thousands of conversations that followed, right up until the last week of his life, that solidified our lifelong standing as fellow political junkies. Being my father’s son meant sharing Dad’s propensity to detect the discrepancies and hypocrisies among those in power. In high school, he encouraged me to read the transcripts of Lieutenant William L. Calley’s general court-martial for the 1968 event in Vietnam known as the My Lai Massacre. I read everything I could get my hands on. Calley and his men in Charlie Company were emotionally compromised after the death of several of their fellow soldiers. All casualties had occurred

by booby traps or mines, without ever seeing the enemy. American troops responded by taking horrible revenge on the tiny village, killing men, women, and children. People began to cite the My Lai massacre as evidence of military incompetence and poor wartime leadership. Soon, many veterans started voicing their concerns publicly, leading to further anti-war sentiment. Calley was convicted and imprisoned. My view echoed that of my father’s: Calley took the fall for the real war criminal, General Westmoreland, who had lied to President Johnson about the strength of the Viet Cong. I could see Dad in Calley’s boots, and it shook and disgusted me. Many years later, I saw the highly recognizable General Westmoreland in a magazine store on Lexington Avenue. All I saw was a well-dressed old man. Any hatred I may have harbored was overwhelmed by civility. I held the door open for him and we nodded at one another. History repeated itself during the war in Iraq when eleven American soldiers were charged with crimes related to the torture of Iraqi prisoners in the Abu Ghraib prison. The Abu Ghraib soldiers were convicted and dishonorably discharged. Meanwhile, there was ample evidence that Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld had authorized most of the “criminal” actions. If I had encountered Rumsfeld in a store at the time, I don’t believe I could have kept my tongue. These were the types of injustices that had become blood-red strands in my father’s DNA. He took his revenge in a courtroom. Jimmy pushed the envelope when it came to his caught-red-handed clients, but make no mistake about it, he had an acute sense of justice. Twice he threatened golf clubs with full-blown lawsuits because the fancy-pants board members wouldn’t accept his Jewish friends as members. Sure enough, after Jimmy was done, his friends had club memberships and preferred tee times to boot. By the latter part of the 1970s, my father was already a household name in legal circles. He had been declared one of the “100 Smartest New Yorkers” by a national magazine, lived in a twelve-room Park Avenue floor-through, owned a French Tudor home in Greenwich, Connecticut, and was as close as a son to the streetwise Democratic leader of New York, Meade Esposito. In fact, he was Meade’s lawyer. It seemed as if he was everyone’s lawyer. If Jimmy’s picture wasn’t in the Times, the Daily News, or the Post, it was a slow week.

In those days, The City’s Democratic leader handpicked many of the state judges—a throwback to the Tammany Hall days that would die with Esposito. Meade would often ask Dad to sit with him as the candidates for judgeships, hat in hand, went to seek the blessing of the all-powerful political leader. Dad and Meade used to laugh in between interviews as they drank espressos and Sambuca. Dad would say, “Half these guys think that they owe their judgeship to me.” And Meade would tell him, “That’s exactly what I want them to think.” Jimmy walked Meade through so many legal entanglements over the years that billing him was more trouble than it was worth. This was Uncle Meade’s payback. In the days of ninety-nine-dollar flights on Eastern Airlines, our family would fly to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, just north of Miami almost every weekend in the winter, and drive thirty minutes west into the Everglades on the proverbial “Alligator Alley,” where one of the first residential homes/golf courses/spas was built by a client and friend of Dad’s, Mel Harris. Meade bought the house directly across the street from ours. On New Year’s Eve, after we had eaten dinner, we’d go over to Meade’s, where he had bottles of ice-cold Dom Pérignon waiting for us, and we’d all hail the new year together. Meade’s wife, Anne, was somewhat of a mystery. She guarded her privacy at all times, even on New Year’s Eve. Meade used to refer to her as “Hugo.” One day Uncle Meade explained: “Every time I say to her, ‘We have a dinner to go to,’ she’d reply, ‘You go.’” Thus, the nickname: Hugo. Until one of our New Year’s rituals, I had never laid eyes on her. I was a young teenager, buzzed on the Dom, looking for a bathroom, when I accidentally entered a room. There was Anne, sitting in a chair, as peaceful as an Old Testament character. She invited me to sit, insisting I call her by her first name, and we talked for fifteen minutes or so. Either she liked me or was just hungry for human contact at the moment. As I quietly left her bedroom to find the bathroom, she got up and hugged me. Every New Year’s Eve after that, I accidentally got lost on the way to the toilet and had my little celebration with Anne. One time, as Uncle Meade was walking us out, he decided to come to our house for a nightcap. As we were crossing the street, I looked back at the Esposito house and saw Anne looking out the front window. She gave me a wink and a little wave, which I returned with the same.

Nothing got past Uncle Meade—anywhere, anytime. When I caught up to everybody, he gave me a long sideways glance, as if to say, “You’re all right, kid.” During two summers in college, Dad pulled a few union strings, and I sailed as an ordinary seaman on merchant vessels to the Middle East, Europe, and the Caribbean. I did everything from water-blasting the cavernous oil holds to cleaning the heads. Docking is a tense time on an oil tanker, especially in the Gulf of Mexico. We were all scrambling on deck when a little prick of an engineer got on my case about doing something wrong. I was trying to ignore the prick when two of the biggest seamen just about pinned the engineer to the deck by his ears. I only found out weeks later that the experienced guys had been told to “watch out for the kid.” When we finally docked, I had a moment of rotten luck as the engineer and I found ourselves alone in the machinist’s room. Like the dope he was, he came at me with something big and metal that he could barely throw. I picked a smallish fourteen-inch wrench off the wall and gave him a crack. An hour later, the third mate came to my bunk to fire me. He liked me—I could hear the regret in his voice. The last words from the two big guys who’d helped me out on deck were, “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of that fucking engineer.” I set off down the gangway with about five grand in my pocket and all of New Orleans at my feet. I had a blast while that little prick took the beating of his life. Back in New York two weeks later, I picked up a ringing phone and found Uncle Meade on the line. “What are you doing home so early? You a lazy fuck or what?” I laughed. I knew he knew, so I didn’t even bother to go into what had transpired. “Tomorrow, you go to the Brooklyn Navy Yard and see my friend, Nick Montanti.” For the rest of the summer and most of the next school year, I worked the midnight shift helping machinists drill parts for Navy carriers and battleships. The bottom line was that when Uncle Meade called, you’d better have your shoes laced up and your jock strap on tight.

We were barely ten minutes into our ride on Martha’s Vineyard when I

begged Dad to stop for breakfast. In those days, I often started the day with six eggs and six strips of bacon, so I was famished. We found a greasy spoon and settled in. To get a one-on-one with my father, I usually had to compete with young, smart, funny lawyers named Shargel, Ross, Mitchell, Dontzin, Weinstein, or Kirshner. On those rare days when I had his undivided attention, I tried to get every bit of information I could before the rest of the larger world started picking at his sizable brain. This had started out to be a “day I wouldn’t forget.” So while Nixon was putting the final touches on his parting address, I had other fish to fry—and a captive audience—because the car keys were in my pocket! There was a lot about Dad’s professional life that we could not address until many years later. In essence, his entire life was a series of confidences that he guarded as a matter of course. Something had happened a few weeks into the new year that was odd, even for us. Frank Bove, my father’s driver for two years, was an ex-U.S. marshal who carried a firearm. Out of the blue, he started taking my brother and I to school and picking us up. Someone I had never seen before took Dad into The City. Frank also slept in a spare room in the house. Even Mom stayed close to home. I could tell she was unnerved, so I didn’t bother asking the obvious. This went on for more than a week. So, in the diner on the Vineyard, I didn’t hold back. I asked Dad flat-out what had happened that week when Frank tailed us, knowing it was unlikely I would get the entire truth. He tested me a bit at first, asking if I was “old enough to keep a family secret. Don’t just say ‘yes.’ Think about it,” he warned me. I made the necessary assurances. For a moment, I felt like Batman’s sidekick, Robin, just before the caped crusader tells him about that secret button in the cave. It would not be the last time that I felt like Dad and I were “co-conspirators.” “Two very rich Albanian brothers retained me after killing a man who owed them money,” Dad said. “How?” I asked, realizing it was the dumbest first question I could ask. “They beat him to death with a steel pipe. They said they didn’t mean to kill him, but he died. No matter. As the trial went on, I managed to vacate so many of the major charges that when the jury came in guilty, the judge had no choice but to give each of the brothers just six months.” “How did you do that?” I asked. When it came to Dad, I could have

tattooed that question on my forehead, because almost everything he did was … well, unbelievable! “It’s complicated. Let’s just say Lady Luck was shining down on us. They were very happy… at first. But, as it turned out, they were two spoiled little brats. They came to me demanding that I get them out of the six months, which I couldn’t, so they threatened me. Even more stupid, they mentioned you kids and your mom.” Now it was my turn not to be stupid. I just waited. After a while, I looked up from my plate. “It died down after a while.” “Come on, Dad! That’s a load.” He threw me a bone. “Well, you remember the night we went to the fights at The Garden?” DID I REMEMBER? “Sure, I remember.” “While we were at the fight, Mr. Castellano spoke with them and set them straight. They were acting very ungrateful and that needed to be pointed out to them…in rather strong terms.”

By and large, members of the Albanian Mob were known for their smarts, guile, and toughness. These two guys were the exception. Decades later, I found out what had really happened to the two stupidest Albanian brothers in the history of the world. There was a glitzy nightclub in Queens that catered to the showy foreign crowd who liked to throw money around. These pricks often hung out there. While Dad and I were at the fights, Dumb and Dumber are greeted like royalty by the club doormen and are whisked inside, only to be grabbed and thrown down a long stairway into the basement, where they are beaten unconscious. When they awake, they find themselves tied to ceiling pipes, gagged, bloodied, and bruised. Four or five big men stand and sit in the basement, smiling at the brothers when they open their eyes. One very ominous-looking man sits closer to the captives, a large steel pipe in his lap. Two of the men have pistols strapped to their bodies. A man in the basement clears his throat and everyone stops talking. All anyone can see is the back of a very large guy wearing a thick leather apron and leather gloves, working at a large tank, hidden underneath a welding

helmet. When the man turns around, he has a lit blowtorch in his hand. The figure slowly approaches the wide-eyed brothers as he adjusts the torch until it is a yellow and violet inferno. He methodically brings the torch a few feet under the first brother’s neck. As the heat under his neck builds, the man begins to panic and screams into the gag. The would-be killer takes a step back and looks at the other brother. One of the men can be heard saying, “Yeah, do him first.” Though the Torch Man’s eyes are hidden beneath the steel helmet, it’s as if the two Albanian brothers can feel his lifeless blue eyes boring into them. In the blink of an eye, the torch just stops. The killer drops it to the floor. He removes his helmet with a gloved hand. The brother’s eyes bug out. Standing before them is one of the “Family’s” legendary assassins and captains, Dom Coffini, known by insiders as Dead on Arrival (D.O.A). His jet-black hair and his muscled build accentuate his lifeless blue eyes. Coffini removes the Albanians’ gags. “Do you know who I am?” “Yes, yes, Mr. Coffini,” Dumbass #1 says. He looks at the other brother. “YOU?” “D.O.A., Mr. Tony Coffini,” stutters #2. “Do you know why you’re here hanging from the ceiling?” “I think so,” says #1. “Good. If you so much look sideways at our mutual friend or his family, we’ll get you. You’ll die hard—very hard. Do you fucking understand everything I just said, because your lives and the lives of everyone you know within a hundred miles are hanging by a fucking string?” The brothers nod vigorously. “I hope so for your sake. Because if you ever see me again, know that it will be your last moment on Earth.” D.O.A throws his gloves and apron over a sawhorse and disappears up the stairs. Back at the greasy spoon, I was in disbelief. “Is that it, Dad? Really? ‘While we were at the fight, Mr. Castellano spoke with them and set them straight.’ You’re going with that?” Dad just gave me the look.

When it came to mobsters, though, the two scariest men I had ever met,

bar none, were Joe “The German” Watts from the Gambino Family and William “Wild Bill” Cutolo, who was a major player in the Columbo Family. The last time I ever saw Joe Watts could not have been more inopportune. In the winter of 2001, I had run (in the truest sense of the word) into Rao’s, a restaurant known for its “connected” clientele on a protected block of East Harlem, thinking I was to dine with Dad and some family friends. I had the wrong week and Dad was having a Wednesday dinner meeting with Watts and a colleague. Only the top echelon of made men had regular tables at Rao’s. Before Watts’ last trial, Jimmy made him swear that if he were acquitted, Dad could have Watts’ Wednesday night table as part of his fee. Watts was a gangster’s gangster whose resumé went all the way back to the reign of Carlo Gambino, for whom he had served as hit man. Watts could never be made, or officially indoctrinated into a Mafia family, because he wasn’t Italian, but he was nonetheless afforded the status of not only a “made man,” but a capo. Watts was highly respected by Gambino higher-ups because of his ability to “earn” and do “work” as a true strong-arm enforcer.

In 1999, I built a new 10,000-square-foot loft/office for MedWorks at Varick and Vandam Streets, giving me the perfect vantage point to observe the Twin Towers two years later on 9/11. I saw the second jet pierce through the south tower as I was talking to a cop on Canal Street. When that building fell, I was evacuating my office and shutting down the compressors. Later, I watched as the north tower fell into itself. I gave a bottle of water to an obese black woman who was vomiting and ran to get Sofia and Gianni at school. Juliana, who was a little more than two, was with my wife, Maria. For those of us living in Lower Manhattan after the 9/11 tragedy, the smell of burning wires, steel, and flesh was a constant presence until the weather finally turned cold in late December. When President Bush lifted the FAA ban, I went to Madrid for a meeting and forgot about New York for a week. The moment I landed at JFK and the plane docked and the door was opened, the smell crept in, and I was back. Someone once told me that clichés die hard because they are rooted in truth, and so it was for me. My marriage had been rocky before 9/11. When the sun set every night, I looked for a stool and a martini long before I

thought of home or my family. So it shouldn’t have surprised anyone that as I was driving my new Audi six-speed bi-turbo up to Rao’s on an icy December night, I was more than a little sloshed. I somehow flipped the turn on 114th Street and hit a patch of ice. The Audi spun and spun and one of the tires blew. Somehow the car came to rest at the curb directly in front of Rao’s. Unbeknownst to me, all the patrons inside had a good view of my loopy stunt. In those days, if you parked at Rao’s and put your wipers up, guys would come out of nowhere to spit-shine your car. Mobsters are very fussy about their cars. That December night, I came within inches of taking one of these guys out. As the barman, Nicky the Vest, told me later, “I was talking to your father and these bright white lights are coming straight at us. I thought you were going right through the front.” I turned the car off, swung the door open, and shouted to no one in particular, “Hey, Mom, I’m home!” Frankie Pellegrino, the restaurant owner’s son, came out and grabbed me by the arm and helped my inebriated ass inside. By then, everyone was giving Dad the business. Jimmy gave me the look the second I walked in. When I saw he was in the middle of dinner, I realized that I had the wrong Wednesday. When Dad said, “You know Joe Watts and his friend,” I could have fainted. There in the flesh was the assassin himself. I greeted the men respectfully, begged a double vodka off Nicky, and headed for the bathroom to straighten myself up. I must have slapped myself five times in front of that mirror. I found out weeks later that Dad had come clean with Watts. While I was in the bathroom, he told him that I was just blocks from the towers on 9/11, had to run for my kids, and wasn’t taking it that well. That was all anyone needed to hear. All New Yorkers were still raw and messed up. I have never addressed a senior mobster by his first name, so it was “Mr. Watts this” and “Mr. Watts that.” A giant mistake that many citizens make in the company of these men is to talk tough, so when his lieutenant baited me with a question I could have answered flippantly, I said, “You know, Mr. Watts, the same thing happened to me at prep school in Greenwich, Connecticut.” Joe laughed hard. “I like this kid,” he said. “Always have.” By then, Frankie Pellegrino had one of his guys pulling the spare and changing the tire. I kissed my father, whispered apologies, and went around the table kissing the killers. “Sorry to drop in like this, fellas,” I said on the

way out. I threw Frankie a bill and bolted west on foot for the closest avenue. The car would be safe in front of Rao’s. I jumped in the first cab. “Please, just drive,” I begged the cabbie.

On our way out of the greasy spoon in the Vineyard on August 9, Dad saw that the cooks in the back kitchen had an old black and white television. He stopped, pulled out a pile of cash, and offered the cook a cool onehundred dollars. The cook gleefully accepted and I quickly scooped up the television. That’s my dad, who never ceased to surprise. Later in the day, we sat in front of the small black and white screen as Richard Milhous Nixon resigned. Not a word was spoken between us. I knew how much Dad detested this doomed man, yet he showed no pleasure in the scene. I could hear the bay and the dock creek out the windows, but other than those few sounds, it seemed as if the world had inextricably stopped. Somewhere in all the emotion of the day was knowing that I might not have Dad to myself again for a good long time. We ate, sipped a few beers, embraced warmly, and headed to bed. I slept in, not quite used to the effects of the beer. I woke up to hear footsteps on the dock. A seaplane was tied to it. A pilot was loading bags into a compartment as Dad got into the plane, trying not to get his shoes wet. Then I remembered: Dad had to head back to The City for a day. Mom will be out in the afternoon. That gave me all day to myself. Just before he disappeared through the cockpit door, Dad looked back at the house and smiled. I bolted for the dock in my boxer shorts and gave the plane two thumbs-up. I couldn’t see my father, but I knew he was watching. When the plane’s engine rumbled on, I dropped my boxer shorts to MOON him. That’s me: The son who never ceased to surprise, having learned at the feet of the master. The plane steadied on the bay’s rolling waves and the engine gunned. For a moment, there was just noise. Then the plane began to move, lumbering at first, then more swiftly. It fought the waves until the pontoons glided on top of the chop and they began to rise, finally disappearing into the sun’s reflection on the bay. That moment, like so many others when it came to my father, is frozen in time for me. When Dad and I were together, it was as if anything was

possible. He was invincible, and he made me feel the same. Whenever he left, which was often, a tinge of sadness crept up my spine. Then I would remember something, like the way he laughed when he ruffled my hair after Ali’s sweat covered me at the fights, and I’d watch the seaplane in the distance, hoping for his speedy return. After I was good and done mourning my loss by reveling in our twentyfour hours together, I was ready to assume my position in the world. Jimmy didn’t raise a schmuck. So I fired up the coupe and went to find the girl on the wharf.

CHAPTER FOUR

REVELATIONS: THE SHOEMAKER AND THE FISHMONGER “For we are strangers before thee, and sojourners, as were all our fathers.” —I Chronicles 29:15

In contrast to the times when Dad and I had “alone time” together on Martha’s Vineyard, our lives were a decidedly separate chapter when the family was all under the same roof.

Starting in the early 1970s, and continuing for the next thirty years, Dad was in trial without so much as a hiccup. He was everywhere and nowhere. He often returned home after I was in bed and left in the morning before I was awake. I started to get up before dawn so I could ride with him for twenty minutes until the driver dropped me at school. We would read the papers, side-by-side, and speak only to comment on news of the day. I’d kiss him goodbye and sit on the stoop of the locked, silent school building and watch as the red fins disappeared for The City. Dad’s irascibility about following “rules” worked in my favor when his legal practice took off like a rocket. Since he wasn’t around much, I made it my mission to turn every challenge to my advantage. I could not yet distinguish between the ground rules parents set for a child and the “procedural rules” that Jimmy sidestepped each day as fame came knocking on his door. So I foolishly dared the fates until the boot came down on me. Dad wasn’t about to let his oldest son spread cracker barrel on the good name he was making for all of us. I would learn the hard way that pigs get fed, while fat pigs get slaughtered. I was a lanky kid, but my fat head put me squarely in the slaughter house.

Mom was a bit of a troublemaker herself. In the winter of 1976, Dad took her to see Frank Sinatra perform at the Westchester Premier Theater, which was owned by Gambino Family associate Greg DePalma. It was an all-handson-deck night for the Gambinos. Both Carlo Gambino and his heir apparent, Paul Castellano, were in attendance. After the show, everyone was invited backstage to take pictures with Sinatra. Dad did not want to be photographed and asked Mom to stay put too, but she went anyway. CLICK. The picture of Sinatra and the Gambino clan became one of the most famous and widely circulated photos of all time. What few people know is that my mother was in the original photo, last on the right. Jimmy appeared before a federal magistrate a week later and had Gayle “officially” removed from the negative, though not before I saw the original.

My idolatry for my father notwithstanding, I was a kid who wanted what he wanted and was willing to pay almost any price to get it. We were on school break when I informed my folks that I was going with some older friends to attend a Grateful Dead concert in Miami. When they both put the kibosh on the trip, I walked two miles to the south entrance of the Connecticut State Thruway and put out my thumb. Like clock-work, the police arrived to hassle me. The troopers gave me three chances to leave the highway before taking me to the central police station, about twenty-five miles north of Greenwich. For three days and nights, I was exceedingly polite and respectful but wouldn’t give them my name. They let me just sit there and stew in a concrete cell that smelled like buffalo ass. On the afternoon of the fourth day, they let me out with no other way to get home but the thruway and my thumb. Earlier that year, after missing my ride, I was hitchhiking home from school in downtown Greenwich when two golf-attired guys driving a RollsRoyce sedan gave me an eight-mile ride right to the corner of my street. They barely paid me any notice, but I noticed them. In the passenger seat was the snake charmer and rock star Alice Cooper. The guy driving was his drummer. Cooper had been a well-publicized lush for many years until he gave up the hooch and replaced it with a serious golf addiction. In fact, he stopped touring to play golf.

Sure enough, when I stuck out my thumb on the southbound side of the thruway to get home after the cops let me go, the twentieth car stopped. “Hey, it’s the kid,” Cooper greeted me, and he and the drummer talked among themselves until they dropped me off on my corner with a “see ya, don’t wanna be ya.” They sped off, their clubs clanking in the cavernous trunk.

College couldn’t have come at a better time. I may have been a “worldly” young man thanks to my father’s influence, but I had no real perspective on the world. Everything I knew or felt or loathed or loved was a by-product of my father’s tutelage and my idolatry for the one person who would never betray me—my true north. It was high time I started to think for myself. At Sarah Lawrence, freshmen were required to present a portfolio of writing to major in a writing department staffed by such literary luminaries as E. L. Doctorow, Grace Paley, Louise Gluck, and Allan Gurganus. My favorite professor, bar none, was Joseph Papaleo, dubbed “the bald Calabrese,” who became my surrogate father for the better part of the next fifteen years. For much of two decades, Joe Papaleo wrote about two controversial Italians who became a complete obsession for the kindly professor. Nicola Sacco, a night watchman from the Italian region known as Puglia, and Bartolomeo Vanzetti, a fishmonger from the Piedmont region, were Italianborn American anarchists convicted of murdering a guard and a paymaster during an April 15, 1920 armed robbery of a shoe company in Braintree, Massachusetts. Following Sacco and Vanzetti’s patently bogus conviction, Italian immigrants were lynched throughout the United States. Celebrated writers, artists, and academics pleaded for Sacco and Vanzetti’s pardon or for a new trial. Harvard law professor and future Supreme Court justice Felix Frankfurter argued for their innocence in a widely read article later published in book form. Still, they were executed by electric chair seven years later. Investigations in the aftermath of the executions cast enough doubt on the guilt of the duo that, on the fiftieth anniversary of the executions (August 23, 1977), Massachusetts Governor Michael Dukakis issued a proclamation that Sacco and Vanzetti had been unfairly tried and convicted. “Any disgrace

should be forever removed from their names.” The introduction to the 2007 reprinting of The Letters of Sacco and Vanzetti noted: “Sacco and Vanzetti are still on trial and probably always will be.” This certainly was the case for Joe, whose obsession went on, ad infinitum. He continued to write draft after draft of their story from every angle until his last days. At Joe’s memorial, I began my eulogy by asking, “What was it about Sacco and Vanzetti?” It was my way of putting us all on common ground. Anyone who knew Joe had heard his cry for guinea justice. Something about those two Italian-Americans got under his skin and metastasized. So. What was it about Sacco and Vanzetti? While we’re at it, what the hell was wrong with me? Perhaps we can hit two birds with one stone here. My grandfather, James Vincent LaRossa (aka Pop), was born in Brooklyn, the tenth of thirteen children of owners of a longshoreman’s restaurant on the docks of Brooklyn. Men like Sacco and Vanzetti, who were processed through the immigrant gateway of Ellis Island after my grandfather was born, may well have had a first American meal at the very place where my great-grandparents toiled. Many Italian-Americans do not wholly acknowledge that the first wave of immigrants from the “Old Country” were political refugees who disagreed vehemently with Italy’s reunification under General Giuseppe Garibaldi. Among the most vocal were the Italian anarchists who allied themselves with a union-like Workingman’s Association in 1869. Anarchism adopted the symbolism in both the word and the color “red.” Italian anarchism is best known for the Biennio Rosso, or Red Biennium (Red Two Years), in which the movement vehemently opposed (Mussolini’s) fascism. The LaRossas were among the early Italian refugees. Our family name as spelled translates to “The Red,” instead of the more common spelling (La Rosa, The Rose). It is highly likely that my great-grandparents were Italian anarchists. After all, the New York docks at the turn of the century were a hotbed of radical political thinking. Writing about my father more than thirty years after I graduated from Sarah Lawrence, I have struggled time and again to show the acute sense of injustice that made him what he was—a gladiator. How did he keep his ethical perspective in the face of such unbridled criminality? Where and when did his barometer of hypocrisy become so finely tuned? How did he

understand the intricacies of the law so well that he could bend it just to the breaking point and never beyond? He was a street kid who seemed completely at ease with the reins of power before the age of thirty. Perhaps the answer is simpler than I ever imagined. It was in his blood. Dad’s grandfather and my great-grandfather—the man who rescued his family by sailing across the ocean to escape political repression—may very well have given my father the DNA that enabled him to excel far beyond everyone else in his orbit. Jimmy was told “no, you can’t do that” at almost every turn; and in the morning, after mulling it over, he did it anyway. The characteristics that obsessed Joseph Papaleo about the Sacco and Vanzetti case were some of the same things that became blood red strands in Jimmy’s DNA. How could two men with nothing other than their convictions about how to make the world a fairer place be railroaded and painted into a corner from which there was no escape? During his sentencing on April 9, 1927 for the Braintree crimes, Vanzetti had complained in broken English that [his lawyer] “sold me for thirty golden money [sic] like Judas sold Jesus Christ.” That wasn’t about to happen under Jimmy’s watch. He gave Vanzetti a reassuring wink. Then he turned to the jury, and the opposition was as good as dead. He may as well have taken Guilt’s face into his two meaty hands, as he had done so many other times, and given it the kiss of death, right on the lips. The day of “dirty guineas” being lynched was over. My father’s generation saw to that.

Everything has a price, of course, and mine was having little face time with my trial-obsessed father. Pop was my saving grace. He and I grew very close in the months he spent with us in Connecticut. When I returned from school, Pop would be waiting in the poolroom, a cue in each hand, the balls immaculately racked and ready for break. On weekends, we’d play gin rummy for hours and split cords of wood with nothing other than a sledgehammer and two wedges. After a while, Pop would just sit and watch, marveling at my youthful stamina. I’d swing that hammer time and time again, until I could barely hold a grip. His sudden death while I was in law school was the first truly profound heartbreak of my life. My mental health had been fraying around the edges since college, so

when Pop died, I checked out and left for Naples to visit Billy Papaleo, Joe’s son. Pop had never set foot in Italy, so I would go in his stead. I got to Rome, but I never made it to Naples. Three Venetian real estate women in the Trastevere section of Rome took a shine to the young New York “writer” and helped me rent a studio apartment on the top floor of a 500-year-old palazzo. When he visited Rome, Billy often crashed with me, and we became steadfast buddies. I started writing for The International Courier, Italy’s largest English-language paper, and made easy friendships with an eccentric bunch of Dutch, English, and Italians. We spent virtually every night together, eating and drinking, flirting and laughing, without a care in the world. It was just the kind of medicine I needed at that moment. As I jumped off a bus in Trastevere one afternoon, I almost fell to me knees. Through a window, I had seen an old man who was Pop’s exact double. He looked me square in the eyes and offered up a small smile. As the bus pulled out and over the Ponte Garibaldi, emotion welled up in my chest. Walking home that day, I looked for Pop in every window and on every stoop. Seeing an image of my grandfather made me feel as if I was part of a larger spiritual plan and that maybe, just maybe, Rome was where I belonged. It turned out to be a fleeting feeling, at best. Rome has its own special magic, but the pull of New York City would always have the last say. One day, when all the stars aligned, as they often do when something big is about to drop from the sky into your life, I took all I had learned in Rome and headed back across the Atlantic to assume my rightful position in the world.

Back in The Big Apple, I found out first-hand that nothing compares to the healing medicine of romance to counteract the turbulence of youth. I had met Maria, an American cousin of a Russian-American friend, who was visiting Rome after a trip to St. Petersburg (Leningrad in those days), and we fell head-over-heels for one another. She was a striking half-Russian/halfPeruvian beauty whom Roman women took to be one of their own. I had even heard other local girls comment that she was carina (beautiful)! Italian women are very protective of their men and would never be heard complimenting a foreign woman, much less an American girl. Maria was a young, up-and-coming New York banker with job privileges

that afforded her liberal travel to Rome for periodic visits. Between those fiery holidays, my occasional trips to NYC, and the dozens of amorous letters that passed between us, we had a whirlwind romance, culminating in expressions of undying love. The next New York December, in a fit of stuttering nerves, I proposed marriage. We married two years later and returned to Rome and the Amalfi Coast to honeymoon. We had agreed between us to wait on children so we could travel throughout Europe during our first years as a married couple. While my journalism career began to ignite in New York, we lived in a large, rustic loft in Chelsea, one flight above that of a photographer pal, Jeff Dodge. One night, we had Jeff and his girlfriend (and later, wife) Colleen Troy over for dinner. After an Italian feast that left us dazed, we took a stroll for ice cream. According to Maria, I said something disparaging about some loud kids in the ice cream shop. I did not recall the flippant comment but took serious notice upon returning to our loft as a weeping Maria fell on the couch, uttering these painful words, “I thought you loved children.” I stood there like a crash test dummy in mid-grimace, truly perplexed. “What do you mean?” I sputtered. “I thought you wanted kids—that we wanted kids.” I did not hesitate. “Well, I do.” She stopped crying and gave me a look of sheer confoundedness. “Now? We’re ready… NOW?” I had always assumed she would let me know when it was time to stop our jet-setting and settle down as a family. I guess this was the night. Leave it to me to bumble into a major marital morass over a Häagen-Dazs. Sofia was born nine months later almost to the day, during one of New York City’s worst May heat waves. After Maria’s brutal seventeen hour labor, she popped out, a smallish brown-eyed beauty with a cone-shaped head from the long birthing. After Sofia had spent a suitable time in her mother’s grasp, she was trussed up and offered to me by the kindly mid-wife. I strolled the halls of St. Vincent’s Hospital, warmth spreading throughout my body, crooning to my new daughter as the room she was born in was scrubbed and wiped clean of the remnants of the war Maria had fought and won. I composed songs for all three of my children. To Sofia, I sang, “Oh my Sofia-girl, you give me such a whirl, OHHHHH OHHHH my FIA, OHHHHH OHHHH My MIA.” The song for son Gianni (also born at the now defunct St. Vincent’s) was

more of a march: “GIAN-Boy, GIAN-Boy, HEEEEE’S my little GIAN-Boy; GIAN-Boy, GIAN Boy, HEEEEE’S my little BOY! Juliana, who was born in water at St. Luke’s Roosevelt Hospital five years later, suffered through a badgering of her melodious name: “JUUU-LIANA, JULIANA, JULIANA, JUUU-LIANA, JULIANA, JULIANA… ad infinitum.”

By the end of my twenties, it was my turn to shine. I had returned from Rome a bona fide journalist. By the time Sofia and Gianni were born, my publishing company was quickly becoming a monetary powerhouse. Juliana was our ten-year anniversary present. Like clockwork, Dad and I circled back, the best of friends and a team to be reckoned with. Once again, we were a dynamic duo. How did we get through it all, Jimmy and I? The days and nights scrambling for gold and a place to lay our heads? The illnesses that we hoodwinked into going elsewhere? The people we loved who were pulled from the abyss? The less fortunate, alas, that we left for dead on the highway? I can’t help being the lucky one. I was the namesake of a man blessed by the universe. Still, looking back, I don’t know how I skipped through it all without ending up like the hapless Sacco and Vanzetti. Was it Lady Luck? Blind faith? Or perhaps it was in my blood all along.

CHAPTER FIVE

SEMPER FIDELIS: TO WAR AND BACK “No matter how long you tame a wolf, he will still look to the woods.” —Yiddish proverb

One of Jimmy’s longtime clients was the all-powerful pope of Orthodox Jewry, Rebbe Menachem Schneerson. On legal matters, he would only speak to Dad, a born and raised Catholic, whom he considered “the only real Jewish lawyer.” Before Schneerson would speak, he made Jimmy remove from the office all the Jewish lawyers who worked for him. “They’re new Jews,” he’d say. A young rabbi, Tzvi Freeman, wrote two collections of meditations based on the teachings of Rebbe Schneerson. The reason I mention young Rabbi Freeman is because of his clever definition of the Yiddish word chutzpah, a word that was often associated with my father. While the word has come to suggest courage, guts, or mettle, its origin in Hebrew is more akin to “insolence.” Freeman defines it uniquely: “To be a good person, you need these two opposites: a sense of shame that prevents you from acting with chutzpah to do the wrong thing, and a sense of chutzpah that prevents you from being ashamed to do the right thing.” Jimmy’s chutzpah rivaled his aforementioned genitalia. In a Hilton ballroom packed with everyone who was anyone, my father was awarded the B’nai B’rith Man of the Year Award, the most prominent award given by the influential Jewish organization, for his legal contributions to the community. Just weeks later, a major gunrunner for the Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO), Frank Terpil, was apprehended and taken to New York to stand trial. A prominently placed article in The New York Times announced that his lawyer was none other than Jimmy LaRossa.

The next day, Rebbe Schneerson shows up at Dad’s office with hundreds of black-clad Orthodox followers, who spill out of the building onto Madison Avenue and block traffic. Jimmy waits patiently until everyone other than the Rebbe clears the office. Jimmy has a packed schedule, so he must get rid of this crowd in short order. Before the Rebbe can say a word, Jimmy starts. “We’ve known each other a long time, Menachem, correct?” Schneerson nods seriously. “Then you of all people should know that I have to take these clients to protect my credibility so I can win the real cases, like yours.” Schneerson starts to object. His phones have been ringing since The Times ran the story. The Rebbe starts to interject. Jimmy raises his hand. “Between you and me,” and he lowers his voice as if he is about to disclose something in confidence, “when I’m done with this Terpil schmuck, he won’t be able to sell a water gun. Yes, he’ll get the best defense money can buy, but in the process, I’ll disclose every bit of his network. He’s as done as done can be. A goy with no joy.” That, ladies and gentlemen, is chutzpah. (Note: Frank Terpil was a former CIA operative closely associated with Robert Vesco, the exiled financier who spent decades on the FBI’s top-ten list. Before Vesco and Terpil went into permanent exile in Cuba, they were tied to the Caribbean island of Antigua. Coincidentally, perhaps, my father also traveled to Antigua half a dozen times during the 1970s and 1980s. Dad even considered purchasing a home on the island. Though I suspect that Jimmy and Vesco met to discuss what would transpire should Interpol finally arrest the financier, my father would neither confirm nor deny an association with Vesco. Although Vesco was reported to have died in Cuba in 2008, speculation was rampant that he was alive and traveling the world. These reports, however unlikely to be true, were why, I surmise, Dad would not address fully his possible ties with Vesco.) Like many of the mysteries that made up the incredible life and times of Jimmy LaRossa, it boiled down, very simply, to his friendship with two fellow, beloved Italian-Americans with giant balls—Carmine DeSapio and (Uncle) Meade Esposito. Tammany Hall was a 200-year-old New York City political organization formed in 1789 in opposition to the Federalist Party. It became the de facto executive committee of the New York Democratic Party. Carmine DeSapio started his career in the Tammany Hall organization as an errand boy and

messenger for precinct captains. In 1949, DeSapio became the youngest boss in the history of Tammany Hall. His Italian heritage signaled the end of Tammany’s longtime dominance by Irish-American politicians, and he became the first nationally prominent Italian-American political leader. Throughout his political life, DeSapio gained notoriety from alleged involvement with organized crime, even though he fought to distance the organization from the unsavory days of Boss Tweed. By 1966, historians at the start of Mayor John V. Lindsay’s tenure declared Tammany Hall defunct, but that is more historical convenience than truth. My father, like so many people, used to describe Lindsay as the “most handsome man I have ever seen.” You wouldn’t think it, but Dad and the tall, WASPy, movie star-looking Lindsay had more than a few things in common. Lindsay grew up in the same Park Avenue building in which my family lived. In the 1930s, cooperative apartments, owned by the tenants themselves, were a relatively new concept. Mayor Lindsay’s father was given the chance to purchase his twelve-room Park Avenue apartment for the sum of $28,000. “My father thought that was throwing his money away,” I heard Lindsay tell Dad, both of them erupting in laughter. That same apartment is worth $25 million today, so it became a running joke between them. I met with Dad and John Lindsay on four separate occasions in the ’70s and ’80s. They would invariably go through the apartment routine for the benefit of other listeners. Lindsay went on to run for the Senate and presidency, and was always a major presence in the New York political scene. It is no coincidence, though, that every time I met Mayor Lindsay, Carmine DeSapio and Meade Esposito were in the same room. Tammany Hall continued on, unofficially perhaps, but you would never dare to challenge these political icons. They were the last of a breed of Democrats. If you met them in a dark alley, you’d be scared shitless. I just can’t see Nancy Pelosi or Chuck Schumer having that same effect on anyone today. From the very first time I laid eyes on Carmine DeSapio as a little boy, the great Tammany Hall leader wore rose-colored glasses and seemed as old as Father Time. (He was forced to wear tinted glasses because of a chronic eye disease.) We’d meet at a gun club in Greenwich Village for Easter or for Thanksgiving dinner with DeSapio and Meade Esposito and all our families. The last time I saw him, in the late 1980s, he looked exactly the same, right

down to the dark glasses, as he flirted mercilessly with my new fiancée. I had just returned from living in Rome and smoked English Ovals. DeSapio begged a few off me and smoked them with obvious joy. When I heard he was sick some years later, I had given up smoking for good. New York had become an unfriendly place for smokers, having enacted strict antismoking laws for bars and restaurants. Those two things would always be linked in my mind: the great old man’s passing from New York City politics, and The City’s new intolerance (as sensible as it was from a health standpoint). It signaled the end of an era that had begun with DeSapio, was carried on in spirit by Meade Esposito and my father, and was dead as a doornail by the time another Italian-American, Rudolph Giuliani, emerged on the scene. Dad was a Marine Corps officer in Korea when Giuliani was a kid, but despite their age differences, they had more in common than not. Like my father, Giuliani was a smart kid educated by the Jesuits. Both possessed natural oratorical and legal skills. Jimmy and Giuliani faced off more than a few times in Federal District Court in some of the most celebrated trials of the era. But there was no love lost between them, as politically motivated indictments became the cause célèbre of the day. As a former prosecutor, the new “atmosphere” that Giuliani brought to the mayor’s office, as effective as it may have been, was offensive to Dad, who was old school through and through. It may not be altogether fair to blame the end of any collegiality between the defense and prosecution bars on Giuliani alone, but his rise as U.S. attorney in the Southern District ushered in an era when lawyers became targets along with their clients. For example, in order to keep Jimmy out of big Mob trials, the government often tried to claim that he was house counsel to a Mob family. For the next fifteen years, numerous prosecutors modeling themselves after Giuliani tried to knock Jimmy out of trials by alleging, unsuccessfully, that he was house counsel to the Gambinos, Colombos, or Luccheses—a ridiculous assertion on its face. It was especially ineffective because, at the time, Jimmy was defending more lawyers, judges, stockbrokers, and politicians than mobsters. The lessons of Watergate were long forgotten, as prosecutorial overreach became a badge of courage among young, ambitious prosecutors who wanted to make names for themselves at any cost.

We all gave Rudy a pass after 9/11. His spirited defense of our beloved city was embraced by all of us, without exception. By that time, the pendulum had swung for good. The Mob was decimated, Tammany Hall was a quaint reminder of smoke-filled back rooms, and Rudy Giuliani, along with a man known throughout The City as “The Donald,” whom we severely underestimated as a buffoon, were taking us to a place we could not have remotely predicted when I gave Mr. DeSapio my last English Oval.

When I look back at Dad’s life, I can see the auspiciousness of the era in which he was born. If you really want to know which stars aligned to create this powerhouse legal mind with a lightning-fast tongue, look no further than the “accidental” circumstances in which he discovered that lawyering would serve him very, very well. In 1952, twenty-one-year-old Jimmy LaRossa left New York for the very first time. From that day forward, one can see quite clearly that he was blessed with two critical gifts. He had the guts of a prizefighter who had never been knocked down, and the celestial luck of a guy who could land the Space Shuttle on the Hudson River while popping open a bottle of champagne. How he came to have these gifts remains a mystery. All I can tell you is that it started at Camp Pendleton in Southern California and ended sixty-two years later in Manhattan Beach, California, about eighty miles north of the camp as the crow flies. Like everyone his age, Dad idolized the men who fought in WWII. Dad and I could watch Band of Brothers and The Pacific for weeks on end. When Dad’s number came up for induction into the Korean War, he was a junior at Fordham University and wanted to finish. So, instead of letting the Army induct him immediately, Dad walked into a Corps recruiting office and cut a deal with a young Marine. If they allowed him one more year of college, he swore he’d go straight to Quantico, Virginia, for training, then to Camp Pendleton for Officer Candidate School, and then they could do what they wanted with him. My grandfather, a postman who was retired by age fiftyfive, was incredulous because Dad had none of this whatsoever in writing. But true to his word, the day after Jimmy graduated from Fordham, a Marine was at his door. Dad was a week into basic training at Quantico when another Marine, the

son of a member of Congress, died of dehydration. After the Secret Service descended on Quantico, Dad’s class was coddled. He did, however, have a significant obstacle facing him. He couldn’t shoot. Jimmy had two big reasons to hate guns. At Quantico, Dad failed to qualify with an M-1. The first time he shot it, the sharp metal sight was too close to his face, so he got the shiner of a lifetime. From then on, Jimmy was scared of the rifle. He failed the marksman test again and again, putting him way behind his classmates, who were steadily being dispatched to fight in Korea. I have no excuse for not knowing how Dad finally convinced a career Marine Corps gunnery sergeant that it was in the country’s best interest to let him pass and move on to Camp Pendleton. It seems incomprehensible, but that was Jimmy. Later, when Jimmy was a second lieutenant leading a training platoon in Japan, an experienced enlisted man tried to help a young private by using his rifle to pull the boy up a steep hill. The carbine went off and the private died in my father’s arms. The giant Marine/Navy complex that is Camp Pendleton is about a ninety-minute drive south of Los Angeles. It was a sleepy area in Dad’s days there. He started out from Virginia by bus. When he was changing buses in a small southern town, curiosity got the best of him and he went into a nightclub to hear some jazz. He sipped whiskey at the end of the bar, chatting up the bartender. “Go get ’em, General,” the barman said as Jimmy left with a skip to his walk. The bus had left, so he killed a day in town until the next bus came. He was a far cry from what he would later become—a world traveler with a favorite room at the Ritz and a platinum card from flying the Concorde. So he kept getting on the wrong buses, circling the Southwest until he reached the Pacific Ocean and could go no farther. The commanding officer (CO) at Pendleton had little sympathy for the cocky young officer-to-be as he presented his papers in August 1952. My father stood at attention in front of the CO. The conversation, and what followed, as Dad described it, went like this: CO: Let me get this straight. You were dispatched from Quantico four weeks ago to complete your officer’s training here as a second lieutenant in the U.S. Marines while we are at war with fucking KO-rr-EA and you’re just getting here NOW? AND you failed to qualify with an M-1 carbine? But it says here they passed you anyway? JIMMY: That’s correct, Captain. I have other skills.

CO (looking at Dad’s orders): Are you a wise guy, Second Lieutenant James Michael LaRossa from Brooklyn, New York? JIMMY: To tell you the truth, I got lost getting here. I stopped here and there. CO: You stopped? For what, son? Jimmy gives him a hard stare. He is getting annoyed. CO: Well, I hope you had fun because there’s not a bunk left in the camp. Jimmy turns, picks up his duffel, and heads for the door. CO: Where you going, Lieutenant? JIMMY: Back to Quantico to tell them that Commanding Officer Whatever-Your-Name-Is was just full up with lieutenants, which is just as well because he can’t even pronounce the name of our enemy. IT’S KOREA. K-O-R-E-A. Jimmy turns, salutes, and walks out, slamming the door hard behind him. Later in the day, the CO leaves his office and heads for his car. He stops and stares in amazement. That same kid from Brooklyn is playing handball against a wall with a bunch of other Marines. He doesn’t have a glove, his hand is bleeding, and his pockets are bulging with cash. He’s beaten everyone. Jimmy sees the CO and walks toward him. CO: I thought you’d be halfway to Virginia by now. JIMMY: You play, sir? CO: I thought I did until I saw you play. I have an extra glove somewhere. JIMMY: Thanks. CO: Listen, I grew up around here. If you head south, there’s a little town with a nice apartment house right on the water. The Corps will pay for your quarters. You can train with your platoon here until your orders come through. JIMMY: Thank you, Captain! CO: The town’s called Laguna Beach and the apartment name is The Sunset. Tell ’em “Floyd from Pendleton” sent you. JIMMY (smiling): How ’bout a game, Captain Floyd? CO: Don’t press your luck, kid. Jimmy snaps to attention and salutes. JIMMY: SIR! Captain Floyd shakes his head and walks off. Two months later, Jimmy is outside his apartment house, gazing at the

beach. Dressed only in his boxer shorts, a hot coffee mug in his hand, he lights a cigarette with a lighter that looks like a pistol. (Before Dad adopted his trademark gold Cartier lighter, he collected a series of pistol and rifle lighters, which were always kicking around the house. I guess it was his way of making fun of guns.) Jimmy walks back toward the apartment and yells, “SURF’S UP.” His entire platoon has all moved to the apartment house. “Morning, Lieutenant,” they greet him. The men head for the beach with their surfboards. It’s a slow day, so Jimmy asks one of the men to drop him off at a saloon near base. “Sure. You are one lucky dude. All the brass around here and the prettiest barmaid in a hundred square miles has her eye on you. Must be that Brooklyn charm.” Dad loved to tell me about that ramshackle bar off a dusty road on the way to camp. Jeannie, a very pretty girl behind the bar, slips him a menu. Under the menu is a copy of The New York Daily News she’s been holding for him. He gives her a smile. A bunch of other officers are standing around drinking, eating, and flirting with Jeannie. At the end of the bar is an older senior officer. Jimmy notices his hat. He’s a general. Dad plays it cool, putting his hat on the stool next to the General’s, and nods at the older man. Jeannie puts a club sandwich in front of Dad. She throws him a subtle kiss. The general has an eye on the young lieutenant and sees Jeannie’s air kiss. Jimmy asks softly, “Hey, Jeannie, what’s the guy at the end of the bar drinking? Bring me one and then bring him another. Just tell him it’s on the house, would you, babe?” She gives him a sly smile. When the drink is in front of the general, Jimmy continues to read the newspaper, picks up his glass, and takes a long draught. He doesn’t look at the general, but he feels his eyes on him. He lights a cigarette with his pistol lighter. Dad is reading the paper when a loud sports car skids to a stop in front of the bar. Almost everyone turns to see a new Corvette convertible. An officer in full dress blues comes in and struts toward Jeannie. “Well, that’s it, Jean, I’m shipping out,” the officer announces. “Shipping out? When?” “Now.” (“This dope had it bad for her,” Jimmy told me.)She hesitates. “Well,

you’ll be missed.” “Here, take this to remember me.” He throws her the car keys and puts his hand over his heart. “Mind her till I get back, would you, Jeannie?” Before she can respond, he is out the door and gone. Jeannie looks at Jimmy and throws the keys to him. The general just grins at the lucky kid. He could use that kind of luck, he thinks! An hour later, Jimmy is driving down a dusty road in the Corvette. A sign says “Laguna Beach: 1 Mile,” as the serene Pacific appears in the distance. You just can’t make this stuff up. A few months later, Jimmy is playing handball with some of his men at the base. The CO and the same general from the bar can be heard arguing through the open window of the captain’s office. They are both motioning to the Marines playing handball. Finally, the CO stands, salutes, and reluctantly capitulates to the general’s request. The general steps outside. He and Jimmy exchange knowing glances. When the general is gone, the CO stomps out to the handball court. “Lieutenant,” he yells at Jimmy. CO: Lieutenant, I just can’t believe … JIMMY: What’s wrong, Captain? CO: Wrong? I shipped 750 men to the DMZ in Korea this week. JIMMY: So our orders have come through? CO: OH YES, and I don’t know how you did this. Dad glances at the men and gives them a smirk. He snaps to attention. JIMMY: Our orders, Sir! CO: You and your squad have been deployed. He hands Jimmy the paperwork and stomps off. “KOREA?” one of the men asks. “No,” says Jimmy smiling. “Not by a long shot.” Twenty-five years later, Dad was in a helicopter landing in the parking lot of Giants Stadium with Perry Duryea, a well-known client then running for governor of New York. Dad got out of the copter. As the blades slowed, he heard, “Hey, LaRossa, I knew you’d make it.” Sure enough, it was the CO from Pendleton. Jimmy grinned. “Fuck you, Floyd,” he responded without a beat and gave him a snappy salute as he was whisked into the stadium with Duryea. If you don’t believe that success is the best revenge, try that on for size someday. By November 1952, Jimmy and his men had settled nicely into life in

Okinawa, Japan, avoiding Korea entirely. Jimmy made it a point to befriend the older Marines who had fought in WWII, regardless of whether they were officers or not. He would sit and listen to their stories for hours. The vast majority of these men rarely left base, their ingrained hatred of the former enemy still too fresh. Just before Dad died, Sonya, my English fiancée, who had lived in Tokyo for a short while, gave Dad a copy of a beautiful picture book about Okinawa. Dad told us how he used to sneak off to the hot springs for a bath, overlooking the idyllic Bay of Japan. A woman would bring him tea and rub his back with a fragrant towel. In another stroke of what looked like luck but was, I suppose, preordained, Dad was assigned to be that general’s adjutant. One day, the general ordered Jimmy to take some confidential papers to HQ in Tokyo. He was to leave on the next Marine transport. It was a large military plane and Dad was the only passenger. There was no door, so he could see down to the empty sea when one of the pilots came up to him and handed him what looked like a parachute. PILOT: Sorry, Lieutenant, but we’re having problems with one of our engines. JIMMY: Fix it. PILOT: Well, if we can’t, you’ll have to jump, because you’re carrying secret papers. JIMMY: What will you guys do? PILOT: We’ll try to ride the plane down. JIMMY: That’s exactly what I’ll do. (He throws the parachute back at the pilot.) Go start the engine, jerkoff. If I have to jump out of this plane, I’m going to shoot you first! The plane landed safely in Tokyo. The senior pilot pulled Dad aside to explain that they sometimes played the “bad engine” game so they could have some R & R in Tokyo. Dad agreed to meet the crew at a local bar after he dropped off the papers at HQ, which he did. When Dad’s cab pulled up to the bar, military police (MPs) were everywhere and his “pilots” were in handcuffs. Glass and broken furniture from the bar littered the street. That was fast, Jimmy thought to himself. Nevertheless, these guys were his ride back to Okinawa, so this situation had to be remedied. “Wait right here,” Jimmy said commandingly to the driver, loud enough

for the MPs to hear. “These men are with me,” Dad tells the senior MP. “Well, I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but…” “But they damaged this bar? Is that what you were going to tell me?” The MP backed away a step. “Who cares? I am General Tisch’s adjutant. We have confidential papers to return to Okinawa.” Jimmy waved the empty satchel. He turned to the pilots. “I left you assholes for an hour; you better be able to fly,” he said to the sheepish flyboys. “Get those cuffs off them.” “Sorry, Lieutenant, but the bar is …” “Damages?” Jimmy said, spitting the word at the bar owner. “He wants damages? Here!” Jimmy pulled a wad of Japanese and American currency out of his pocket and gave it to the bar owner, who looked satisfied after counting the bills. He turned to the pilots. “GET IN THE FUCKING VEHICLE! WE’RE GOING BACK TO THE PLANE. NOW!” The MPs removed the cuffs and the pilots got into the cab. Jimmy looked at the bar owner with feigned disgust and gave the MPs a snappy salute. When they were clear of the scene, Jimmy said to the pilots, “That’s the way we do it in Brooklyn, fellas. Now if we go get a drink, can you boys be nice? You’re buying, by the way.” On the base, word of the Tokyo incident spread like wildfire. The general subsequently assigned Dad to the JAG Corps to assist in the defense of Marines accused of crimes. Dad was a natural. “Dear Mom,” Jimmy wrote his mother back in Brooklyn. “Please take the train to Fordham in the Bronx. Go to the dean’s office and give these papers to his secretary. Tell her to please forward the papers to the law school. Enclosed is a recommendation from the chief lawyer of the JAG Corps and paperwork from Marine General Tisch releasing me from my service early to attend Fordham Law School next September.” Jimmy bought himself a fancy used sedan with the money he had saved in Japan and, from California, headed east, a wholly different man. He cruised through Texas en route to Brooklyn and the start of Fordham Law School. A fellow Marine, a black staff sergeant a few years older than him named Earl, was hitchhiking the same direction Dad was heading. The two were still dressed in Marine fatigues. The only difference between them was that Dad

had a few more doodads on his shirt and a sidearm, which was mandatory for all officers. Earl was heading home to Georgia, so they rode together for a good long time. Dad got hungry and pulled off the motorway to grab a bite at a local diner. The sergeant declined to go in. Dad insisted. “Come on. You must be hungry.” Thinking the man was low on funds, Dad offered to buy. The sergeant reluctantly went into the diner with the officer. Dad didn’t notice the sign in the window saying “WHITES ONLY.” Soon, there was a ruckus inside—breaking plates and glass. Dad screamed, “THIS MAN COULDA DIED PROTECTING YOU SORRY FUCKIN’ ASSWIPES!” A chair busted through a glass window. The sergeant ran to the car. Jimmy walked backwards, continuing to scream at the rednecks. When he was almost at the car, he remembered he had his pistol. He was a terrible shot, but he was madder than he’d ever been. He drew the pistol. One shot discharged into the air and Dad jumped. “FUCK!” he yelled. He started shooting at the tires of the cars outside the diner, ducking at the sounds of ricochets. Jimmy threw the gun in the car and they raced off. “Well, Earl, we just won’t stop until we find a better class of people.” “You’re all right, Lieutenant.” “Call me Jimmy, Earl. The fucking war is over.” By the time Dad returned to Flatbush, his greatest fear was realized. He had known his mother wasn’t well, but he wasn’t expecting terminal cancer. Dad’s only sibling, Dolores, swore that it was his mother who insisted that he not be told about her illness. His mother meant the world to him. She was the one who pushed him to succeed, while his own father would have been content if he had followed him into the post office—a stable job in any economy. She had taken the subway to Fordham to enroll him in law school. Without his mother, he would never have come to the attention of the Jesuits, who helped him to understand and strengthen his naturally gymnastic mind. Dad rarely, if ever, spoke about his mother. Her death was just too painful for him. He might have even internalized some blame for her death. But there is little doubt that Jimmy’s mother was his one and only true north. His mother neither smoked nor drank, but cancer had spread throughout her entire body. My father described it as a horrible death. He never got over it. He could not even bring himself to visit her grave. She died just weeks before his first-year final exams at law school.

The wealthy scion of the Arnold’s Bakery fortune had built our family house in Connecticut. The French Tudor was 12,000 square feet and had seven acres of fruit trees, a pool, and fields on one of the highest points in the area. When Dad needed alone time, he often fled to one of the nine bathrooms with a good book. Every now and then, I’d see him out walking and smoking among the fruit trees, quietly taking in the enormity of his own success. At those rare moments, there was a deep sadness to him. I never disturbed him, but I knew in my bones that he would never forgive God for taking his mother before she could see what he had made of himself. In the last five years we spent together, when death was often at our door, I never once heard him pray, or address God in any way. His mother’s death was the single unforgiveable heartbreak of his life. It was the grudge of all grudges, and Jimmy took it to his grave. I pity the fool at the gate.

CHAPTER SIX

GIGLIO “Oyez, oyez, oyez! All persons having business before the honorable, the Supreme Court of the United States, are admonished to draw near and give their attention, for the court is now sitting. God save the United States and this honorable Court.” —the marshal of the Supreme Court of the United States announcing that court is in session

Dad’s appointment to the U.S. Attorney’s Office in the Eastern District of New York was a blessing in disguise for a reason that would not immediately present itself. My mother once told me that Dad threw up every morning during his first year as a prosecutor. Yet, Jimmy quickly gained a reputation for his toughness and work ethic. Crimes such as truck hijacking, counterfeiting, and money laundering were in high gear in the early 1960s and Jimmy took them all on. He studied the way the great Federal District Court judges in the Eastern District conducted themselves. These grizzled old warriors were the final arbiters of what was cruel or fair, right or wrong, who lived and who died. Dad slowly gained their respect and learned the ways of criminal law in the only city that mattered in those days. Dad was relatively low in the vast hierarchy of the U.S. Justice Department, but he somehow came to the attention of the U.S. Attorney General himself, Robert F. Kennedy. Jimmy had been a New York Tammany Hall volunteer for John’s presidential campaign in 1960. He was standing next to the Democratic nominee, John Kennedy, as well as Mrs. Kennedy and Robert, as John struggled to get into the back of a convertible to ride through Wall Street. When Dad tried to assist him, a Secret Service agent ordered Jimmy to withdraw his hand from the candidate and he quickly complied. In doing so, Dad made light of the situation in such a way that both John and Robert broke into laughter. The Kennedys took a shine to the big-eared exMarine with a lightning-fast tongue.

Jimmy would sometimes field calls directly from the Attorney General’s office, bypassing his own boss, when the issue was politically “sensitive.” I can only guess that Robert not only viewed Dad as a cunning young trial lawyer, but he also thought of him as a “true believer”—a loyal “political appointee” who would follow orders. By 1963, the era of skyjackings had begun, and the White House took an aggressive stance. The AG’s office had the green light to prosecute crimes committed in the sky with all due prejudice. When the conference room phone rang one late afternoon, Dad first thought the guys were pulling his leg when it was announced that Washington was on the line for him. He went to his office and closed the door. Except for that one time at the Wall Street parade with President Kennedy, Dad had not laid eyes on Robert, much less fielded a call from him personally. A woman’s voice: “Mr. LaRossa, the Attorney General is on the line.” “I’m ready when he is, ma’am.” Dad could not have known that two of his worlds were about to collide. Many of the men who served in the Korean War lionized the older men who had fought in World War II. While Dad was in Okinawa, he made it a point to befriend these career soldiers and sit with them as they volunteered personal accounts of the war that saved the world as we know it. The fact pattern presented to Jimmy was as follows: A first-class transatlantic passenger had gotten so inebriated that he urinated on a food cart and assaulted the copilot when he tried to intervene. This man just happened to be a highly decorated veteran of the Second World War. No matter. Jimmy was about to get the marching orders he had always dreaded from The White House: “Throw the book at this guy.” Dad’s principles were colliding head on with his instructions. “I’m aware of the incident, Mr. Attorney General,” my father said to Kennedy. “The man was a recipient of the Purple Heart and Bronze Star for bravery in the Pacific Theater in the Second World War. There must be mitigating circumstances. Please let me look into it.” The AG was firm. Jimmy begged. “Please, Bobby, not this guy. He must have snapped.” “Take him out for the max,” Kennedy said. “That’s why I called YOU.” The line went dead. Dad vomited into his garbage can and left the building. This was the

blessing in disguise. The next week, Dad did what was ordered of him. The judge had to remind him to speak up, which was out of character. He never once stole a glance at the defense table. For all intents and purposes, the decorated veteran’s life was over upon conviction.

According to my mother, the first time she ever saw Dad cry was the night the drunken war hero was sentenced. He got the maximum, just as Bobby had ordered. Jimmy would not shed tears like that ever again. His days as a prosecutor, he decided, were quickly coming to an end. The first time I saw my father cry was the night Robert F. Kennedy, then a candidate for president, was assassinated in Los Angeles. I guess Dad had forgiven Bobby by then. (My father lent me the first biography I ever read, Arthur Schlesinger’s Robert Kennedy and His Times, when I was thirteen.) Throughout his life, Jimmy used a singular phrase to show someone his ultimate disdain, and I’m sure those words were on his lips the day he left the prosecutors’ office to join the defense bar. “Fuck them and the horse they rode in on.” And that was that. Chapter over. Dad began to distinguish himself as a smart, hard-working defense lawyer. For his spirited defense of Daniel Motto, the head of the Baker’s Union, Dad received accolades and good press. Motto had been charged with funneling bribes to the New York City Water Commissioner, James Marcus, a stool pigeon who cooperated with the government. But it was a seemingly everyday case that first propelled Jimmy into the history books. In fact, a case called Giglio v. United States became one of Dad’s most cited cases because he won it in front of the Supreme Court of the United States. John Giglio (Jill-E-O) stood trial for passing forged money orders in a case presided over by Federal District Court Judge Manuel Real. This seemingly ordinary case took a drastic turn when Jimmy cross-examined Robert Taliento, the only government witness to implicate his client. Taliento, under oath, asserted again and again that, in return for his testimony, he had received no government promises that he would not be indicted. The United States Attorney, in his summation to the jury, flatly asserted the same. Giglio was convicted. During his preparation of an appeal, Jimmy discovered that an assistant

U.S. attorney named Anthony DiPaola, who was originally assigned to prosecute Giglio but was subsequently reassigned, had expressly promised Taliento that if he testified against Giglio, he would not be indicted. For a former prosecutor, this was tantamount to waving a red cape in front of a bull. The way Jimmy and his brilliant young associate at the time, Gerald (Jerry) Shargel, framed the appeal, this case would not just challenge Taliento’s perjurious testimony, but it would redefine the parameters of prosecutorial misconduct for the next century. Coincidence and happenstance are synonyms that revolve around a universe similar to that in which my father orbited. Jimmy’s life was a series of coordinated spikes of unbridled luck and pure happenstance. He was just thirty-nine years old when Giglio made history in 1971. By sheer coincidence, Dad was appearing a year later in front of the same Judge Real, the original Giglio trial judge, when the clerk of the Supreme Court of the United States called Judge Real’s chambers. When the judge stopped the proceedings. Dad was as confused as anyone. “Mr. LaRossa, you have a call in chambers from the clerk of the United States Supreme Court. Please proceed to chambers.” Judge Real stood in the doorway as Jimmy picked up the telephone. “Mr. LaRossa, this is the clerk of the Supreme Court. The high court is pleased to inform you that your Writ of Certiorari in Giglio v. United States has been granted. Oral argument will be set before the Court at its October term, 1970, in Washington, DC. Congratulations, sir.” Jimmy cupped the phone and looked back at the wide-eyed judge, who was about to become famous as the Giglio trial jurist who was overturned by the U.S. Supreme Court. “Hey, Manny,” Jimmy said, “I think this may be for you.”

The Madison in Washington, DC, is a classically beautiful hotel a short cab ride from the high court. Dad, Jerry, and another young associate, Ronald P. Fiscetti, rehearsed Jimmy’s argument for the better part of an entire day. Though just eleven, I was allowed to listen. (I can’t help it if I’m lucky.) Dad had it down. The only thing that worried him was the seating arrangement for the justices, which he scrupulously memorized from left to right.

Chief Justice Warren E. Burger presided over the depleted, sevenmember court. Justice Hugo L. Black was on his deathbed, and Justice John Marshall Harlan had resigned. Nixon’s nominees Lewis F. Powell Jr. and William H. Rehnquist wouldn’t take their seats until the next term. That left Burger, Blackmun, Brennan, Douglas, Marshall, White, and Stewart. The marshal made his formal address to the packed court: “Oyez, oyez, oyez! John Giglio, Petitioner, v. United States of America.” Chief Justice Burger called the proceedings to order. Erwin N. Griswold, the solicitor general of the United States, would speak in defense of the government. Jimmy was up first. The case he was about to argue and win by a unanimous decision would change American criminal law forever and will continue to be cited in thousands of local, state, and federal courthouses long after I am dead and gone. When the room quieted down, the marshal called out: “Mr. Chief Justice?” “Let’s proceed,” Burger said. “Mr. LaRossa?” Disgusted by the bullying and dissembling government he had gladly gone to war for, James M. LaRossa Esq. stood to address the high court. That morning in the vaulted courtroom with him in DC, like so many others involving Jimmy, is imprinted in my mind’s eye. I recall that my father’s authoritative baritone was measured and calm throughout the lengthy oral argument. I could see plainly that the justices were visibly animated while Jimmy spoke. As they peppered Dad with questions, it was clear that Burger, Blackmun, Brennan, Douglas, Marshall, White, and Stewart had met their match. These black-robed jurists, each of whom already occupied an integral part of U.S. judicial history, seemed to revel in the legal jousting with Dad. When it was all said and done, Chief Justice Burger, writing for a unanimous court, reversed the conviction and agreed with Jimmy’s argument that evidence of the government’s “secret” agreement was indeed relevant to the witness’ credibility. From that moment on, Giglio v. United States, took on a life of its own. In fact, the term “Giglio material” is still used to refer to any information pertaining to deals that witnesses in a criminal case may have entered into with the government. And “being Giglioed” is what happens when a law enforcement officer is found to have lied or purposefully omitted pertinent

information to a court of law. The day he walked into Jimmy’s office, Giglio was a journeyman mobster of little repute. Like so many people lucky enough to be swept into Jimmy’s orbit, it no longer matters, nor will it likely be remembered, what criminal rung the forger ever occupied. Only one thing counted when it came to my father: John Giglio walked out a free man. (www.oyez.org/cases/1971/70-29)

CHAPTER SEVEN

ALL IN THE FAMILY “A bit of madness is key To give us new colors to see Who knows where it will lead us? And that’s why they need us” —Justin Hurwitz, La La Land

In all honesty, I don’t recall when I realized that something was wrong with me. I’d grown up observing my father’s tenacity as he overcame many of life’s obstacles. He was my example as I sought to overcome mysterious manic impulses that took me down every rabbit hole I encountered. Although I knew Jimmy would be by my side no matter what, this was something I would have to figure out by myself. Mental illness is insidious because it doesn’t just appear like a broken leg, but develops over time, showing itself in fits and starts until something drastic occurs. If my parents had taken me to a psychiatrist as a child, I am quite sure I would have been diagnosed with ADHD. I would have responded well to Ritalin, and the doctor’s job would have been done. That is often the initial diagnosis someone is given before the full breadth of the illness is visible. When you give someone with bipolar disease a stimulant or a single antidepressant, they eventually get worse, cycling into mania more quickly. But physicians had not discovered that when I was a boy. Luckily, I could always lose myself in a book. It was a good sign of my mental “stability” when I had the concentration to read for a significant period of time. Even as an eighteen year old, I was a literary fellow, having devoured Hemingway and Fitzgerald, Mann and Nabokov, Faulkner and Twain, Marquez and Llosa, Vonnegut and Wolfe. But I also discovered the thrill of science as well, having adopted the role of “mad scientist” to help get through the thick mud of life that was holding me back. I couldn’t catch my own cycling thoughts, and the effort to do that overwhelmed, tired, and depressed me. Dr. Kay Redfield Jamison’s book on the manic-depressive writer Robert Lowell describes his periods of “health”

as marked by harrowing madness and mania, until, paraphrasing John Milton, the arrival of “Skunk Hour,” when “I myself am hell.” I relate better to boxer Mike Tyson’s simple phrasing about teetering between mania and depression. “I can barely stand being with myself,” he said once to a TV interviewer. With Iron Mike, I share the intense selfloathing that marks the aftermath of these manic episodes. Until I was absolutely positive I would not burden my loved ones, I kept this secret from my entire family. For fifteen years, I confided in only my wife, Maria, and two physicians. As is often the case, when I “came clean” with my family, no one was particularly surprised. Nor, at that point, were they overly concerned, which is what I had been hoping. In college, I was always someone who paced the floors for hours at a time, smoking cigarettes, sitting only to punch out a paragraph, and then I was on my feet again. Things started to get out of hand as I was finishing up college and planning to attend law school. After college, I lived in a postage-stamp apartment in the West Village and took the subway or rode my bike every day to Fordham Law School. I joined the West Side YMCA and dove headfirst into exercise. I had the same thrill with the law that many people have described, though more eloquently than I ever could. I also shared the same misgivings about the practice of law as some of my fellow students. I spent two years in law school and clerked for a wonderfully eccentric federal district court judge, Kevin Duffy, for a very short time. During my first year in law school, a college friend, M.G., with a significant family pedigree in the arts and publishing, introduced me to a gentlemanly psychiatrist on the Upper East Side. My friend’s entire family had seen this psychiatrist in times of need, so I felt confident about entering treatment with this doctor. I still didn’t know why I needed help, but I knew I had been grappling with something way beyond my expertise. This psychiatrist and I spoke for weeks. Prozac was brought to market that very year, but my doctor was cautious, prescribing an old-style drug called Triavil—a tricyclic-class antidepressant. I seemed to respond for a short time, until final exams that year. As I opened my blue book for my final in Real Property and Practice, I couldn’t square my thoughts with the exam. Hell, I barely could fathom the instructions. I stared at the blank pages for a long time, until I requested a bathroom break.

The law school was then under construction. I passed the men’s room and found myself on a construction platform staring into a large pit of machinery. I went out on a ledge and, for a long moment, stared down at the dark bottom, unsure if the pit was deep enough to kill me. I was born and bred to be a New York lawyer. At the tender age of eleven, just hours before his oral argument, I had quizzed my father on the seating chart of the United States Supreme Court. By seventeen, I had dissected the lengthy transcripts of Lieutenant William Calley’s trial for the My Lai Massacre, and had read every word ever written about Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, who had been executed by the U.S. government as Russian spies. Being Jimmy’s son, I had followed every major trial in New York City from the moment I could read. I had studied in detail the provisions of the United States Constitution and the Bill of Rights and could recite the major case law that defined how critical provisions of the Constitution were interpreted. I stood at the top of the construction site at law school that day contemplating the end of my life. I knew then that I would never fulfill my birthright, and I wasn’t sure I could live with that. So I measured the distance to the bottom of the pit again and again, unsure if the fall would turn out to be lethal. At that moment, I could not bear to focus on my father. Instead, I intuitively relied on everything I had learned watching him leap over so many of life’s obstacles. Jimmy might have gifted me the mettle to survive that moment, but even so, I knew from that day on that I would have to find my own way. As it has turned out, that’s the way I like it. Dad was nothing if not lucky. And so, it seems, am I. Thus, my odyssey began. I had arrived at a momentary crossroads, which I would have to traverse before I could move on. Other than dating the prettiest girl in law school and catching up on my Tolstoy when I should have been studying Torts, I had squandered my luck as Jimmy’s son. In a short but sweet letter to the dean, I resigned my hopes of a Doctor of Jurisprudence degree and ran for anywhere other than where I was at the moment. How could I explain the three-headed hydra I saw in the mirror? The only chance I had was to become the proverbial moving target until I could figure out what was happening to me. I began to log the thousands of miles I hoped

would insulate me from discovery. I did not know that I was hiding in plain sight, nor could I possibly realize in my scramble of a brain that I was on the same journey that a multitude of ill people had attempted before me. When the sun came up, I found myself in a motel in Pennsylvania. Feeling the beast crawling up my skin, I bolted for another motel a hundred miles west. One moment I thought I was cleverly protecting my survival with all this moving mojo. The very next moment, I was overcome with the humiliation of not knowing anything other than what I was doing was counterproductive to all earthly things—to living a real life with friends and family and the laughter I had grown so accustomed to at my family’s table. Who in the pleasant society in which I had been raised would give me a pass when witnessing the obsessive rut I found myself in almost every morning? The homocidal rage I directed at myself would compel the sheriff to evacuate the women and children from the town to shoot me dead. What would you do? I ran to the other side of the world and kept running. I now know every detail about the biological onset of bipolar disease, but at the time, when those foreign feelings were emerging, it felt like I was getting worse by the hour. Addressing these brutal hours and days—even with twenty years hindsight—is a chapter I’d rather crush in my mind’s myopic eye than look straight in the eye, but such stuff is required of a tale promising redemption. I see quite clearly, now, that my innocent children paid the price for my high anxiety—especially Sofia, the oldest of three, who was born when I was thirty-two. Though various medication cocktails stabilized me for long periods, I could cycle into raging episodes at a moment’s notice. In what can only be described as an exceedingly low moment, I once threw Sofia’s new bicycle into our swimming pool after I discovered her in the pool without adult supervision. Worse even than that horrific destructiveness was the intense ranting both before and after the bike sank to the bottom of the pool. I yelled, raved, threatened, and badgered the open air (regardless of who was listening) under the guise of “pool safety.” My bomb-blast insanity had peaked with such acuity that after I was done howling at my grief-stricken child, I found myself at the telephone dialing a local concrete company to “bring enough concrete to fill the fucking pool.” For many years thereafter, I awoke in the middle of the night, crying and blubbering “she’s just a child”—the image of the bike hitting the pool and

Sofia’s face still fresh from the nightmarish dream in which I was the demon. Eighteen months after escaping law school and NYC, I returned to get married, start a family, and become the “start-up guy” for Fairchild/ABC Cap Cities in what is now the Condé Nast Building. When Fairchild needed a new publication, I would travel the country to learn the players in the category— consumer electronics, men’s fashion, you name it. Journalism and marketing are “separate islands” in most publishing companies, and for a good reason. Nevertheless, in my estimation, both skills require the same reasoning and sense of markets, and both came easily for me. The fast pace I had adopted, along with a lot of alcohol, seemed to get me through. My father had made me a news junkie as a kid, which served me well. President George H. W. Bush dubbed the 1990s the “Decade of the Brain.” Major news stories about new psychiatric drugs and treatments appeared in the popular press every day. The Clintons were trying to change health care to favor primary care physicians. I put two and two together and developed a game plan for a new group of print publications. I had purchased and warehoused the small apartment in the West Village I had lived in during law school. There, I would stage my new company, MedWorks Media Inc. MedWorks would start a medical journal called Primary Psychiatry to teach primary care doctors about psychiatry, and psychiatrists about primary care medicine. By September 1995, Primary Psychiatry was running well over a hundred pages each month. Two years later, MedWorks (the name coined by a brilliant young psychiatrist, Eric Hollander, MD) began with the journal CNS Spectrums, which would circulate to select neurologists and psychiatrists, who often worked together to treat diseases like Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, and MS, all of which have high rates of accompanying mental illnesses. Over the next ten years, we started a new medical journal every eighteen months, including a patient/doctor magazine called Mental Fitness, T.E.N.— Trends in Evidence-Based Neuropsychiatry (which I had sketched out in the back of a cab), and even the first pan-Latin psychiatric journal, Psiquiatria y Salud Integral (Psychiatry and Integral Health). During this time, I had made valuable friendships with the most respected psychiatrists and psychopharmacologists in the world. Two New York physicians recognized my symptoms immediately and took me on. We began an aggressive campaign to tune my frenetic brain and get to the bottom of what had been eating at me my whole life.

I am one of the lucky ones. Though I have spent many good years in therapy, my disease is rooted in genetics, so my “cure,” so to speak, lies within the mysterious neurotransmitters in the brain, which can be controlled like a thermostat with the correct pharmaceuticals. It was a very opportune time to embark on a journey of pharmaceutical experimentation. New classes of drugs to treat bipolar patients included novel anti-psychotics and antiepileptic drugs. Side effects be damned, I tried about every one of them, at a cost of about $3,000 per month. When my psychopharmacologist prescribed the first truly successful cocktail for me, it was like turning on the proverbial light switch. I realized only then that all my life, I needed seventy percent of my capacity to just show up and act normally, and was actually working with only the remaining thirty percent. My father’s first substantive clue to my secret diagnosis took the form of “body art.” I sat for my first tattoo—an aboriginal style yin/yang on my right hip—in a downtown New York loft in 1983. Tattooing was illegal and underground in those days. I attended a medical meeting in Melbourne, Australia, in 1995 and flew to a town on the equator called Cairns to scuba dive the Great Barrier Reef. Cairns is adjacent to Australia’s “Aboriginal Wasteland,” and is home to hundreds of tattoo shops. On a non-dive day, I sat for a Japanese-influenced armband. How I wound up with a torso and back filled with a seascape of two colorful Japanese koi, sea turtles, octopus, and a geisha—all wrapped in an intricate tide of waves—may very well have begun as a manic episode, which reached its crescendo after the disaster of 9/11. I made many trips to Woodstock, New York, where a number of artists worked on me for as long as seven hours a session. After a hundred hours or so of painstaking work, my tattoo addiction ended as quickly as it had begun. When my father first saw the tattoos, he thought they meant I was selfmutilating, which caused him considerable concern. While I could not give Dad a suitable, cogent explanation for my transformation, I could assure him that I was not trying to harm myself. None of us could have predicted then that a large portion of Americans would have a tattoo by 2010. So, as the novelty wore off, Dad became accustomed to his very colorful son. As my company quickly grew, I became active in the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (AFSP). My mother, who suffered from major depressive disorder (MDD), had made a serious suicide attempt when I

was seventeen, and a high school friend had killed himself with a shotgun, so the work of the foundation made sense to me. Many of the scientists who advised the foundation were also on various editorial advisory boards for MedWorks publications. Once a year, the AFSP holds a star-studded event called the Lifesavers Dinner. Because I was on the executive board, I had a prominent table, and I thereby came to know Kay Redfield Jamison, the noted physician and Johns Hopkins professor who wrote the landmark book about bipolar disorder, An Unquiet Mind. Her book describes what it is like to live with bipolar disease better than any other work, bar none. With us at our table was also Mike Wallace, the famed 60 Minutes journalist, who was receiving an award that night for speaking out about his depression. Writers Art Buchwald and William Styron were also in attendance. Styron (who wrote an exceptionally good book about his depression called Darkness Visible), Buchwald, and Wallace had started an informal group to talk about their depression. These brilliant and eloquent men could not describe what they were feeling any better than I could, so they made famous the image of the “Black Dog” to describe how they felt when depression hit. My nightmares took on a different form. As a boy, I had a recurring dream about being on a rock in a sea of mud again and again. I would dive off the rock and swim as hard as I could through the viscous mud, barely reaching the next rock. I awoke sweaty and exhausted. This sea of mud was my Black Dog. Bill Styron, who wrote such classics as The Confessions of Nat Turner and Sophie’s Choice, was on a transport carrier a few hundred miles from the Japanese coast when the atomic bombs were dropped and Japan capitulated, ending World War II. I was lucky enough to have a private lunch with Mr. Styron before his death in 2006. He described to me what his depression felt like, using his experience in the war. “We had seen how viciously the Japanese protected islands like Guadalcanal. They would respond to the attack of their mainland with everything they had, which meant certain death for every man on the transport. As badly as I felt heading for mainland Japan that day, my depression was worse.” I had no such dramatic comparison, but with examples like Styron and Wallace, I aggressively continued to improve my mental health. In Manhattan Beach, I often told people who commented on the bickering husband/wife nature of my relationship with my father that Dad was the

brains and I was the brawn of our little operation. In truth, Jimmy was the ultimate realist, who had a razor-like ability to shine a corrective lens on some of my more quixotic moments. To echo a literary analogy, Dad characterized the practical realist of Sancho Panza when I went off tilting at windmills like the distorted Don Quixote. Jimmy had a strong inner core of tranquility and reasonableness—qualities that he endeavored to gift to me as his life wound down.

After he died, we made it through the holidays, toasting Dad at every opportunity. Finally, I bought a new house with spare rooms for our kids and started to emotionally and physically repair myself. Massive shoulder surgery, in addition to leg and eye surgeries, all took place within a twelvemonth period. On top of it all, I had stopped working in the fourth quarter of 2012 when Dad’s health took its final turn and I dug in for one last attempt to save him. I knew someday I would have to quickly jump-start MedWorks Media, but I put that aside for the time being. I hadn’t had a bona fide medication tune-up since moving to California in 2006. This time, a mouth swab produced a genomic report via the Mayo Clinic about which classes of drugs would be most effective and which ones I should avoid. Under my new pharmaceutical regimen, I started to walk the beach again at low tide, and began to work in earnest. There is vast medical literature, some of it published in my journals, about the side effects of various drugs. People who are mentally ill are frequently noncompliant. They just stop taking their meds, often due to the stigma still associated with psychiatric disease. My own mother was one of those people, and she suffered dearly for it. Sometimes “bipolars” miss the “thrill” of mania and convince themselves that this time it won’t consume them, which, as you can guess, never turns out to be the case. As for me, I have taken about a hundred different psychotropics, combating any side effects along the way. If I had to choose between good mental health or having my arm sawed off, you can take the arm, simple as that. Recently, I saw my doctor at UCLA for a checkup. On the top of the screen that showed my long medical history were the words “BIPOLAR I, COMPLETE REMISSION.”

Being Jimmy’s son involved more than the hullabaloo of wine, women, and song, though that was a good start. He gifted me life, of course, but he also gifted me the no-nonsense ambition to overcome my darkest secret.

The Legendary Life & Times of Trial Lawyer Jimmy LaRossa

young Jimmy LaRossa

“All I can tell you is that it started at Camp Pendleton in Southern California and ended sixty-two years later in Manhattan Beach, California, about eighty miles north of the camp as the crow flies.”

Jimmy as a Marine Corps officer in Korea (painted in Okinawa, Japan)

“As you will come to know first hand, I was not the perfect son. Think of me as a fly on the wall of this big, ribald story, watching and biding my time until the whole tale could be told.”

young James LaRossa

the early days…

Jimmy as an attorney

“Starting in the early 1970s, and continuing for the next thirty years, Dad was ‘on trial’ without so much as a hiccup.”

The United States v. Scotto Charles E. Stewart, Judge Robert B. Fiske, US Attorney James M. LaRossa, For the Defense

Anthony Scotto and Jimmy leaving the courthouse after the United States v. Scotto trial

Jimmy cross-examines William Montella Jr. The Judge, Charles E. Stewart, and jury are also pictured. Anthony Scotto and “Tough Tony” Anastasio are in the foreground.

Anthony Scotto takes the stand

Jimmy on direct-cross with former New York City mayor, John Lindsay

Classic Jimmy LaRossa cross

Joe Watts

Meade Esposito and Jimmy

“Jimmy’s professional resume read like a roadmap to the most brash crimes and eccentric clients of a generation.”

Sinatra and the Mob Top row: Paul Castellano, Gregory De Palma, Frank Sinatra, Thomas Marson, Carlo Gambino, Jimmy Fratianno, Salvatore Spatola Bottom row: Joe Gambino, Richard Fusco

Jimmy & Paul

Congressman (and client) Mario Biaggi

Jerry Shargel (attorney and associate of Jimmy’s)

Jimmy on Evans & Novak

Jimmy and John McNally (Jimmy’s private investigator and friend)

James speaking at Jimmy’s memorial

Marty Abrams and Linda Fairstein

Gerald Lefcourt and Ben Brafman

JIMMY

Jimmy’s 80th birthday

“For almost five years, we had dared Death when it was thick in the room.”

Jimmy’s list of medications

Jimmy’s medical equipment

Packing up the equipment

Travel magazines

travel

FOOD

“But the sheer joyfulness that he showed in these simple pleasures was one of the things I will always cherish about my dad.”

DRINK

The family at Jimmy’s B’Nai B’rith International Award

James, Jimmy, and Tom LaRossa

Jimmy and Susan LaRossa

Jimmy, Susan, and Justin and Linda Feldman

Jimmy, Jeff Lichtman, and Jerry Shargel

Jimmy & Gianni

“My father was sometimes a thorn in my side when it came to my children. He could be a controlling and despotic taskmaster about how they conducted themselves. He could never be a

‘doting grand-dad’—that much was evident.”

Jimmy & Sofia

James La Rossa

James & Juliana

“For more than fifty years, we were the dynamic duo—Batman and Robin, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, Santiago and Manolin, the Green Hornet and Kato, Thelma and Louise. I was a sentence ahead of most people, and he was four ahead of me.”

“The legendary life and times of Jimmy LaRossa were just that: legendary.”

“As I come to grips with life without Jimmy, I am at peace

knowing that my father and I fought the fight of all fights. We were on borrowed time, so we celebrated our conjoined lives each and every day.”

BOOK TWO

LAWYERS, GUNS, AND MONEY

CHAPTER EIGHT

DADDY GOT HIS GUN Send lawyers, guns, and money, the shit has hit the fan. —Warren Zevon

Your life may depend on being able to size up people in the blink of an eye. The truth is, you’ll never know more about a nation’s people, in ANY country, ANYWHERE than you will by looking at the type of guns they make. You want to know about the Swiss? Look at the vintage Sig. 9mm. Clever, understated, expensive, easily concealed, like the Swiss themselves. The Germans and their shepherd-nose Luger: intimidating, purposeful, functional. The English H&R: simple and understated outside, complex and finicky within. Only the Italians could engineer the fanciful design and explosive power of the Benelli. Like the hospitable rebel Catalans, the soft silver engraving of the Spanish AYA looks almost too precious to use but packs a merciless wallop few in her sights will forget. And then, of course, the Americans: the brash Ruger and sleek Springfield for Uncle Bob and the dead-on-arrival Colt for Sister Sue. But if you want to stop someone dead in their tracks without having to pull the trigger, point a Smith & Wesson L-Frame 357 Magnum between their eyes and watch their expression as the fat rounds quiver in the chamber. If people were guns, trial lawyer Jimmy LaRossa (who despised guns of any caliber) would have been that 357. They say in New York City, there are only two types of people: the quick and the dead. Jimmy wrote the book on being quick. A gentleman to the end, he’d shake your hand, smile, turn to the jury, and you were as good as done. He may as well have taken your face in his two meaty hands and given you the KISS OF DEATH, right on the lips.

CHAPTER NINE

THE BLACK LIMOUSINE “Few love to hear the sins they love to act.” —William Shakespeare

One afternoon, we were all having a quiet Saturday lunch in Connecticut. The house phone rang and I picked it up. A man was screaming into the phone. “Jimmy, Jimmy, the FBI is breaking into the house. They landed helicopters on my lawn. Jimmy, what should I do? Jimmy…” “Hold tight,” I said. “I’m getting my father.” I rolled my eyes. This is just the kind of guy Dad didn’t like as a client. He hated crybabies. “They should have thought about this day before they stole the $100 million,” he would often remark. I went to get Dad. He casually went to the phone and was back at his seat eating in two minutes, without a care in the world. “Well,” I said, “what did you tell him?” “I told him to go with them, obey their instructions, and don’t say a word to anyone and we’ll have you out of there first thing Monday morning. ‘What should I do Jimmy?’” Dad repeated, mimicking the man’s voice. “There’s only one thing you can do, you schmuck. They’re not there for tea and crumpets. They’re going to take you. I’m not fucking Houdini.” I could make a compelling case that he was, in fact, fucking Houdini. But I digress. Before I could document, even in a rudimentary way, my father’s contributions to the law, I had to face down the good, the bad, and the ugly of what made him tick as a lawyer. So much of Dad’s persona was defined by his lawyering. His success made him powerful. His experience as a federal prosecutor taught him to use that power sparingly. It was his reluctance to misuse power that kept him from becoming a “career prosecutor.” He knew there was little or no chance to climb the ranks of the Justice Department unless he could use the resources of the federal government as a brutal cudgel whenever it suited his career.

Jimmy would never have succeeded as a career government prosecutor for reasons that resonated in his very soul. He was educated by Jesuit Catholics, who were famous for teasing out the nuances of life—the grays, if you will. His time as a soldier showed him firsthand how the random luck of the draw could lead to promotion or death. Life had taught him to give people the benefit of the doubt; not to judge a man because of the vowel at the end of his last name, or whether he worshiped in a synagogue. Jimmy needed “clear-eyed decisiveness” to take a stand against the might and majesty of the federal government. Only if he lived fairly and treated people without prejudice could he summon the requisite will to face down the monolithic adversary. Dad despised the Joseph McCarthys and J. Edgar Hoovers of the world, who would ruin countless lives to advance their own careers. When he went the other way to become a defense attorney, he did so with his eyes wide open. It wasn’t long before he could see that his skill and determination could sometimes thwart those “federal bullies” who viewed defendants as automatically “guilty” simply because they had been charged. Our Constitution is heralded for forward-looking presumptions, such as that of a man’s innocence, but only a fool would think that when he or she was dragged into Federal court to stand before the majestic eagle, they had an even remote chance of prevailing. The odds would be well against them. The “system” would crush them like a citizen-bug, unless a seasoned advocate like my father was standing by their side. (There were exceptions to the bullies, of course, like the former U.S. Attorney for the Southern District, Robert Fiske, and numerous other standout prosecutors like Walter Mack.) Dad’s propensity to defend the underdog played in my favor. Throughout my youth and young adulthood, as the mysterious mental illness grew in me like an alien worm, I might not have survived without my true north, who would support me no matter what. As a meridian of longitude, true north is a constant. As a metaphor for my father, however, it was a state of being unrestricted by direction. As a trial lawyer, Jimmy couldn’t care less if his clients were assassins or saints. The courtroom was his pitching mound. Like a good pitcher, he didn’t focus on the batter, but kept his eye on the target he would have to hit, to throw the perfect pitch that would send the batter back to the dugout. How Jimmy became such a cunning, fearless courtroom adversary is

largely a mystery, though there are significant incidents from which to glean what made him such a gladiator. As his memoirist, I can see that Dad’s conversation with a senior federal judge was a seminal moment in understanding his motivation. The legendary U.S. Federal District Court Judge Eugene (Gene) Nickerson (born in 1918), descendant of family members who worked in white-shoe New York law firms, had a soft spot for the rough-and-tumble Jimmy LaRossa. After orchestrating a number of improbable, high-profile, Mob-related acquittals in his courtroom, Jimmy was shocked to see Gene Nickerson sitting on a bench in the courthouse lobby waiting for him. “Jimmy,” the senior judge started, “why can’t you defend nice people? You are too good a lawyer to deal with the likes of your clients,” he said. Dad thought long and hard about whether to give the senior judge the standard spiel, then thought better of it. If anyone deserved the truth, it was Gene Nickerson. “You’ve been very kind to me over the years, Gene, so I won’t bullshit you. First off, I’ve been on the other side, so I’ve seen firsthand how the government abuses its power.” “I agree. Government overreach is a real problem. But you get the lion’s share of white-collar cases, so why take on these defendants?” He meant mobsters. Until he told me this story from his wheelchair in Manhattan Beach, my father always kept the anger and resentment he harbored—the very thing that made him tick—close to the vest. His recounting of the conversation with Nickerson laid that bare. “Yes, I could do without some of my clients, Gene. When I left the Marine Corps, I didn’t have two nickels to rub together. All I ever wanted was to be a lawyer. I clerked at Cahill Gordon my first summer. I did good work. At the end of the summer, one of the managing partners let me know, without saying it, that the firm wasn’t hiring Italian-Americans, so don’t even bother applying after finishing school. I almost strangled him right there in the law firm library. Thinking back, that guy did me a big favor. He pissed me off and made me what I am today. And forgive my braggadocio, Gene, but I make more money than anyone at fucking Cahill.” Jimmy paused to gain control of his emotions. For a second, he was still in that library at Cahill. “I’m sorry, Judge Nickerson,” Jimmy said, extending his hand. “That’s it in a nutshell.”

They shook hands warmly. “I appreciate you hearing me out, Jimmy.” And that was that. The chip that my father carried on his shoulders like a giant “I DARE YOU” throughout his life was front and center as he explained himself to the senior justice. Dad’s cockiness might have been well earned, as future chapters will bear out, but my relationship with Jimmy, my true north, stood in stark contrast to his work defending the Mafia. Looking back, my father’s singular success was a fait d’accompli even by the late 1970s, as was noted by the writer and newspaper columnist Denis Hamill. In 1977, Denis had already won the prestigious Meyer Berger Award at the Village Voice and was a staff City Hall columnist for New York Magazine. He hit a leadoff home run writing a four-page feature article in New York Magazine titled, “Jimmy LaRossa: The Bionic Mouth of White Collar Crime” (May 30, 1977). At that point, Dad had won eighty percent of about three hundred major jury trials, so Denis tagged along for a day. Jimmy had gained a reputation as the most effective cross-examiner since Clarence Darrow, so Denis spent an average day in court with Dad. Denis and I exchange Facebook notes every few months, so I hope he will forgive me for paraphrasing bits of his article. (Dad’s cross examination is in the public record.) In Denis’ reconstruction of it, Dad used lyrics from a Bob Dylan song to stop the prosecution from overdramatizing the Gallo brothers’ nicknames. That was especially pleasing to me, because weeks before, I had sat Dad down in the library to listen to the Dylan song “Joey,” which had just been released. As brilliant as Dylan is, this song about the mobster, Joey Gallo, was a double shot of maudlin with a side of saccharine. It started, “Born in Red Hook, Brooklyn, in the year of who knows when…opened up his eyes, to the tune of an accordion.” UGH! Joe Gallo was the mobster who was shot in the tourist-only restaurant, Umberto’s Clam House, in Little Italy. He saw the shooters come in and tipped the table over to protect his family. They shot him and he staggered out to the street and died. Dylan mythologized him in the song, which may be the only reason Umberto’s stays in business to this day. Jimmy would not represent nor even schedule an appointment with the Gallo brothers. In the “real” Mafia, the Gallos were persona non grata. Denis Hamill writes: “Jimmy LaRossa sits at the defense table with a young assistant lawyer and his client Nick Bianco, who is dressed in buff-

colored prison khakis. LaRossa’s spectacles are clamped on the very tip of his nose and he is reading over several legal briefs. His face shows nothing, not interest, not boredom. Only the occasional blink of his eyes distinguishes him from a statue. “The lawyers for the government are frenetically preparing their papers at the long prosecutor’s table. “The door of the judge’s chamber swings open and a court officer shouts for all to rise. LaRossa last. All sat. LaRossa last. His movements are calculated and deliberate. “The U.S. attorney momentarily disappears through a side door and emerges again, followed by two sides of beef in dark, nondescript suits. A third man, wearing a light blue denim suit, walks between the two sides of beef. The man in denim has his eyes armored behind dark, wraparound sunglasses. He is fat, and his bold, cocky swagger is ruined by two much jiggle.” He’s ceremonially sworn in and lowers his sizable bottom to the witness chair. The chief prosecutor advances to the central pulpit. PROSECUTOR: Is your name Peter Diapoulis? Otherwise known as Pete the Greek? PETE THE GREEK: Yes, that’s what they call me. PROSECUTOR: Did you ever know a man named Joey Gallo, otherwise known as Crazy Joey, or Joey the Blond? PETE THE GREEK: Yeah, I knew Joey well. PROSECUTOR: How about Albert Gallo? Otherwise known as Kid Blast? PETE THE GREEK: I know Kid Blast. Yes, sir. LAROSSA: EXCUSE ME! LaRossa’s baritone stops everything as he begins to stand. LAROSSA: We’ve all heard these nicknames from the Bob Dylan song. Some of the jurors snicker. The judge tries to stop him, but it is too late. Motioning to the jury, LaRossa now fully stands. LAROSSA: Half the jurors probably own this album. Who do you take us all for? These nicknames are Bob Dylan’s nicknames, Mr. Diapoulis, not yours or the prosecutor’s here. JUDGE: You’ve made your point, Mr. LaRossa. LAROSSA: I hope so, your honor. Otherwise, my esteemed colleague here…

JUDGE: Please, Jimm … Mr. LaRossa. Jimmy sits, glances at the jurors to his left, shrugs his shoulders, and looks up to heaven. The jurors laugh and the lawyer gives them a sly smile. Juror #6, a sexy thirty-something showing a lot of leg, gives Jimmy a wink. PROSECUTOR: Did you ever see Nick Bianco, the defendant, in the company of Joe or Albert Gallo? Jimmy’s young assistant, Matthew Dontzin, whispers in his boss’ ear. “Jimmy, would you stop fucking around? Michael and John are almost done picking the jury upstairs. We’re starting a three-month trial on Monday!” “Let me have a little fun, Matthew. Do you see the way Juror #6 is looking at me? I have her.” “Okay. By the way, boss, #6 is looking at me, you old fossil.” Jimmy likes Matthew’s chutzpah, but he can’t let it go unpunished. He senses the prosecutor is done. He quickly stands, picks up a yellow legal pad off the defense table, goes to walk around the jury box, stops in front of Matthew, throws the legal pad so it slides on the table right in front of the young lawyer, and says just loud enough for the jury to hear. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, young man. Take some notes.” By the time Matthew realizes his mouth is wide open, Jimmy is at the podium. He spins, facing Pete the Greek. He certainly doesn’t need any notes to dispatch this fat asshole. LAROSSA: Mr. Diapoulis, how many people have you discussed this meeting with? PETE THE GREEK: I discussed it with a writer friend of mine. LAROSSA: I assume by the way you entered this courtroom that you are under protective custody. PETE THE GREEK: That’s right. “LaRossa is now walking in long, deliberate strides, the hard leather heels of his loafers clicking on the waxed tile floors,” writes Hamill. LAROSSA: How many times have you discussed this alleged meeting with law enforcement officials? PETE THE GREEK: Whadda you mean law enforce…? LAROSSA: Have you discussed it with the prosecutor here? PETE THE GREEK: On the telephone about … LAROSSA: What do you mean about a writer of yours? PETE THE GREEK: A writer I wrote a book with. The ornate wooden halls outside of Judge Platt’s courtroom are

completely empty. All that can be heard is the boom of LaRossa’s questions. LAROSSA: What book? Was it ever published? When was it published? What was the writer’s name? Pete the Greek is getting rattled. LAROSSA: You said that Joey Gallo, when given the money by Nick Bianco, wasn’t very happy. What exactly did he say? What was the date? What was the day of the week? Where exactly on President Street did it take place? PETE THE GREEK: In Roy-Roy Musico’s club down there… It’s a club, like. LAROSSA: Earlier you said it was a longshoreman’s restaurant. Do they serve food in this club? PETE THE GREEK: No, they don’t serve food. LAROSSA: Then it wasn’t a longshoreman’s restaurant at all, was it? PETE THE GREEK: No, it wasn’t. Jimmy walks to the defense table, takes a book that Matthew has ready for him, and gives him a wink. He walks slowly toward the witness, measuring the weight of the book. LaRossa holds up an edition of Pete the Greek’s book, The Sixth Family. LAROSSA: When was this book written? PETE THE GREEK: About two and a half years ago. LAROSSA: Have you ever read this book? PETE THE GREEK: Of course I have, a few times. LAROSSA: Do you know what a quote mark is? PETE THE GREEK: Yeah, I know what it is. LAROSSA: In a factual book, anything between quote marks is supposed to be true, supposed to be fact. Isn’t that correct? PETE THE GREEK: If it’s down there in the book, then it’s true. It was said. LaRossa, his voice booming, reads from the book. LAROSSA: Did Joey Gallo tell Nick Bianco to take his money and “shove it up his ass”? PETE THE GREEK: If it’s down there in the book, it must be true. Pete the Greek concedes, beaten. Jimmy slowly returns to the defense table, slamming the book on the table before sitting. For a second, the Greek thinks Jimmy is done with him. LAROSSA: Do you think, Mr. Diaopolis…

Dad has a slight note of sympathy in his voice. LAROSSA: Do you think that you might have written something down to help you remember these events? PETE THE GREEK: Well, there might be a memo or something. Jimmy smiles the smile of an assassin at the fat man. LAROSSA: Perhaps there might also be a rabbit where this memo lurks? The prosecutor jumps up to object. JUDGE: About the rabbit? PROSECUTOR: Yes! Dad stands to address Judge Platt. LAROSSA: I withdraw the rabbit, your honor. The gallery erupts in laughter and applause. In a pitch-perfect ending to the sequence, Denis Hamill finishes with a tongue-in-cheek sentence: “It becomes apparent that Peter Diapoulis is not the most reliable citizen to ever appear on behalf of the prosecution.” Judge Platt leans hard on the gavel to silence the large room. Before the judge dismisses the day’s proceedings, Dad is through a gallery that’s clamoring for his attention. Dad lights a cigarette with a gold Cartier lighter and bolts for his waiting car.

Every two years, Dad traded in his black limousine for a new one. When he went to buy a twelve-room cooperative apartment on Park Avenue, a member of the board, a big-money guy named A.E., interviewed Jimmy on behalf of the entire board. Dad had the financial chops to buy the place, but East Side cooperatives were especially finicky about who they “let in.” Make no mistake about it: Park Avenue was an exclusive club. Jimmy had his private investigator, John McNally, research A.E., so he was ready. “It’s so good to meet you, Jimmy. I’ve read a lot about you.” “Thank you. I’m looking forward to raising my family here.” “Good. I’ll get right to the point, then. The board is worried about the black limousine.” “I can’t help you there, A. E. I do have a black limousine.” “No, no, not yours. We mean those cars of some of your…clients.” “You know, I’m glad you brought that up, A.E., because I am a little

worried too.” “What do you mean?” “I never see clients at my home. Never. But I’m worried about meeting some of your friends in the elevator, who happen to be my clients.” Jimmy rattled off some names, and that was that. We had settled in to the apartment for about six months when A.E. called Jimmy. “Jimmy, we have a little problem that we hoped you could help the building with.” “If I can, A.E.” “As you know, the union the doormen belong to is going on strike tomorrow. I know you represent a lot of unions. Is there anything you can do for us?” “Don’t do anything, A.E.” “I don’t understand.” He hurried A.E. off the phone. A week into the citywide strike, our doormen returned without saying a word. We may have been the only manned building in New York City. Dad never mentioned the matter to anyone, but the doormen knew. Jimmy gave them all a warm handshake as he walked to his waiting black limousine.

CHAPTER TEN

THE POINT OF NO RETURN “The die is cast.” (“Alea Iacta Est”) —Julius Caesar to his army after crossing the Rubicon River

When I first read Barack Obama’s unique and eloquent search for his identity through the prism of race, Dreams of My Father, I was powerfully taken with his story. President Obama was just twenty-one when he realized that any chance he had to truly know his long-lost father had passed. When the phone rang to relay the bad news from half a world away, he was in a New York tenement on the border of East Harlem, “smelling eggs burn in the kitchen, staring at cracks in the plaster, trying to measure my loss.” Imagine that, if you can. President Obama went on to find his true north in his family and his country, a lucky stroke for those of us who love and admire him. When I was a little boy, as I was just learning to walk and recognize letters, I noticed a collection of fine red leather books that my father would take from the shelf from time to time to leaf through. I remember him dozing on a couch with one of these red books in his lap. I found those very same books years later, and realized that they were a collection penned by a single author, Winston Churchill, who, on behalf of the Allies, helped save the world as we know it by defeating the Nazis in World War II. This was a man my father admired and honored. When I hear that name to this day, I stop and listen, so as to glean whatever I can about him. My father wouldn’t waste his time on an unworthy character, so neither will I. Someday, I am quite sure, my grandchildren will stumble upon a treasure of books written by the former president of the United States, Barack Obama. They will know, in their heart of hearts, that their grandfather wouldn’t waste his time on an unworthy character, so neither should they. “This is a man my grandfather admired and honored,” they will think, quieting the world around them to hear what they can hear. That is how the world of words and ideas are passed through the ages,

from generation to generation, in those who love and trust us to do right by them, forever and always, amen.

While I was building MedWorks, Dad was bathing in a lifetime of accomplishments. With close to 1,000 major jury trials under his belt, Jimmy was the undisputed leader of the criminal defense bar in New York. He had accomplished just about everything he had set out to do when he drove back to Brooklyn from the Marine Corps base to start law school. The History Channel filmed a one-hour biography on Dad called Mouthpiece: Voice for the Accused—James M. LaRossa, which debuted at the second Tribeca Film Festival in 2002. It received accolades and a good deal of press. Dad began his three-hour summation to a jury in one courtroom, while his partner, Mike Ross, or associate Andrew Weinstein, picked a jury for the start of his next trial. Federal prosecutors knew there was no deal-making with Jimmy. That’s why clients paid him such exorbitant fees. He wasn’t there to negotiate plea deals. Dad laced his gloves on and stepped into the ring day in and day out. Some of his cases were, in fact, settled. But that usually happened just before the trial started. In dozens of cases, it was not uncommon for prosecutors to get cold feet as the jury was being seated and offer Jimmy an attractive deal for his wayward client. It was more common, however, for him to just throw down and let the chips fall. May the best man win, and all that crap. A splashy “NOT GUILTY” verdict courtesy of Jimmy would be a careerstopper for a lot of young, up-and-coming U.S. attorneys. Prosecutors like Rudy Giuliani tried to beat him by making him a target of fictional “criminal probes.” Dad was already well established as a gifted attorney and an ethical officer of the court, so even Giuliani and his henchmen couldn’t engineer their make-believe bullshit to get Jimmy barred from trying a case. I had seen Dad out-charm many a jury with my own eyes. He even had a large group of retired groupies who waited on benches outside the courthouse at Foley Square in the early mornings so that they could be first to line up for seats in Jimmy’s court. As a teenager, I once found myself in an elevator with one of Dad’s juries

as they headed for a lunch break. I was as quiet as a church mouse, not wanting to compromise my father, but they fawned over me in such an overt way that they left no doubt how they felt about my father. It didn’t necessarily mean that Dad’s client would walk, but it was a good sign, I guess. I always went back and dutifully reported to my father. He knew I was too smart to utter a word in front of the jurors other than “no, ma’am,” “yes, sir,” and “thank you.” One day I was walking with Dad through the lobby of the Federal court in Manhattan. Other lawyers and court staff made way for him as if he was a rock star. All of a sudden, a man with an unruly head of graying hair and a black cape came out of nowhere to stop Dad. He was so over-the-top I thought about laying him out on the marble. The maniac was William Kunstler, the noted civil rights attorney. “Jimmy,” he cried out, attentionseeker that he was. As the story goes, Mr. Kunstler had found himself in court weeks before without a wallet or money. Jimmy, having grown up poor, always carried a big wad of cash with him, so he gave the caped crusader a handful of large bills to get him through his day. As Dad introduced me to the eccentric attorney, Kunstler pulled out a personal check to cover the borrowed money and handed it to Jimmy, who gave it a glance and told Kunstler, “Bill, I’m not going to cash this, but I will carry it in my wallet. If I’m ever mugged by the ‘Brotherhood,’ I’ll show them your check and they better leave me be, or you’ll have some explaining to do.” We all laughed, but true to his word, Jimmy kept Kunstler’s personal check in his wallet until it decomposed. My father also earned the respect of the press, the Democratic “machine,” which ran much of The Big Apple until well into the 1990s, as well as many of the lionized Federal District Court judges in the southern and eastern districts. Prosecutors were faced with the additional burden of chancing Dad’s close relationships with judges, another reason not to square off with him in a full-blown trial. Most of the state court judges thought they owed Jimmy their seat thanks to Uncle Meade’s antics. Federal judges are proudly independent, but as Dad’s former partner, Mike Ross, used to say, “Everyone wants to get close to the fire. Your father was that fire.” Dad’s distrust of the federal government ran deep. One of the ways he revolutionized the defense bar was by taking a page out of the government’s

playbook. He was among the first defense lawyers to match the investigative techniques and firepower of prosecutors by hiring private investigators to assist in defense cases. These PIs were usually ex-NYPD. The first and most successful was a savvy Irish veteran named John McNally. Over the course of their lives, Dad and John would trap prosecution witnesses in their own lies over and over again. McNally set up two large, old-fashioned cassette recorders in Jimmy’s top-two office drawers, and they started to tape some of Jimmy’s more noteworthy conversations. (The rough-and-tumble world of organized crime is as result-driven as it gets. If you were in their good graces, they were at your feet, spreading good cheer and hundred dollar bills to everyone within eyesight. If you fell out of favor, however, they were at your throat. There was only one way to deal with the Mob and keep their respect. Jimmy, with McNally’s help, could be equally calculating.) Just before Dad died, we made a very risky trip back to New York. Neither Dad nor I said it, but this trip was to say goodbye. We had a jampacked schedule, which took its toll on Dad, but we had to do it. We supplied the New York hotel suite with everything that Dad would need, so it was more of a hospital than an apartment. I thought I was going to lose him the second night, after his closest lawyer friends threw him a big party. He woke in terrible distress in the middle of the night. I ran to the refrigerator and broke the seal on the liquid morphine and shot just the right amount under his tongue. He stabilized immediately. I carried him back to his bed and sat with him most of the night. Morphine is an unusual drug in that the right amount releases the pulmonary system from spasms. Too much suppresses the entire respiratory system and can lead to death. We got very lucky that night. The night before we were scheduled to fly back to California, we had a quiet dinner with a lawyer and close friend of ours. Rounding out the foursome was one of the only undisputed crime family bosses, Roberto D’Orca (not his real name), a movie-star-handsome man, who wanted to say his own goodbye to Jimmy. Dad’s voice was hoarse, so we had to lean in to hear him. Jimmy told our friend, Mr. D’Orca, stories about his “family” he did not know himself. D’Orca was incredulous that Jimmy had his entire family history on the tip of his tongue. The morning after Dad died, I called our friend to break the bad news. He lives in the same house he has always lived in. As the line was ringing, I

pictured an old-fashioned telephone bolted to a kitchen wall. Finally, an answering machine picked up. I told the machine the news and apologized for saying it in a message and hung up. Two and a half months later, he was the first guest to arrive for Dad’s memorial. We hugged warmly, truly joyful to see one another, and that was that.

The legendary life and times of Jimmy LaRossa were just that: legendary. Born at the right moment, in the right place, with an abundance of talent and guts to handle a generation’s worth of the wildest cases and unimaginable clients. On any given day, I could find out what Dad was doing by reading the metro sections of three New York newspapers. Dad’s trials were often standing-room-only events. A perfunctory search of contemporaneous press reports about his trials numbered in the thousands of pages. Jimmy’s professional resumé read like a roadmap to the most brash crimes and “eccentric” clients of a generation. Some of his clients, though, were more colorful than the actual trials themselves: The famed Pierre Hotel robbery was a $27 million theft ($162 million in today’s dollars) in early 1972. The robbers were Lucchese Crime Family member Christie “The Tic” Furnari, Samuel Nalo, and Robert Comfort, an associate of the Luccheses, and carried out in association with several of Comfort’s Bypass Gang burglars. This robbery would later be listed in the Guinness Book of World Records as the largest, most successful hotel robbery in history. Masquerading as guests, the robbers took all of the hotel employees and some unlucky guests hostage. The robbers had done research on the guests of the hotel and used the hotel’s index system to systematically choose which safety deposit boxes in the vault to pilfer. Within two and a half hours, Furnari, Nalo, and Comfort were able to make off with $27 million in cash and jewels. Giving each of the hostages a $20 bill as “hush money,” they slipped away just ahead of the incoming morning crew. Dad led the defense on behalf of Furnari, who had the distinction of having Jimmy’s services almost twenty years later during the case that ultimately crushed the New York Mafia, the Commission Trial.

For many years, a vicious Colombian named Pepe Cabrera, who had a special affection for Jimmy, ran the biggest drug cartel in Colombia. He built an impenetrable mountain retreat with a very short runway that only one kind of Falcon jet could land on or take off from. To transport the loads, he hired only Vietnam-era pilots. The deal was they had to make three drops in the U.S. After the third drop, the pilot owned the plane and could start a new life wherever he wanted. Pepe never wanted to see them again. Pepe also dealt in emeralds. One day, a jeweler in the Bronx got on the wrong side of Pepe and his men killed him in broad daylight. After a short trial in state court ended in acquittal, Pepe threw Jimmy a big party and disappeared. Months later, Pepe asked Dad to be the best man at his wedding at his Colombian retreat. When Jimmy got there, he discovered that the wedding was a sham. The priest was an actor. The bride, a young, strict Catholic, insisted on this formality. For Pepe’s ruse, hundreds of people were present. Jimmy declined to be the best man because of the obvious ethical concerns, so Pepe quickly found an actor who looked like Jimmy. Problem solved. Pepe returned to NYC and again allegedly killed someone. He was also indicted by the Feds for racketeering. The state trial came first, and Jimmy somehow quashed the indictment before a jury was seated. Before the Feds could transfer Pepe from custody for the Federal trial, he was mistaken for another prisoner and, to great fanfare in the New York tabloids, was accidentally released. He disappeared and Jimmy never saw him again.

An Orthodox jewel merchant with ties to Dad’s longtime client, Rebbe Menachem Schneerson, was taking $25 million in diamonds from Miami to Toronto. He had the necessary legal and customs paperwork to bring them into Canada. When a Toronto blizzard forced the jet to land at JFK, however, the merchant was immediately arrested, taken to the Tombs, a municipal jail in Lower Manhattan, and had his diamonds confiscated. The jewel merchant languished in anonymity in the Tombs until someone notified Jimmy about what had happened. Jimmy called the U.S. Attorney and told him if he didn’t meet him at the federal courthouse at Foley Square in an hour, he was going to call the press and have thousands of orthodox Jews camped out in downtown Manhattan. Jimmy’s passionate skewering of

what transpired at JFK infuriated the judge, who threatened to throw the U.S. Attorney himself in the Tombs. Later that day, the jeweler arrived safely in Toronto with his jewels in tow, only a little worse for the wear and tear.

Jimmy accepted one and only one divorce case during his career, “to have a little fun.” A Greek shipping magnate, with secretive real estate holdings and sham corporations all over New York, finally went too far by having a baby with a young woman. His beautiful middle-aged wife filed for divorce. Jimmy uncovered all of the husband’s illegal activities and packaged them within a simple motion he drafted but didn’t file. With the threat of being exposed, losing millions, and perhaps going to jail, the Greek magnate capitulated, giving his wife everything she wanted. The magnate tried to retain Jimmy for himself following the divorce but Dad refused. The heiress credited Jimmy with saving her life, and they remained friends for the rest of Dad’s days.

In the 1970s and ’80s, the Meadowlands (home to the New York Jets and Giants) had a racetrack featuring “trotters.” Jockeys rode on little carts, or sulkies, behind the horse. The sport attracted heavy gambling and was constantly being investigated. Finally, in an effort to close the track down, the Feds indicted the most successful trotter jockey. Some criminal trials center on the law; others are mostly about the fact patterns. Because he always meticulously prepared for trial, Jimmy became an expert in trotter racing, casting so much reasonable doubt on the variations of the sulkies, strides of the horses, track conditions, etc., that in complete confusion and fury at this seeming gratuitous prosecution, the jury acquitted the jockey weeks before Christmas.

Two elected surrogate judges preside over every issue involving wills and estates in the entire city of New York. More money runs through these courts than any other in the nation. For a generation, Eve Preminger and Marie

Lambert were those two surrogate judges. Eve Preminger’s husband was a top negligence lawyer, Ted Friedman. Friedman was indicted by The City’s Corporation Counsel after winning huge settlements through what The City deemed questionable methods. It was a long, technical trial and ended in Jimmy’s orchestration of a not-guilty verdict. After the Friedman trial, Marie Lambert was the subject of a probe encouraged by the big white-shoe law firms that didn’t like her gruff treatment of their lawyers. When Jimmy exposed the root of the probe and leaked it to the press, it was suddenly dropped. The bulk of Dad’s practice was not in Surrogate’s Court, but he liked to walk in unannounced in the middle of a big trial. Invariably, Eve Preminger or Marie Lambert would suspend court and jump into Jimmy’s arms while the white-shoe lawyers watched and seethed.

The last mega drug cartel in New York was run by the ruthless Nicky Barnes, who was found guilty and sentenced to life without parole after a massive government sting operation. Fearing an imminent indictment, Barnes’ lieutenant, Freddie Myers, showed up at Jimmy’s office seeking representation. At the first of three meetings, Jimmy told him he didn’t want the case under any circumstances. After insisting on another face-to-face, Myers flat-out asked Jimmy how much money he wanted to take the case. Dad thought, If I make up a ridiculously huge number, he’ll go away. So, he quadrupled his highest trial fee. The next day, Myers and entourage returned with two briefcases stuffed with cash. Dad looked up and said, “All I can tell you, gentlemen, is that you will receive the best defense humanly possible.”

Jimmy’s use of investigators proved to be a game-changer in his many trials. Example: The notoriously paranoid Ross Perot retained Jimmy to spy on several of his own employees and present a neatly constructed case against them to Texas prosecutors.

While representing former Mets first baseman Keith Hernandez, Jimmy was especially aggressive in deposing a big, beefy wannabe gangster, who had managed to sell millions of dollars in fake Hernandez merchandise and memorabilia. Before the deposition was over, the proceedings had to be stopped numerous times because the witness was hyperventilating. According to my sister, Susan, a young lawyer at the time, Hernandez turned to her and said, “Jeez, your old man must have been hell to grow up with.”

In the 1980s, in an effort to expand their influence, the Royal Saudis started a worldwide bank that was quickly the subject of criminal probes and indictments. This became known as the BCCI Scandal. The Saudis hired every major law firm in the U.S. At one time, there were more American lawyers in Riyadh than camels. Jimmy would try the New York portion of the case with one proviso: He wouldn’t meet the Saudis in the Middle East. He would take the case if, and only if, he could meet them and prepare at the Ritz Hotel in Paris. For the better part of three years, Dad flew the Concorde to Paris, where the Saudis reluctantly met him. Ultimately, the bank was wound down and the indictments never went to trial.

One of Dad’s nuttier clients, bar none, was Arden Perrin, a very proper Brit who owned distilleries that made Gilbey’s Gin, among other spirits. Jimmy would fly the Concorde to see Perrin, who was not allowed in the U.S. because of some past misdeeds. Upon arrival in London, Jimmy would be picked up by a driver and a physician, who would hook him up to electrodes of some sort that would “refresh” him so he wouldn’t need to rest. (In Switzerland, the eccentric Perrin was having some sheep’s organs implanted in his body.) After working with Perrin at his estate outside of London, Dad would be taken back to the Concorde to return to New York. This went on for some time until the novelty wore off and Jimmy refused to make the London trips. For years thereafter, Perrin just showed up wherever Jimmy happened to be. Once, when our whole family was vacationing in the Bahamas, I saw in the distance a man in a three-piece suit walking up the beach. I gave Dad the heads-up. Jimmy rolled his eyes and he and Perrin went somewhere private to

chat. Perrin showed up like a ghost to have a few moments with Jimmy in the French West Indies, in Paris, and in Jerusalem. The last time Jimmy saw Perrin, he was sitting on a park bench outside of the federal courthouse in Brooklyn. According to Jimmy’s driver, Neil, they spoke for ten minutes. Perrin got up, walked away, and was never seen again.

When an Israeli general (and war hero) was indicted by the U.S. attorney in Boston, he turned to Jimmy. The general owned a medical device company that supplied cardiovascular stents to a large company in Massachusetts, Boston Scientific. Apparently, these stents had contributed to numerous deaths attributed to a proprietary coating, which the FDA ruled was a criminal violation. When Jimmy went to Jerusalem for a deposition of the general, he quickly tired of the food. The general made a call to clear airspace between Israel and Jordan, and thenl flew them to a small town in Jordan known to have a good Italian restaurant. When they got there, the general was crestfallen because the restaurant was closed. Jimmy banged on the door and convinced the owner to open because he had come all the way from New York City. The chef woke his wife, set up a table, and Jimmy and the general ate for hours. Within a year, Jimmy convinced the U.S. Attorney in Boston that the coating was done to specs provided by Boston Scientific. In lieu of a criminal indictment, Boston Scientific paid a large fine and the general never spent a day in court.

Dad’s summations were legendary. They often stretched to four hours and people (including other lawyers) stood in line to watch the show. One of the most memorable summations of the many I witnessed over the years was Jimmy’s very last one. Jimmy’s client was the French conglomerate Vivendi. A civil suit had been brought against it by a noted rapper, Ja Rule, from the days prior to Vivendi’s purchase of the Def Jam label. Apparently, when Ja Rule was incarcerated, Vivendi’s business

practices were less than sterling. In a courtroom packed with lawyers and French executives who had come to watch Jimmy make his two-hour summation, he slogged through the argument, belting out names like Shady/Aftermath, Jay-Z, Irv Gotti, G-Unit, and Ja Rule. At one point, he transposed names and was corrected by the opposing counsel. I bit my lip trying not to laugh. Nevertheless, he walked out of the courtroom without a care in the world. Knowing full well that, despite his summation, he had lost the case, he turned to me and said, “Let’s go eat.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE UNTOUCHABLES: MAURICE NADJARI “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” —Proverb

Coming of age in New York City in the 1970s with Jimmy LaRossa as your dad wasn’t too shabby. The drinking age then, though rarely enforced, was eighteen. AIDS was still a bad dream on the horizon. Young women went out carrying nothing other than cigarettes and a diaphragm. The club scene in those days was out of control, which was just fine and dandy with me. When Dad was a Marine Corps officer, his weekly rations included two cartons of cigarettes and a bottle of Johnny Walker, and he pretty much stuck with that his entire life. It seemed as if everyone other than Dad was high on something in the ’70s and ’80s. Cocaine, still thought of as a non-addictive alkaloid by the National Institutes of Health, was in ready supply. Weed was never my thing, but my mother had a delivery service bring it to her at the apartment. Dad, who wouldn’t take an aspirin unless you forced him, was apoplectic. “Gayle, I have a bull’s-eye on my back,” he used to say to my mother, to no avail. Mom wasn’t feeling well one night, so Dad took me with him to a party at Mortimer’s. As usual, I was the only “kid” there. I was standing in the middle of the room, chowing down with both hands, when someone nudged me in the ribs and offered a freshly lit joint. I ignored the invitation, not daring to look up at my dad. But the person was insistent, nudging me harder and harder. Finally, I switched both plates to my left hand, grabbed the joint, and took a long pull. When I turned to return the joint and thank the person, I was staring into the rummied blue eyes of the sitting New York governor, Hugh Carey. The room broke into laughter. Even Dad laughed. It was a complete setup. “Thank you, Mr. Governor,” I said, coughing and turning a bright shade of red. “You certainly have my vote.”

The New York Post the next day had a full-page picture of Carey urinating on the side of Mortimer’s building. He received more than a little grief about that, and I got the last laugh. Dad kept more than a few club owners out of trouble, which gave me select entry into most any nightclub in The City. Jimmy went so far as to charge the government with a civil rights violation when Bruce Mailman, the owner of the largest gay nightclub in New York (The Saint), was indicted. For a short while, Jimmy was the heroic savior of the gay rights movement. They couldn’t get enough of him. My favorite club, bar none, was the Mudd Club on White Street in Tribeca. I was dancing with some friends one night when a squirrelly, whitehaired little dude with an entourage motioned me towards their couch. Finally, I went over, more than a little wary. There was Andy Warhol in the flesh. Warhol didn’t speak much and had the affect of a person floating on hallucinogens. With a box of expensive-looking pastels in his lap, Warhol asked me to take my shirt off. He wanted to paint a picture on my chest. I let the numbnut go at it and he started to frame this large pastel across my chest. A crowd grew. When he was done, he invited me to sit. His crew made a big spot for me. “Let me use the bathroom first,” I begged my new bud and was out the side door in a shot. When I awoke the next morning, my sheets looked more like a Jackson Pollack than an Andy Warhol. I stripped the bed and begged Angela, our housekeeper, to get rid of the sheets. She looked at me and said what she always said. “You a bad boy.” I realized that I had never once looked at Warhol’s personalized painting on my chest.

Not everyone was as fortunate as yours truly in the 1970s. In 1972, in what would be heralded universally as the most foolhardy prosecutorial appointment in decades, Governor Nelson A. Rockefeller appointed Special Prosecutor Maurice Nadjari to investigate corruption in The City’s criminal justice system. Rockefeller’s appointment of Nadjari was the equivalent of letting a wolf, fox, AND a skunk into the hen house at the same time. In a four-year odyssey that began with the goodwill of the entire City

behind him, Nadjari ruined careers with baseless charges. He attacked the integrity of anyone who questioned his tactics. He misused vast government resources in his quest to get convictions at any cost. In those four years, Nadjari spent $14 million (in 1970s dollars), had 175 employees, and was running more wiretaps than anyone in The City. Jimmy set his sights squarely on Nadjari and took on the defense of some of the task force’s biggest cases. Though it was almost always just business with Dad, I am quite sure Dad took personal offense at Nadjari’s over-the-top efforts, and set out to expose and discredit his very operation. Under Nadjari, every judge or lawyer seen in the same steam room or restaurant with a “made man” was suddenly indicted. It was a fucking freefor-all, and many of Nadjari’s targets made a straight beeline to Jimmy’s office. Nadjari indicted eleven judges, but not one was convicted. He never proved in a court of law that one senior public official took one dollar in graft. Nadjari, Jimmy proved, obtained “defective indictments” with “inaccurate testimony” and illegal wiretaps. Jimmy was a master at proving that Nadjari improperly leaked grand jury testimony to the media. Dad not only set out to acquit his clients, but he would render Nadjari a mere footnote and send him back to solo practice on Long Island. In a case covered in length by The Village Voice, Jimmy was pictured with the headline “JIMMY LAROSSA: MEANER THAN A JUNKYARD DOG!” It was the Nadjaris of the world who made him that mean. In other cases, Dad made Attorney General Edwin Meese hang his head in his hands in the witness box, and Jimmy actually got so far under former Mayor Robert Wagner’s skin that he broke into tears in open court. Until the era of the “free tabloids” of the 1990s, the Wednesday edition of The Village Voice was required reading for all informed New Yorkers. The Voice broke new journalistic ground almost every week thanks to three great writers: Jack Newfield, Nat Hentoff, and Wayne Barrett. One of The Voice’s most popular whipping boys in those days was a “mini-mogul” named Donald Trump. In a feature article exposing Nadjari for what he had become, Newfield tried to explain the phenomenon: “The roots of Nadjari’s excesses can be traced to his own personality and character. He seems to believe the end justifies the means. He sees the world in black and white, without doubts,

without ambiguities. He is very ambitious, and this has made him intensely concerned with personal publicity in a job in which he had no boss to hold him accountable.” Nadjari’s indictments were always front-page material and were usually reported as the first item on television news programs. “Months later, the appellate dismissals of these charges would be reported in the back of the papers and toward the end of the news shows,” wrote Newfield. In four short years, Maurice Nadjari managed to roil the entire City. Luckily for The Big Apple, there was one guy meaner than he was, and that person was my old man. Nadjari was the kind of guy who made Dad work especially hard to become what he was—a gladiator of epic proportion. Ross DiLorenzo, a well-liked Brooklyn Civil Court judge, was the first of the judges indicted as the result of evidence presented to a grand jury by Nadjari. DiLorenzo was a graying sixty-six-year-old former Democratic leader. He was accused of eight counts of first-degree perjury, alleging that he had lied during removal hearings conducted by the Appellate Division of the Supreme Court, Second Department in 1970-71. Dad liked the professorial-looking judge. During the early summer of 1974, they spent many hours at a large table on a stone patio overlooking our orchards in Connecticut, crunching through papers. DiLorenzo was going to take the stand, so they did a lot of rehearsing. They were very animated—the two of them—and as the sun set and Dad’s booming baritone fell silent, I used to bring them gin and tonics with big chunks of lime, just as I had been taught. Most of Dad’s Nadjari-era defendants were lawyers, who did not always make the easiest of clients, but DiLorenzo was an exception. DiLorenzo’s case was particularly thorny, since it took two fullblown jury trials and an appellate court appeal before the judge was fully vindicated. In July 1974, DiLorenzo was acquitted of two counts of an eight-count indictment. One count was dismissed by Supreme Court Justice John M. Murtagh, who set a new trial date for the following October for the remaining counts. Not until April 29, 1976, did a jury of seven women and five men find DiLorenzo not guilty on every count of their first ballot. According to Edith Evans Asbury, writing for The New York Times the next day, “The verdict yesterday marked the second setback in a month for Mr. Nadjari at the hands of Mr. LaRossa, the lawyer for Judge DiLorenzo. Mr. LaRossa represented Norman Levy, a former president of the City Tax Commission, in obtaining a dismissal of traffic fixing charges on April 1. Mr.

Levy…was in the courtroom yesterday as the verdict was brought in, and joined the group of friends congratulating Judge DiLorenzo.” Norman Levy and his wife were at the house often during this period. They were “salt of the earth”—easy to root for kind of people. The normal practice when someone is indicted for a nonviolent whitecrime is for the prosecutor to notify the defendant’s lawyer and arrange for the defendant’s appearance in court for arraignment. In this case, Dad called Levy at 5 a.m. after he got wind of Nadjari’s decision to send detectives directly to his door at 5:30 a.m. Levy’s four-year-old daughter woke up in hysterics. She and her mother watched as Norman was loaded into a squad car. In a final fit of petulance, Nadjari appealed the Levy dismissal by testifying that the original judge, John M. Murtagh, who had died in the meantime, had blocked Levy’s retrial. Nadjari claimed that Murtagh, who could no longer defend himself, had postponed the retrial because he was anticipating his elevation to the Appellate Division and wanted his successor to preside at the retrial. This was a disgusting example of Nadjari lawyering, and Dad went so far as to take the stand himself to testify about communications during the trial. Later, Nadjari took aim at yet another Civil Court judge. Judge Bernard Klieger was charged in Federal court with perjury and conspiracy involving a scheme to induce several corporations to make disguised campaign contributions to the mayoral campaign of City Controller Abe Beame, who would become the mayor of New York City in 1976. During the Klieger trial, in front of Federal District Court Judge Milton Pollack, Dad adopted a unique strategy by putting Klieger on the stand. He read aloud from Klieger’s grand jury testimony from 1970, in which the judge denied disguising contributions from corporations. Dad’s simple, direct examination of Judge Klieger put the prosecution on defense: LAROSSA (referring to the 1970 grand jury testimony just read): Were your answers true then? KLIEGER: They were. LAROSSA: Are they true now? KLIEGER: Yes, sir. LAROSSA: Are there any answers you would like to change today? KLIEGER: Not one. The jury acquitted Judge Klieger in under two hours.

“I’ll be back on the bench tomorrow morning by ten o’clock, if my doctors allow it,” he said. Following that, Leonard B. Sand, a judge “revered for his integrity and balanced judgment,” dismissed four separate indictments brought by Nadjari against Bronx Democratic leader Patrick Cunningham. In a last, desperate, bad-judge grab, Nadjari made the fatal mistake of insisting on an unconditional waiver of immunity from State Supreme Court Justice Irwin (Bobby) Brownstein. Brownstein was a model judge. He had moved his courtroom into the Brooklyn House of Detention during Christmas week to hold hearings for hundreds of men awaiting trial, in detention solely because they couldn’t afford to post bail. He was the judge the Brooklyn DA’s office trusted with the most sensitive wiretap orders on organized crime members. “His reputation was for fairness, diligence, and compassion,” wrote Newfield in The Village Voice. Brownstein was not only considered one of the stellar judges in The City. His attorney was his former law partner, Jimmy LaRossa, who happened to be on vacation when Nadjari had Brownstein served. In a New York Times article dated March 28, 1974, Brownstein was quoted as saying that he wasn’t doing anything until his lawyer, Jimmy LaRossa, returned from vacation. Jimmy went so hard at Nadjari that Brownstein was never indicted. The special prosecutor gradually lost the respect of his friends in law enforcement and the judiciary. Unbeknownst to Nadjari, Jimmy was building a case against him. He intended to deliver his findings in person to the highly respected U.S. attorney, David Trager. I was eating with Dad and some of his colleagues one night in a favorite restaurant. Nadjari knew the party was almost over for him, so he had decided to run for district attorney in Queens County. Nadjari’s chief of staff, who I could only guess knew little about Jimmy, approached him in the restaurant to ask him to come to a fundraiser for Nadjari the next week. Without missing a beat, Jimmy uttered the single, rudest sentence I ever heard from his lips. “Yeah, I’ll cum,” he said to the unwitting staffer, “in his mouth.” By 1976, Nadjari was done. He fled to Long Island, where he was, almost literally, not heard from again. Writing for The New York Times on March 19, 1978, Frank Lynn described Nadjari riding around Long Island in his “battered Triumph sport car,” virtually “boycotted by the legal establishment in New York City” (“Maurice Nadjari, After the Storm,” The New York

Times, March 19, 1978). U.S. Attorney David Trager was quoted as saying, “No prosecutor trusts or respects Nadjari, personally or professionally” (Jack Newfield, The Village Voice, October 17, 1977).

Following the failed Nadjari era, the federal government threw every resource it had into decimating organized crime. This included the drafting of the most deadly racketeering act ever imagined, known by the acronym RICO. For the next twenty-five years, Jimmy would try to outwit the Feds during some of the most complex RICO prosecutions ever attempted. The timing could not have been better. Jimmy was at the height of his skills, in the right place, at the right time. He was ready.

CHAPTER TWELVE

ON THE WATERFRONT: THE UNITED STATES v. SCOTTO “If they’re shooting at you, you must be doing something right.” —Aaron Sorkin

“Dad, who is Rico?” That’s what I asked my father the same day we tooled around Martha’s Vineyard looking for a television to watch Nixon’s resignation. A few nights before, I had been eavesdropping on a conversation between Jimmy and some of his colleagues. As I spied on the secretive conversation from an adjacent room, all I could discern was “Rico this and Rico that.” I had no idea, then, that RICO was not a person but an acronym for the most consequential federal racketeering statute ever enacted. Jimmy would spend the next forty years of his professional life trying to counter this prosecutorial guillotine of a law on behalf of mobsters, politicians, businessmen and even other lawyers. From the time it was passed by Congress in 1970, RICO was dormant until Jimmy’s 1979 “conduit” defense of labor leader Anthony Scotto. The second success for RICO wouldn’t see the light of day for more than five years, when Rudolph Giuliani would announce his crowning prosecutorial achievement, known as the Commission trial. Giuliani, then a white hat government crusader, had his sights set on bringing down the entire Mafia in one fell swoop. To accomplish that, he would ramp up the RICO statute. By the turn of the century, RICO cases resulted in virtually all of the top leaders of the New York Mafia being sent to prison. While RICO was intended originally to snag the upper echelon of theMob, it was expanded, subsequently, to charge members of the Catholic Church, the Oakland chapter of the Hells Angels, and even the Key West (Florida) Police Department, and FIFA—the preeminent European sports association—with racketeering.

Though my father did not live to see Donald Trump elected President, I could not have known when he died in 2014 how much my personal, circular journey with my father would match that of our nation’s current state of affairs. How could I have explained the current RICO sensationalism to my father—the man who plodded and pushed the original statute for the benefit of his Mob clients? How about another well-worn axiom: Well, Dad, what goes around comes around? It seems that each passing week of the Trump Administration moves us incrementally closer to an historical reckoning in which the characters of my childhood re-emerge to become household names to a new generation, which includes my own children. I am reminded that the past is rooted in an axiomatic theme: If you live long enough, history will repeat itself. I could not have imagined on August 9, 1974, that Donald Trump, the epitome of New York’s largess, would become the forty-fifth President of the United States. That Rudolph Giuliani, the former United States Attorney in the Southern District, who used the RICO Act as a brutal cudgel against anyone who attempted to halt him in his quest for political fame, today finds himself preparing for racketeering-style charges against the president. In the irony of all ironies, President Trump could face the very racketeering statute that helped make Giuliani’s once-potent prosecutorial reputation.

It was my kindly professor’s obsession with a pair of Italian immigrants, Sacco and Vanzetti, that first focused my attention on my family’s role on the Brooklyn waterfront at the turn of the twentieth century. The celebrated story of the hapless Italian-born anarchists, executed in 1927 for a senseless robbery/murder in Braintree, Massachusetts, prompted me to realize that my great-grandparents shared similar radical political roots. The story doesn’t end there, though. In a double twist of fate, another mystery revealed itself as I was researching this chapter on labor leader Anthony Scotto and the landmark trial that bears his name. It emerged that there is little doubt that both the Scotto and LaRossa ancestors crossed paths on the Brooklyn docks in the early 1900s. Anthony Scotto, one of the most powerful labor leaders in the United States, was born in the tough Red Hook waterfront section of Brooklyn in

1934, where both his father and grandfather had been dockworkers. My father, who would become Scotto’s lawyer in one of the most celebrated trials of a generation, was born in Flatbush, Brooklyn, three years prior. In a fascinating and comprehensive article in The Notre Dame Law Review by Thomas J. and Tricia N. Salerno, “United States v. Scotto: Progression of Waterfront Corruption Prosecution from Investigation through Appeal,” the authors started with a dramatic depiction of corruption, violence, and terror on the docks right out of Elia Kazan’s classic 1954 film On the Waterfront: “The New York docks have been overridden with illegal activity since the turn of the century. Loan sharking, extortion, kickbacks, and theft are routine on the piers because of the unique geographical features of New York City and the nature of the shipping business. The New York harbor has no direct link with a railroad line. As a result, longshoremen must load the incoming cargo onto waiting trucks for distribution.” They wrote that congestion, seasonal and cyclical delays, the overall economy, and other variables contributed to factors that “account for two of the most prevalent criminal activities on the docks: the ‘loading racket’ and ‘kickbacks.’ The loading racket stemmed from the trucking industry’s great need for speed. Narrow piers and waterfront streets made it impossible to load more than a few trucks at a time. During World War I, waiting time became the most expensive aspect of trucking. The truckers resorted to hiring helpers to cut down on loading time; however, those fees increased with the demand for services. Truckers quickly learned they could speed the unloading process by paying an additional ‘hurry up’ fee. “The kickback, on the other hand, has been a more traditional form of criminal activity, caused by the fluctuation in the number of ships arriving daily in the New York harbor. This fluctuation made it difficult for employers to estimate how many laborers they would require each day. Consequently, the ship owners hired more workers than necessary, and each morning chose the needed men from the work pool. The remainder loitered on the piers, hoping to be chosen later in the day or the next morning. An employee’s willingness to ‘kick back’ a portion of his wages to the unloading foreman generally guaranteed that he would be chosen from the work pool… Those who desired a piece of the waterfront action found that control of the union locals was a prerequisite to conducting racket operations on the piers.” (Salerno) In the early 1950s, Scotto himself started working on the docks on

weekends and summers. He eventually attended Brooklyn College, where he studied political science with the goal of eventually entering law school. After two years of college, however, he dropped out to pursue a full-time career on the waterfront. By 1957, he was the business administrator of a health clinic operated jointly by the I.L.A. and the New York Shipping Association (NYSA), a conglomerate of waterfront employers. He held various other union posts until his father-in-law’s death in 1963, when Local 1814 elected Scotto its president. The I.L.A. soon elected Scotto its vicepresident. Scotto began to build his reputation as a political power broker, quickly molding his union local’s cash-raising ability and manpower into a viable political force (Salerno). My grandfather, whom I called “Pop,” was the first generation of the LaRossa family born in New York. Pop was as big and tough with his hands as my father was with his mouth. Pop’s father and mother owned a longshoreman’s restaurant on the docks of Brooklyn. My great-grandmother cooked and my great-grandfather tended bar and kept the peace. I never met my great-grandparents, but for the life of me, I cannot imagine how tough you had to be to own and run a longshoreman’s restaurant in New York City, circa 1900. Almost eighty years later, the Scotto and LaRossa families were wellmatched to fight side by side. Not even they could have known, however, that as the jury was seated in The United States v. Scotto in September 1979, the future of RICO, and the survival of organized crime at the end of the twentieth century, were on the line. RICO was the brainchild of a soft-spoken, bearded federal agent with a no-nonsense intellect by the name of G. Robert Blakey. Nightly television crime dramas have acquainted Americans with the fact that “conspirators” in criminal acts can be as culpable as the actual perpetrators of the crime itself. Prior to Blakey’s RICO Act, that wasn’t the case. The leaders of the Mafia had, historically, been insulated from crimes committed on their behalf because they did not pull the trigger themselves but ordered others to do so. What RICO did was treat the entire Mob family as a top-to-bottom criminal “enterprise.” Blakey understood that for a jury to convict an entire criminal syndicate, the activities of all involved must be distilled into simple, understandable crimes, in which the entire gang was complicit. “He [Blakey] did it by making it so simple—that the very act of somehow being involved in an

enterprise implicated you,” explained New York Times journalist and author Selwyn Raab. The RICO Act focuses specifically on racketeering, and it allows the leaders of a syndicate to be tried for the crimes that they ordered others to do or assisted them in doing, closing a perceived loophole that allowed a person who instructed someone else to, for example, commit murder, to be exempt from the trial because they did not actually commit the crime personally (18 U.S. Code § 1962(c); see also Criminal RICO Prosecutors Manual). Blakey’s law proved to be a prosecutor’s dream. Under RICO, a person who committed at least two acts of racketeering activity drawn from a list of twenty-seven federal crimes and eight state crimes within a ten-year period can be charged with racketeering if such acts are related in specified ways to an “enterprise.” Those “acts” could include putting a coin in a pay phone for a call made in furtherance of a crime. “The idea of racketeering statutes was to prosecute the organization as an institution and seize as much of their assets as possible so someone else couldn’t just come along and take over,” said Giuliani in the History Channel biography of Jimmy. Prior to the government’s aggressive use of the RICO Act, according to former federal attorney and former Homeland Security Director Michael Chertoff, “it was very difficult to get the leadership of an organized crime family. They don’t go out on the street and shake down people, they don’t conduct the actual gambling operations, and they don’t generally commit murders personally.” It took almost a decade to first test RICO. The first “victim” was the head of the longshoreman’s union. If federal prosecutors succeeded, the racketeering act could someday be aimed at the entire leadership of the major organized crime families. First, the government would have to prevail against Scotto and what many lawyers believe was one of the most ingenious defenses of the day. If the legendary Carmine DeSapio made history as the first ItalianAmerican to take the reins of the 200-year-old Democratic machine of Tammany Hall, Anthony M. Scotto made waves as an outstanding union leader the likes of which had not been seen before. In a day when union leaders were more leg breakers than contract negotiators, Scotto was described by Governor Hugh Carey as “trustworthy, energetic, intelligent, effective, and educated.”

The New York Times on March 2, 1978 said Scotto was a “rising star in the labor world, where it was assumed he would soon succeed Thomas W. Gleason as president of the 116,000-member ILA, and perhaps eventually take the reins of the AFL-CIO.” Throughout the 1970s, Scotto exerted considerable influence on New York state politics. He was instrumental in both the re-election of New York Mayor John V. Lindsay and the election of Lindsay’s successor, Abraham Beame. He also raised funds for Mario Cuomo’s unsuccessful mayoral campaign and helped to raise approximately $1 million for the 1974 Carey for Governor campaign. Scotto served as a New York delegate to the Democratic National Conventions in 1972 and 1976. He actively supported presidential candidate Jimmy Carter in 1976, and campaigned with him throughout Brooklyn. In July 1975, the New York legislature, prodded by Scotto, passed a bill that amended the state’s workmen’s compensation law. The new law provided state payment for injuries to ILA members treated at the NYSAILA clinic in Brooklyn. Scotto also helped place men into city and state bureaucratic positions. Scotto claimed responsibility for recommending numerous bureaucrats to positions under Mayors Lindsay and Beame and Governor Carey. He enjoyed a working relationship with both city and state administrations. Scotto was also influential in numerous port-related appointments, including those of Louis F. Mastriani as commissioner of Ports and Terminals; Arthur Cooperman, New York State Workmen’s Compensation Board chairman; Howard Schulman, member of the Port Authority of New York-New Jersey; and Paul Hall, Seafarer’s International Union president. In 1979, after long governmental scrutiny, Scotto found himself indicted. In a press statement, Jimmy described the indictment as “a finale of a fifteenyear Justice Department vendetta against Mr. Scotto which has undoubtedly cost the taxpayers untold millions of dollars.” Also, according to The Notre Dame Law Review article, “dock-workers and ILA members interviewed in Scotto’s home area viewed Scotto as a victim of the government investigation, and believed he would ultimately be cleared… Scotto vehemently denied [the government’s] allegations against him, calling them ‘anti-labor tactics’ and ‘political guerilla warfare.’ Other Scotto supporters claimed that the move was revenge by the Nixon Administration for Scotto’s strong anti-war policy…

“The chief evidence against Scotto was obtained from court-ordered wiretaps conducted by the FBI… There was a total of 1,100 hours of tapes at the conclusion of the investigation. “Scotto and Anastasio both pleaded not guilty at the arraignment on January 25, 1979. Although LaRossa argued that the court should require no bail for Scotto because he was ‘a good enough risk for the President [Carter] to have lunch with, bail was set at $50,000 for Scotto and $30,000 for Anastasio. The case was assigned to Judge Charles E. Stewart, Jr., sitting in the Southern District of New York.” United States v. Scotto was a trial to end all trials, and the whole world seemingly tuned in to monitor it. The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Daily News, The New York Post, every local station, and every national TV network covered the trial every day. The great New York columnist Jimmy Breslin dubbed the Scotto trial “the best show in town.” RICO was about to be launched to either great fanfare or death by a thousand objections at the hands of Jimmy for the defense. In his opening statement on Tuesday, September 18, U.S. Attorney Fiske characterized Scotto as a “corrupt and greedy official” who “demanded and received $300,000 in cash in illegal payoffs despite a union salary of more than $100,000 a year.” LaRossa, on the other hand, characterized Scotto as a “responsible, sincere labor leader” with a sense of civic duty. He outlined Scotto’s defense, stating that any money Scotto received was for political contributions and was passed on. This became known as Scotto’s “conduit” defense. The government began its case on Wednesday, September 19. Of the twenty-three witnesses called by the government, three were central to the government’s case. The first was William “Sonny” Montella, the general manager of Quin Marine Services, a company that provided carpentry services to ships docked on the waterfront. Montella revealed that he had personally paid at least $75,000 to Scotto in return for Scotto’s influence in preventing competitors from taking away any of Quin Marine’s business. He testified he made payments in 1976 according to an agreed-upon schedule. Montella testified further that he had carried a concealed recording device provided by the FBI to a July 13, 1978 meeting with Scotto in the men’s room at the Drake Hotel in Manhattan. At that meeting, according to his testimony, he gave Scotto $5,000. The government then introduced recordings made during meetings between Montella and Scotto on January

13, 1978, where Montella passed $10,000 to Scotto, and on March 13, 1978, where the two men reviewed their schedule of payments. “During LaRossa’s cross-examination,” the Salernos wrote, “Montella admitted that he had lied, stolen, and made illegal payoffs in the past and had pleaded guilty to making illegal payoffs, to extortion, and to tax evasion. Montella also conceded that Scotto had never actually steered any business to Quin Marine Services. Jimmy challenged business records produced by the government. Because one entry recorded a single payment twice, LaRossa argued that such an error demonstrated a lack of accuracy.” Today, few criminal trials last six days in duration. Jimmy’s cross of Montella lasted five. “The government completed its case against both defendants by establishing the tax evasion charges. The case had taken almost four full weeks to present. The government had presented three major witnesses, twenty supporting witnesses, and thirty-seven separate tapes.” (Salerno) The defense opened on Wednesday, October 17. LaRossa and co-counsel Gustave (Gus) Newman called twenty-one witnesses, including nine character witnesses. The impressive list included two former New York City mayors, various labor leaders, and Governor Hugh Carey. In an unusual move, “LaRossa presented most of the character witnesses first, breaking the flow occasionally to present the other defense witnesses. Former Mayor John V. Lindsay stated that he regarded Scotto as ‘a man of high integrity.’ New York State Supreme Court Judge William C. Thompson testified that Scotto assisted in the desegregation of the Manhattan docks. Former mayor Robert F. Wagner called Scotto ‘a man of integrity and ability and a darned good labor leader.’ The final character witness, Governor Hugh Carey, testified that Scotto acted ‘on his conscience for what is right and not what is popular.’ On cross-examination, Carey admitted that the ILA had contributed $42,000 to his 1978 campaign, and that Scotto had made a personal loan of $20,000 (later repaid) to the same cause” (Salerno). Closing arguments began early on Friday, November 9, and ended late Saturday afternoon. As a college junior, I was present for my father’s dramatic three-hour summation, which he delivered mostly from memory, rarely consulting his notes. The courtroom was packed with press, sketch artists, lawyers, and family. It seemed as if the rest of the world had paused for the afternoon. In an unusual Sunday session, Judge Stewart reviewed the sixty-count

indictment against the defendants in a two-hour jury charge. The jury began its deliberation by requesting and listening to three sets of tapes… On Thursday, November 15, 1979, after four days of deliberations, the jury rendered a guilty verdict against both defendants on most of the counts. Despite Scotto’s favorable press treatment, RICO had passed its first test, which many observers had predicted would not go well for Blakey’s creation. Dad chalked his failure up to the novelty of the law, which the jury had bought hook, line, and sinker. “It was clear the money was going to political purposes, but the jury wasn’t ready to agree even though the proof was there,” he said. The reaction to the conviction was mixed. Scotto was “shocked,” and declared: “I know I am innocent.” Both defense attorneys stated that their clients would appeal. Hours after the court announced the verdict, Carey issued a two-paragraph statement expressing sympathy for Scotto’s family and urging the State Board of Elections to investigate possible election law violations that trial testimony may have revealed. There were no immediate comments from Lindsay, Wagner, or Judge Thompson. Cuomo was “gratified” that the jury had exonerated his campaign from election law violations. At least one character witness, the rough-and-tumble Victor Gotbaum, head of District Council 37 of the American Federation of State, County and Municipal Employees, said he was unconvinced by the verdict. “The court sentenced Scotto on January 22, 1980. Pleading for leniency prior to sentencing, LaRossa said Scotto should not be treated like a ‘common thief.’ Bob Fiske, whom LaRossa acknowledged to be among the most professional prosecutors he had ever faced, responded that Scotto displayed ‘an arrogant contempt for the law,’ and committed crimes in the ‘classic pattern[s] of racketeering.’” Judge Stewart sentenced Scotto on all counts consecutively, issuing an effective sentence of five years imprisonment, followed by five years probation and a $75,000 fine. While Judge Stewart could have given a maximum twenty-five-year sentence for the RICO counts, he stated that pleas for leniency from a wide range of people, and Scotto’s lack of a previous criminal record, accounted for the relatively light sentence. Although RICO contains a forfeiture clause whereby the government could have forced Scotto and Anastasio to resign from their union positions, the court did not impose forfeiture on either man. Daily News columnist Jerry Capeci put it succinctly. “Tony Scotto won

the case in the newspapers. A lot of journalists took the position that he was being railroaded after hearing Jimmy’s defense.” “It was a very bold defense,” Fiske said to the History Channel. “Usually defense lawyers save the character witnesses for the end. LaRossa’s strategy was to put these [character] witnesses on [the stand] to condition the jury before Scotto took the stand … We often say lawyers don’t make the facts. Jimmy wasn’t there when the tape recordings were made, so he played the cards he was dealt and I think he did an admirable job.” Losing such a high-profile case was not what Dad had hoped for. Still, the positive comments from other lawyers and from the press were nearly universal. Even Jimmy’s co-counsel, Gus Newman, conceded, “Jimmy very imaginatively shifted the focus, saying the tapes did not amount to illicit conversations, but were about political contributions to an election campaign.” Dad was far from done with Anthony and the entire Scotto family. The Scottos maintained a special relationship with the “Bionic Mouth of New York” for many, many years afterward. During that period, Jimmy would chip away at RICO on behalf of politicians, lawyers, stockbrokers, and stonecold killers. Dad couldn’t care less whether Santa loaded your stocking with diamonds or SPAM on Christmas morning. He was going to endeavor, day after day, to tag the government with the graffiti of reasonable doubt no matter what. “Fuck them and the horse they rode in on,” Jimmy said to Tony Scotto as they walked out the courthouse’s front door to face the music.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

DECEMBER 16, 1985: THE BEGINNING OF THE END “Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.” —Confucius

For almost forty years, my father was a moving target. He paused only for his yearly February trip to St. Bart’s, where our rented house, high in the Point Milou section of the island, was often filled with family and friends. The first thing Jimmy and I would do upon arriving on the cosmopolitan French island was to pay a visit to La Cave, where we would fill the Jeep to the brim with first and second growth Burgundy and Cabernet Sauvignon from named French vineyards. Every third bottle was “corked” due to the usual bi-yearly hurricane that flooded La Cave and submerged some of the wooden crates of vino. Even so, the cost of these exotic wines on this French protectorate was a fraction of the New York price tag. My father’s wine period was certainly influenced by the French and Italians, but his passion extended to the domestic front as well. Jimmy purchased a house on Paul’s Lane in Bridgehampton, New York, that had a teak-lined, humidity controlled wine cellar, which he filled with the best American wines he could get his hands on. One of Dad’s young associates was foolhardy enough to store cases of expensive (though not quite-at-peak drinkability) American Pinot Noirs in Jimmy’s cellar, believing that they would be safe to age there. Oftentimes, after a raucous Saturday night meal, we would end the night with one of those Pinots—as if to exact a kind of cockeyed storage commission. Whether on St. Bart’s or in Bridgehampton, nothing made my father happier than the usual debate at 5pm sharp about which wine to open first. (For the record, Jimmy always stuck with his Kettle One or Grey Goose vodka to begin the evening.) After that was settled, he began to ruminate aloud on which wines to pair with dinner. I would occasionally razz him for his obvious obsessiveness. But the sheer joyfulness that he showed in these

simple pleasures was one of the things I will always cherish about my dad.

As I attempt to make sense of my father’s blur of a professional life, one day, above all others, stands out. Gambino Family Mafia boss Paul Castellano and his captain, Tommy Bilotti, were killed in front of Sparks Steak House on December 16, 1985, after leaving Jimmy’s office to deliver Christmas gifts to Dad’s personal secretary, Phyllis Mehl. Paul and Tommy had arrived at the restaurant thinking they were meeting Frank DeCicco, James Failla, and Thomas Gambino, Carlo’s son, who owned a trucking company. Instead, the two men were ambushed by elements of the family loyal to John Gotti, an up-andcoming Gambino captain marked as a rogue soldier by Castellano. On the day of the Castellano assassination, I was twenty-six, living in Rome and writing for The International Courier. I was scheduled to fly home for Christmas two days later. When Italian television was pre-empted with news of the killings in New York, my heart sank. Amongst all the police and bloody bodies, I thought I saw my father’s limo behind Paul’s. Before I could become too unglued, my mother called to tell me Dad was okay. It wasn’t lost on any of us, however, that had Dad gone to eat with them that night, as he sometimes did, he would have been killed as well. Jimmy’s long history with the Gambinos began soon after he left the Justice Department. By 1967, word had reached Carlo Gambino, the boss of bosses himself, that an exceptional young ex-prosecutor was now on the other side. Carlo’s right-hand man, Carmine Lombardozzi (and later, Carlo’s heir apparent, Paul Castellano), needed Jimmy in a big way. Dad was in the process of walking Lombardozzi through a maze of legal trouble, including filing a Writ of Certiorari on his behalf to the Supreme Court of the United States. Gambino, Lombardozi, and Jimmy often met at a restaurant on the Upper East Side. By this time, Gambino had developed a grudging respect for Jimmy. The truth is, Carlo and Dad were lukewarm about each other. At one of their first meetings, Gambino had asked the young defense lawyer for a “personal favor.” A young girl, perhaps his niece, had been raped by a man then in jail and was awaiting trial. Carlo wanted Jimmy to orchestrate the man’s release so that the boss could settle the matter “the right way.” Jimmy

explained that as an officer of the court, he could not help him. It was a while before Jimmy again found himself breaking bread with the family boss. In those days, it was common to pay part of your lawyer’s fee in cash, as long as the income was reported. As Jimmy left the restaurant with a brown bag filled with money, the unluckiest robber in the world put a gun to his head. “Take it easy, buddy,” Dad said. “This bag is full of money and it’s all yours.” Before he could get the whole sentence out, Lombardozzi’s driver, who had been sitting in the restaurant, dispatched the robber with a single shot to the base of his head, rolled him into the gutter, picked Jimmy up, threw him into the back of the car, and sped off. “Mr. LaRossa! Mr. LaRossa! ARE YOU OKAY?” the driver yelled. Jimmy didn’t have a scratch. “Thank God,” the driver declared. “Carmine would kill me if anything happened to you.” The first good watch I ever owned was a circa-1960s Oyster Perpetual Rolex that Dad gave me when I went off to college. I had never seen him wear the watch before. “It was a gift from Carlo Gambino,” he told me. In the 1970s, the all-powerful Gambinos, led by Carlo, the undisputed family chief, adopted a way of doing business that the thuggish John Gottis of the underworld would not easily accept. “Carlo was more interested in [the family] behaving like a sophisticated, legitimate business,” according to Jerry Capeci, the author and longtime “Gangland” column writer for the Daily News. “Carlo Gambino felt that the way to keep from being prosecuted and sent to prison was to do it with your brains and not with your brawn. His brotherin-law [Paul Castellano] was a trusted businessman, so he picked him to be the boss.” Carlo Gambino was not only the patriarch of the family, but headed the overarching Mafia “Commission,” which ruled the five families. The Commission had been started in the 1930s by Charles “Lucky” Luciano to serve as the governing body for organized crime following a notoriously bloody period in which the Mob came close to destroying itself. The Commission has been described as the Senate, House, and Supreme Court of the American Mafia. “Before the 1930s, the families were constantly bickering and fighting over territory until a war broke out which resulted in the deaths of a lot of the leadership of the five families,” explained Michael Chertoff, the special prosecutor who later tried the Commission case under U.S. Attorney Rudolph

Giuliani. My father was one of those guys who exuded power and success and had an unmistakable presence that extended beyond the courtroom. When he was a little more than a young adult, Dad was leading a Marine Corps platoon in Asia. Later, while other young lawyers were playing in after-work basketball leagues, Dad led the Justice Department detail that thwarted a secret assassination attempt on President Lyndon Johnson. He also reviewed the gruesome Warren Report on the assassination of President Kennedy prior to its being classified. Whenever he walked into a restaurant, it seemed like every eye turned to him. Whenever he stepped into an elevator, everyone just cleared to the sides. He moved in a calculated and deliberate way that was hard not to notice. Dad and I were once getting into a gondola on the Grand Canal in Venice. The gondoliers took one look at my father and thought better about their customary insulting banter and remained silent for the duration of the trip. I caught them saying in Italian slang, “Don’t mess with this guy. He’s someone.” Dad didn’t even speak Italian, but they somehow knew. The sensational front-page killing of Paul Castellano shook me in a way I had not been shaken before. I could only kid myself for so long about the dangerous world that Dad inhabited. Sure, he had plenty of high-flying corporate boardroom clients, but my father seemed to prefer the smoky backrooms. I had long ago made peace with what my dad did for a living. They would have called the hit off once they saw my father was in the car, or so I rationalized for weeks, unable to face the fact that my “untouchable” father could easily have been killed that night. I know it shook my mother to the bone. She remained stoic about what could have befallen Dad, but she could not hold her tongue about Paul’s death. Mom had really taken to Paul over the years, and Paul took to her. As a relatively young woman, my mother, Gayle, came across as a Lucille Balllike character. When she laughed, she cackled, showing a slightly bucktoothed mouth of big pearly whites. She was a hoot and somewhat irreverent—a trait that appealed to the stone-faced mobster. In the early 1980s, my mother and father walked with Castellano and his wife through the Feast of San Genaro, the largest Italian-American festival in all of New York. As Castellano made his way down the street, crowds magically scattered, as if the pope was walking through St. Peter’s Square. Some people dared to kiss his hand.

When store owners spotted the Godfather in their midst, they ran out with bags of gifts, which Paul silently signaled should be given to my mother. By the time the group reached the end of the feast, Gayle was struggling with thirty or so bags of gifts. As the roar of the crowd died down, my unknowing mother turned to Paul and exclaimed, “These are the nicest people. Look at all the gifts they gave me.” Jimmy and Paul could barely contain their laughter. That was Mom. Two days after the killing of Paul and Tommy, the possibility that Dad could have perished with them was certainly on the minds of the tabloid press, who met my Rome to New York plane at JFK. I certainly hadn’t expected to see a couple of middle-aged guys with notepads as I cleared U.S. Customs. They asked me the obvious questions. What could I say? When I heard about the killing, I almost pissed my pants? NO. My father is among the most ethical lawyers to ever practice, and for him to die a violent death would be as unfair as it gets? Not that either, even though it was true. So I did what I often did in tight situations. I asked myself, “What would Jimmy say?” So I stopped, took a deep breath, and said, “Fellas, boys will be boys,” praying my voice didn’t crack, after which I hurried to find Dad’s driver, Neil, to head into The City. Neil had news radio on as we inched through the bumper-to-bumper traffic. The unmistakable voice of David Letterman was on the air. “I don’t know why everyone is making such a big fuss out of Castellano and his bodyguard. I feel sorry for the poor waiter who’s still walking around going, ‘Castellano, table for two. Castellano, table for two.’” I stifled a laugh. Neil gruffly turned off the radio. Dad had first defended Paul Castellano in the Eastern District of New York in 1976. He picked away so effectively at the government’s case in pretrial arguments that the U.S. attorney was left with a thin amount of evidence. “It took some discipline [not to put on a big defense],” Dad recalled, so he “tiptoed” through the evidence so as not to give the government an opening. After the prosecution rested, Jimmy rose and filed a motion for dismissal, which the judge granted based on the government’s “weakened” case. When Jimmy walked Castellano out the front door of the courthouse, the New York newspapers ate it up, as did the legal community. But there was more to it than that—a lot more. What no one could have predicted was that as Jimmy “tiptoed” through the evidence in October 1976, Carlo Gambino

had just died a natural death. That meant that Castellano, who worked as a butcher as a young man, walked out that day on Jimmy’s arm as the anointed boss of bosses. Paul often visited Dad at his office high above Madison Avenue. I always kissed my father hello and goodbye, so Paul, likewise, would draw me in close for a hug. I shook the hands of the four or five men who were always with him. Mr. Castellano was a big man, but he stooped slightly. His posture, along with the large thick glasses he always wore, gave him more the appearance of a lawyer or accountant than a Mafia boss. My most vivid memory of Castellano was at my grandfather’s funeral in 1984. It was a very large three-day wake—a show for Dad, really, more than for Pop. On the last day of the wake, Castellano walked in with a large entourage and went straight to kneel at Pop’s body and prayed. The mood in the room changed markedly. Though Castellano and my father could not have been more opposite professionally, I was quite sure that Jimmy had a real fondness for Mr. Castellano. Paul spent a long time speaking with Dad and Mom. Then he and his men all stood in front of Pop’s body, made the sign of the cross, and walked out. Obviously, this was not their first wake. My father’s behavior during the three-day affair was alarming to me; it was as if he was hosting a cocktail party. He smiled and laughed and milled about. I arrived at the funeral home the morning after the Gambinos had paid their respects. On the day of the church service and burial, I met an entirely different man. As the funeral house employees were about to close the casket, Dad looked exhausted and distraught. To buy some time, I asked for the large gold ring Pop wore and someone removed it for me. I had been intermittingly crying for a week. For my father, the enormity of the situation showed the moment when he saw his father’s face for the last time. The coffin was closed and nailed shut, and that was that. We had a big freezer in our garage in Connecticut. From the day Dad first walked Paul out of court a free man, the freezer would be neatly filled with an entire side of beef, cut and packaged, every six months or so. My friends loved coming over for steaks. A big Weber Cooker was always burning. For most of the next decade, Paul followed Carlo’s roadmap and grew the Gambinos into the largest criminal enterprise in the history of the Mob. “Paul Castellano saw the economic future of the Mafia as combining legitimate business and illegitimate force,” said Chertoff. “By controlling concrete, by

controlling transportation, he was able to use Mob muscle to make money in a variety of legitimate businesses. The problem for the Mafia was that as Paul Castellano led them out of the shadows, the leadership became more exposed. It was eventually that visibility that allowed us to prosecute them.” By the mid-1980s, the Gambinos had a hand in everything from politics to construction to Canadian baby back ribs available in eateries on every block in The City. The daily newspapers reveled in stories describing the Mob’s unchecked stranglehold on New York City and America. Rudy Giuliani already had one eye on the Mayor’s office, but if he couldn’t break the Mob, there was little chance the electorate would put the fate of The City in his hands. On March 31, 1984, before the announcement of the case that would be Giuliani’s crowning achievement, Castellano and twenty other associates were charged in the Southern District. The fifty-one count indictment included murders, extortion, theft, prostitution, and drug trafficking. (This was the very trial that most onlookers believed Jimmy was on the verge of winning, prompting Gotti to act against Paul.) At an elaborate news conference on February 26, 1985, Giuliani announced a new, overarching federal indictment, charging the heads of all five Mafia families with racketeering, in what came to be known as the “The Commission” case. This would be the case of all cases. The heads of the Gambino, Colombo, Genovese, Lucchese, and Bonanno families were all named as defendants. Paul Castellano was listed first on the indictment. Giuliani had his sights on bringing down the entire Mafia in one fell swoop. While Dad was leading the defense in the ten-week Castellano trial before Federal District Court Judge Kevin Duffy, Jimmy and his firm were simultaneously preparing for The Commission trial. From the February announcement of the fifty-one-count indictment to the October 1985 trial date, Jimmy had picked away at the charges until the once massive case was reduced to allegations of operating a simple auto theft ring. As the original indictments were being decimated, Walter Mack, the federal prosecutor, recalled Jimmy telling him jokingly, “Now you know what it feels like to be a defense lawyer, Walter.” By November, the government’s case was in serious jeopardy. On the days leading up to the murder of Castellano, The New York Times headlines were raising the possibility of a not-guilty verdict for Paul: “Gambino-Trial Defense Attorneys Assail Credibility of Key Witnesses” (November 7, 1985),

“Key Gambino Trial Witness Admits Lying to Jury” (December 11, 1985), “Another Setback for Prosecution in Case Against Gambino Group” (December 15, 1985). The defense was flying high. In his authoritative book, Five Families, New York Times writer and author Selwyn Raab recounts the Castellano case as it came to a close. “A former federal prosecutor and stellar trial lawyer, LaRossa was confident the prosecution’s case against Castellano in the stolen-car trial was collapsing, and cheered him by saying that the outlook was good. There were no witnesses to directly tie Castellano to the auto ring and no tape recordings implicating him. Agents in the FBI’s Gambino squad, many of whom had opposed naming Castellano in the indictment, privately agreed among themselves that the evidence against him…was flimsy.” I am relying on four sources to paint an in-depth picture of what happened that day: 1. My numerous conversations with my father. 2. A History Channel biography about Jimmy called Mouthpiece: Voice for the Accused. 3. Information Dad provided Selwyn Raab for his book, Five Families. 4. Writer Ron Rosenbaum’s interview of Dad for an article published in the magazine Manhattan,inc. titled “Disorganized Crime: James LaRossa Defends the Late Paul Castellano.” We know now that John Gotti was prepared for two scenarios: a prison sentence for Paul or, if he won the trial, an ambush. Jimmy’s dramatic impeachment of the main witnesses against Castellano the week before had put Gotti on pins and needles. Speculation was that Gotti could no longer wait for the inevitable not guilty verdict. On the morning of December 16, 1985, my father was in the car with Neil at the wheel, heading south to his office. Dad was in good spirits. Park Avenue was decked out in Christmas lights. He was nearing summation time in United States v. Castellano and was feeling as if he was about to score another big win. Paul Castellano paid a surprise visit to Dad’s office that day at 41 Madison Ave. Court was not in session that afternoon so “I wasn’t expecting to see him until the next day. He walked into our office and brought gifts for my secretary. Tommy Bilotti was with him as well. We spent about an hour talking about the case so far and what I believed was going to occur the next afternoon when we resumed.” The three men huddled alone in Jimmy’s corner office. “In effect, what I was saying to Paul was, ‘The trial is over for you. The

rest of the witnesses are not going to implicate you.’ That opinion was based on discovery material. So we were talking about going to the jury. We were talking about summations. We were talking about the holiday break. We both talked about how much we needed it. “We were feeling good about the trial. We thought we were going to win it. He wanted very much to hear the verdict.” Jimmy rarely, if ever, made predictions. “I thought he had won. Paul thought he had won. Even the other defense lawyers thought we had won. If you read the Sunday Times article the week before he was killed, they said, in effect, that the government’s case fell apart. There was a similar feeling in the courthouse.” That feeling, according to press reports and Dad himself, was brought on by Jimmy’s cross-examination of the key prosecution witness against Castellano the week before. The witness was a guy named Montiglio, “and by the time I completed cross on him, he had admitted to committing perjury on six different occasions. He admitted to being addicted to cocaine during this period of time. “He had never implicated Castellano until October 1985, when the jury had been selected. Notwithstanding that, he had been interviewed on sixtyeight different occasions by agents, assistant U.S. attorneys, and in grand jury appearances, where he implicated dozens of other people but never once implicated Castellano. I think the jury disbelieved him, and I think that was evident in court.” There was a point in the cross-examination of Montiglio where “seven or eight of the jurors actually turned their backs on him—in their juror’s chairs —to, quite literally, look at the wall. To look away from him, they were shaking their heads in disbelief.” In the 1985 case, according to Jimmy, “I think the government just wanted Paul so badly, and by the time they had realized how vulnerable the case was, it was too late.” Montilglio was not the only front-page cross-examination in the trial. In desperation, the government put on the stand a man the media had dubbed the “gay hit man,” Vito Arena. Typical of Dad, he was ready for this curveball. Arena had heard enough stories to be scared to death of this well-dressed man in a perfectly tailored, dark-blue Brioni suit with a baritone voice. Years later in interviews for the

History Channel biography, prosecutor Walter Mack recounted that every time Jimmy introduced a key piece of evidence against government witnesses, Mack would utter, “I wish we had known that.” In Ron Rosenbaum’s article in Manhattan,inc., “Disorganized Crime: James LaRossa Defends the Late Paul Castellano,” Dad recounted, “Arena had admitted to three grisly murders that we knew about. We also discovered that Arena had demanded a litany of special privileges from the prosecution in return for his testimony, including the installation of his convict boyfriend in a cell adjoining his. I also got the hit man to concede on the stand that he demanded the prosecution provide cosmetic dentistry for his boyfriend’s teeth and Bruce Springsteen tapes.” Here’s a small but telling part of the salient trial transcripts: LAROSSA: Now let me take you back to about just five weeks ago, Mr. Arena. Did you tell the prosecutor here, Mr. Mack, that you wanted a minioperation to have the fat sucked out of your face, cheeks, chin, and neck? Did you say that? ARENA: Yes. LAROSSA: Did you say you need a nice profile because you look like a Cyclops? ARENA: I felt that my appearance was awful… LAROSSA: And did you further tell Mr. Mack, “LaRossa is going to dress up all the defendants, and I am going to look like a bad guy?” Did you say that? Arena capitulated, completely discredited. “There was similar speculation from other quarters that another kind of jury was observing the court room duel between Jimmy and the witnesses and coming to [their own] verdict on Paul Castellano,” wrote Rosenbaum in Manhattan,inc. Just days after the notorious killing, a cryptic Jimmy Breslin column appeared in the Daily News. According to Breslin’s account, certain powers that be requested a progress report on the Castellano trial. “An observer reported back that ‘the nephew put the money in Paul’s hands, but [LaRossa] made him out to be a liar on the stand.’” Dad later categorized Breslin’s theory as “gibberish.” Knowing him as well as I do, I am quite sure he said that to keep his game face up. But, in 20/20 hindsight, Dad knew that the events were set in motion on the day the final witness capitulated. Feeling the wind at their

backs after an optimistic meeting with their lawyer, Paul and Tommy set out for Sparks without a care in the world. The killings went down as follows: John Gotti and his right-hand man, Sammy Gravano, are in a car on the corner of 3rd Avenue and 46th Street to alert the four gunmen, by walkietalkie, of Paul’s arrival. The shooters, dressed similarly, are already in position in front of Sparks. (Witnesses erroneously reported the shooters were dressed identically in long coats and Russian-style hats. This became part of the accepted “lore” of the killings.) They know that Paul is on trial, so neither man will be armed. When the car pulls up, one of the shooters opens the door for Paul and greets him by name. Paul starts to get out of the right rear door to greet the “friend,” while Bilotti opens the driver’s door and throws both feet to the pavement. The shooters open up with all they’ve got. Both men are hit in the head and body and are dead instantly. Bilotti falls out of the car into the street, flat on his back. Paul is splayed out on the street, his head resting against the floor of the large back seats.

Judge Duffy, who was as close to my father as a federal judge could allow, suffered from acute migraine headaches his entire life and, to nurse them, would often recline in his darkened chambers. When federal agents disturbed his solace with the news of the shootings, he ordered a group to the site. “Make sure Jimmy LaRossa didn’t get caught up in all of this,” he said. To my knowledge, this has never been reported: After federal agents at the scene notified Jimmy by phone of what had transpired at Sparks, he left his office coatless, without a word to anyone, and began to walk up Madison Avenue in a daze before his law partners, Mike Ross and John Mitchell, ran after him and persuaded Dad to return to the office just as the agents dispatched by Judge Duffy were pulling up outside. Paul had made a full-court press to get Dad to join them for dinner that night, but it was a big trial day the next day and Dad was in his groove, so he wasn’t about to drink and carouse with the “the boys.” Jimmy was once quoted in People magazine that when it came to being a first-class trial lawyer, scrupulous “preparation was the difference between the artist and the mechanic.” Knowing Dad as I do, there was no way he

would take the chance of discussing the trial in front of subordinates over dinner. That is what ultimately prevented my father from refusing a steak and a bottle of Opus One. I used to join Dad at a midtown restaurant on Mondays following New York Giants games, where two or three players and the manager often held forth about the game as we ate lunch. After they spoke, we could ask them questions. These invitation-only lunches were always a lot of fun, though often it was difficult to get a word in edgewise when Bo Dietl, the goodnatured NYC cop turned celebrity PI, was in attendance. My father and I always sat at Table #1 with an assortment of “the boys.” After one such lunch, Dad gave me a ride. As we settled into the car, I asked my father why everyone at our table drank liquor like guys going to prison the next day, while he and I nursed club sodas. He smiled. “We work. Mobsters don’t. That’s what they do, every day.” I had never considered the obvious. So the reason that Dad didn’t go to Sparks was, pure and simple, because he had more work to do to crush the government’s case. Journalist William Flanagan, writing about an unrelated case in which Jimmy led the defense, wrote, “The New York Bar Association had voted LaRossa ‘Criminal Law Practitioner of the Year.’ [The award Mr. Flanagan refers to is the Ostrow Award from the New York Association of Criminal Defense Lawyers.] “The bar association should know. When lawyers get into trouble with the law, they hire LaRossa. When judges need top legal help, they turn to LaRossa. And when mobsters need the best defense that money can buy, LaRossa often gets the call. “Indeed, LaRossa himself might very well have been gunned down right along with Big Paul and his bodyguard that night. ‘Castellano had just come from LaRossa’s office,’ recalled Joseph Coffey, then commanding officer of NYPD Organized Crime Homicide Task Force. “Coffey not only knew who killed Castellano, he knew what kind of men they were. ‘If LaRossa is in that car…outside Spark’s, he’s a dead man.’ “But LaRossa’s career was built on skill, not luck. His successes in court have brought him a lot of deep-pocketed clients, from organized crime figures to white-collar miscreants, including bankers caught up in the BCCI scandal. He has also earned a lot of enmity from some federal prosecutors, who don’t like losing to him.” Following the orchestrated assassination of Paul Castellano, John Gotti

became the de facto head of the Gambino family. But by December 1990, Gotti was about to be indicted for the Castellano murder in federal court. There was speculation that Gotti wanted Jimmy or Jerry Shargel to represent him, but in a stroke of blind luck, both Jimmy and Jerry were precluded from representing Gotti. In a highly ironic twist of fate, it was the U.S. Attorney’s Office that did the dirty work on Jimmy’s behalf when John Gotti was to stand trial for the killings. The government had tapes of Gotti complaining to his captain, Sammy Gravano, about the “LaRossa/Shargel law firm’s exorbitant fees.” Sammy tells Gotti that he doesn’t think Jimmy will represent him anyway. Afraid that the senior defense lawyer will “embarrass him” by refusing the case, Gotti is recorded as saying, “Well, we’ll whack him.” Both men laugh. BINGO. That’s all Jimmy needed. “That potentially puts me in the witness box, precluding me from representing him,” Dad said to me, a twinkle in his eye. (Gotti’s longtime lawyer, Bruce Cutler, was also prevented from participating in the defense.) By 1992, when Gotti was ready to stand trial for the 1985 murders, Dad had his hands full in “yet another classic Mob trial.” According to Flanagan, “It featured murder, Mob rivalries, alleged mobsters with colorful nicknames —in this case William ‘Wild Bill’ Cutolo—as well as paid informants and stool pigeons, ratting others out to reduce their own sentences. It was an oldfashioned Mafia trial, and even attracted the interest of columnist Jimmy Breslin. “In a backhanded tribute to his skill, the feds tried to prevent LaRossa from defending Cutolo, a flamboyant Brooklyn hotel owner charged with racketeering and murder. They charged that LaRossa was ‘house counsel’ to the notorious Colombo crime family, and should therefore not be allowed to defend Cutolo. The attempt not only failed, but LaRossa fired back. He accused the Federal Bureau of Investigation of protecting and abetting a known hit man named Gregory Scarpa, Jr., because he had turned informant. The FBI, LaRossa charged, had let Scarpa continue his deadly career as long as he kept on supplying them with information.” Dad had been hammering at the FBI’s use of Gregory Scarpa, a member of the rival Persico gang, and a wild killer, as a paid informant. When the Feds tried to prevent Dad from even taking the case, Jimmy fought back, claiming that Scarpa had committed murders while on the FBI’s payroll. Eventually, Dad prevailed.

The Cutolo trial lasted through November, right up until a few days before Christmas. “It was that fortuitous timing that clinched Breslin’s appearance in the courthouse on the last day of the trial,” wrote Flanagan. Breslin, no stranger to courtrooms, smelled a Christmas verdict. “Cutolo’s fond wish,” Breslin wrote in his column, “is that sometime this week, when the jurors go home, they will pass through the winter night streets ablaze with Christmas lights that reflect on the faces of the happy cheerful people. They will become disgusted at the thought of stool pigeons and be so moved by the lights of the night that they will exclaim, ‘Send those men home to their wives and families.’” After court the next day, Breslin wrote about another case where the jury came in just before Christmas. “LaRossa, the attorney for Cutolo, was remembering another Christmas verdict for an extortionist. ‘It was a nullification verdict,’ LaRossa said. ‘The foreman walked past the defendant and said, ‘Don’t ever do it again.’” Presumably, the jury had just enough time to hit the stores for gifts. After only two days of deliberating the fate of the Colombos, and with only four more shopping days remaining before Christmas, the jurors found the reputed Mob captain and six associates not guilty on all charges. LaRossa and his defendants had gotten a Christmas verdict. Of course, there was more to it than that. But Breslin had his story. “Merriest Christmas in the World,” blared the headline. “I’ve got the best lawyer. This is the best present ever,” Cutolo said after the verdict was read. Jimmy walked the entire leadership of the Colombos out the front door of the Federal District Court. John Gotti had no such hope for a Christmas verdict. On April 2, 1992, after only fourteen hours of deliberation, the jury found the fifty-two-year-old Gotti guilty on all charges. For the rest of his life, inmate number 182-053 was in such complete confinement in the supermax Marion Prison that he may as well have been on Mars. Gotti would remain in twenty-three-hour-aday lockdown until his death. Before Castellano’s murder, Jimmy had planned to plunge into the broader Commission case accusations and prepare for that separate megatrial, in which he would lead the defense, and the heads of all five crime families would be on trial at once. The government had not as yet turned over its discovery materials to defense lawyers, so Dad was unaware of the contents of the tapes that the FBI had obtained from bugs planted in

Castellano’s house and in the sanctuaries of the other Commission defendants. As the world counted down to a new century, Dad could see the writing on the wall. He stayed in the background during this circus of a trial, in which one of the defendants did more harm than good by acting as his own attorney. The Commission Trial outcome was a fait d’accompli. Generally, in a trial of this size, the other lawyers would be smart enough to let Jimmy coordinate the overall strategy. This time, Dad played it cool, trying to separate his client, Lucchese Crime Family boss Christopher “Christie Tick” Furnari, from the other notorious defendants in the hopes of a lesser sentence. The reign of the Gambinos was over. The very life of organized crime would be over for all of them sooner than they could have imagined. The Commission Trial was the nail in the coffin of the American Mafia. Author Selwyn Raab describes a fascinating historical phenomenon about the Old World Mafia. In the old days, when the Sicilian Mafia was under siege, they would say, “We’re going back to the caves,” to protect themselves and to regroup. If there was ever a golden opportunity for the American Mafia to “go back to the caves,” it was at that very moment. September 11, 2001, radically transformed the resources of federal law enforcement. Counter-espionage and the Mafia had been the two uppermost FBI concerns for over a quarter of a century. Abruptly, the Mafia was reduced to backseat status. The Mob had become so inconsequential that after 9/11, almost the entire Organized Crime Federal Task Force was reassigned to terrorist activities. The federal RICO statute was, arguably, the most successful anticrime tool in American history. Once the best organized and most affluent criminal enterprise in the nation, the Mob was virtually eliminated by the time of Jimmy’s last-minute retreat to California. For many decades, the New York Mob largely eclipsed the entire Italian Mafia. Nevertheless, the Sicilians watched and waited from their caves. Then in 2002 and 2004, Italy’s Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi promoted legislation to make the climate less favorable for Mafia convictions. New laws limited the use of testimony from defectors, restricted the use of bookkeeping evidence to implicate mobsters in frauds and shake-downs, and hampered the recruitment of pentiti (cooperators). I can only imagine that if Dad had been in better health during his west coast retirement, the grandchildren of the original dons of Italy’s crime families would have made

the trek from Rome or Tuscany to seek out his advice and services. In the irony of all ironies, while Mr. Gotti waged a public war throughout the Northeast United States, Sicily’s modern godfathers adopted low-profile policies known as Pax Mafiosa (Mafia Peace). Fearful of rekindling public outrage against their organizations, “the new bosses avoided violent confrontations with law enforcement,” Raab writes. Meanwhile, Jimmy had coined the term “disorganized crime,” and the Mob in the Gotti era bore that out in spades. It was more than a little ironic, and historically disingenuous, that when the Commission Trial indictments came down, Rudy Giuliani was quoted as saying, “It’s about time law enforcement got as organized as organized crime.” The mayor’s office was already in Rudy’s sights. His life as the white hat crusader was coming to an end, so he threw what spaghetti he could against the wall, hoping a few strands would stick. What Gotti didn’t see when ordering the Sparks assassinations was that his day in the sun as boss would be fleeting and he would die hard and alone long before his time. For the record, Jimmy had always dismissed Gotti’s threat, much as he stamped Breslin’s last column as gibberish. “Boys will be boys,” Dad had said to the press, stealing my line, as he left the courthouse and the new don to his final sentence. Much to his credit, Gotti didn’t say another word. He took his lumps and never saw daylight again. His reign was over. Before leaving Jimmy’s office on that fateful day to head to his rendezvous at Sparks, Paul asked Dad for the address of a perfume shop on Fifth Avenue, where he wanted to buy some other Christmas gifts. As they walked down the long corridor of 41 Madison Avenue to the elevators, Castellano whispered to Dad that he was very pleased with how the trial was proceeding. “I’m very happy, Jimmy” were his last words. If John Gotti had been a prescient man about the events that would follow December 16, 1985, he would have dug another grave for himself.

BOOK THREE

THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

OVERWHELMING UNDERDOGS: THE DUCK STORY “Even Napoleon had his Watergate.” —Yogi Berra

One would never guess that my father, known for awe-inspiring oratorical skills in a courtroom, could also be the king of malapropisms, but that, indeed, was the case, as anyone who knew Dad well can attest. A malapropism (also called a malaprop) is the use of an incorrect word in place of a word with a similar sound, resulting in a nonsensical, often humorous utterance. “He’s a wolf in cheap clothing” is an example of a malapropism, as opposed to “He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” One of my favorite malaprops was uttered by the master, baseball great Yogi Berra, who was quoted as saying, “Even Napoleon had his Watergate,” instead of Waterloo. Dad’s malapropisms were legendary. After a few cocktails, they would spring forth from his lips so naturally that I would catch myself not believing my own ears. By the late 1990s, Dad had tried so many cases and had overcome such adversity it was as if he could lawyer in his sleep. Perhaps that relaxed him in such a way that he took on some of the traits of his own father, Pop, who had the corniest sense of humor imaginable. When an otherwise brilliant person twists a famous utterance into a malapropism, it can be especially hilarious because it comes out of left field. My personal favorite “Dad malapropism” was uttered one night as we toasted over martinis. “James,” he said to me, seriousness oozing from each syllable, “don’t look a gift horse in the eye.” I don’t remember why we were hoisting our glasses, but I remember thinking for a split-second that he was making sense, before recalling that the buyer of a horse customarily checks a horse’s mouth, not its “eye,” to determine its overall health and value. Instead of “one fell swoop,” Dad would utter, straight-faced I might add,

“one swell foop.” To emphasize a point to Andrew after a few cocktails, Jimmy was heard trying to ridicule his young assistant with, “Come on, Andrew, it’s not rocket fuel!” From a man with a near-photographic memory and the quickest of minds to match, Jimmy’s malaprops would stop everyone at the table in mid-breath. I don’t know if there is a suitable comparison. Imagine watching a master heart surgeon unable to work a can opener on some peas. Not as poignant, nor as hilarious, but, I hope, you’re getting the picture.

Living with Dad when he was “on trial” was a little like living with an actor, I imagine, when he/she is making a film. He was moody at times— mercurial one moment and somewhat cheerful the next. I knew to stay clear of him as his intensity spiked. Dad must have really gotten under Mom’s skin one day, because she went to his closet with cutting shears and cut the arms off all of his Brioni suits. He just shook his head, sent his driver to the cleaners to fetch his last remaining suits, and checked into the Pierre Hotel for the duration of the trial. Nothing could take his eye off the ball. Mom was a bit of a hothead who lashed out periodically for a variety of reasons. Dad, on the other hand, was a cool, calculating assassin who never seemed to lift a finger. As a kid, I was a bit of a homicidal cross between them both. When my wick was lit, reason escaped me. Fortunately, one word from my father could stop me in my tracks. One day in my early twenties, I set out for 41 Madison Avenue to have dinner with Dad. As I turned the corner to the long corridor leading to his office, I saw a young, muscular-looking guy get too close to my father, who was sitting in an armchair. The guy was almost nose to nose and looked as if he was yelling at Dad. Not knowing they were all drunk and celebrating a courtroom win that day, I took off at a full sprint and challenged the gumba in Dad’s office. “Get the fuck away from my father,” I yelled, fists clenched. I heard my father’s commanding voice say, “JAMES, STOP.” I stopped. Realizing I was Jimmy’s son, they all broke into laughter, even the guy I had squared off against. Dad swept me out of there and we had some dinner, where I explained myself. “Nobody gets in your face like that, Dad.” I cooled down. Dad told

me about the guy, that he was just being over-exuberant, and we forgot about the incident for the night. Dad was famous for having fun when he wasn’t working. There was a neighbor he didn’t care for in Connecticut. One night, on the way back from dinner, Dad, still in his Mercedes, suddenly headed for the guy’s house to do half a dozen doughnuts on the guy’s manicured two-acre lawn. Knowing that so many people wanted a piece of him on any given day, Dad sometimes “disappeared,” whereupon I’d invariably get a frantic call from my mother. One particular day, when I was in my early thirties, I was in the back of Dad’s limo on my way out to Bridgehampton. Neil was at the wheel. The cell phone mounted on the rear right door began to ring. “I’ll get it, Neil.” My mother’s worried voice was on the line. “Hi, Mom. You out in Bridgehampton? Good. We’re on the way. No, Dad’s not with me. You don’t know where he is and neither does Phyllis? That’s not good. I’ll make some calls and get back to you.” When it came to my father, that is how quite a few reconnaissance missions started. I stare hard at the back of Neil’s head until he lowers the news on the radio. “Where is he, Neil?” my voice commands with a hint of worry. “With Mr. Gus Valentine and the two big fellas who are always with him. Your father was talking about Arthur Avenue and white clam sauce…razor clams or something.” Deep breath. “Pull off at the next exit, Neil, flip it, and let’s head back west and then to the Bronx. Take the bridge if it’s not backed up. We’ll avoid The City.” Neil pulls the big car slowly off the expressway. He senses the gravity of the situation, ignores the ice on the exit, and takes off. “You know the social club in the Bronx?” “Yes, the club on the small side street?” Neil has been through this before. He knows how this might end. When we pull up to the darkened club, I get out of the car before it fully stops, and I steady myself on a spot of icy old snow. I bang hard on the building door. “Wait right here and keep the engine running,” I advise Neil. After some convincing, they open the door. I spot Jimmy at a table of laughing men, eating and drinking behind a half-open banquet door down a long corridor. I walk very quickly toward the door so the waiters will think

twice about getting involved. When I burst through the door, I hear my father exclaim, “JAMES. My son JAMES!” Dad is at the center of a long table—the guest of honor. And he is totally tanked. “Jeez, Dad, Mom sent me to get you.” The men erupt in laughter and my father spits wine out of his mouth, laughing with them. As I move toward Dad, I shake as many hands as I can. “Pleased to meet you, sir… So sorry for breaking things up Mr. So-andSo. My apologies, gentlemen.” I grab Dad under the arms. “Mom’s making dinner, Dad. She’s gonna kill us both.” All the men continue to laugh and do their best to give the rock-star lawyer hugs as his kid drags him out. “So, how you doing?” I matter-of-factly ask Dad after we settle into the car. All the weight of the world has melted away now that I have him. “I’m hungry. Those greaseballs don’t know how to cook,” he replies woozily. “How ’bout some linguini on Arthur Avenue?” I ask. Dad responds with the enthusiasm of a kid. “Yeah, let’s hit it.” He slaps my leg. “Love ya, kid.” “Me too, Dad. Me too.” I glance at my father, safe and sound, and can almost smell the garlic as he closes his eyes. Many of Jimmy’s former young assistants are top lawyers today. One of the longest-suffering of them all, Andrew Weinstein, described a typical Jimmy “reconnaissance mission” at Dad’s eightieth birthday party in Manhattan Beach. For the better part of three months, Andrew had been working on a long, very important motion that Jimmy would argue in federal court. When the motion was ready, Andrew would slink into Dad’s office and leave the papers on his desk. Andrew always received the same answer when he asked his famous boss if he had read his memo. “I’ll get to it.” This went on for weeks. In a fit of anxiety, Andrew kept polishing the contents of the memo, which involved a big case and an important client, and began to practically beg Jimmy to read it. “I’ll read it,” Jimmy would reply. The only thing keeping Andrew from jumping out a window to his death, as he told us years later, was knowing that Jimmy would never “drop the ball.” Poor Andrew tried everything. He showed up at dinner with the motion, left copies in the back of the car, and continued to plead with Jimmy to give the complex document a look before the argument. One day in my early forties, when my company is really cooking, I am

working late in our Soho office when the family-only line rings. It’s my mother, worked up into some kind of lather. Ugh. “Hi, Mom. Relax… Relaaxxxx. What do you mean Dad is missing? Do you know if anyone is with him? No, but I can guess.” I listen to my mother’s histrionics, the phone a few inches from my ear. “I’ll tell you what, Mom, I’ll bring him home, but no physical shit. If you leave him alone and let me put him to bed, I’ll get him. Promise me. Promise me,” I said. “Okay. I’m leaving now.” I grab my suit jacket and scramble out the door. I head up the West Side Highway at full throttle. I get off at 72nd Street and race across the 66th Street transverse of Central Park. Before long, I’m skidding up to Abe’s Steakhouse in the East 70s, Dad’s new favorite place. Sure enough, there’s my father and he’s with none other than the crazylooking fight promoter, Don King. They are both drunk as skunks and are taking turns swinging around a lamp post. I get out of the car and walk up to them slowly. It’s Don’s turn to swing, so my father makes me out when I’m about ten feet away. “James!” he exclaims. “My son James!” as if I’ve been lost and miraculously found because of the secret powers of the lamp post. “Well, hi, fellas. I don’t want to break up a grand evening, but Dad, your bride summons you.” Don begins to laugh that crazy laugh of his. I introduce myself to Jimmy’s buddy. “Hello, Mr. King.” “MR. KING? It’s Don, my boy.” “Pleasure, Don. Do you mind if I steal this guy away? The Supreme Court is expecting him in the morning.” “Don’t I know it?” says King. “That’s why he’s my lawyer.” “Your lawyer?” protests my boozy father. “I’m holding out for Tyson, man.” They both grab their guts in unison and almost fall to the ground laughing. I have Dad around the shoulders as I walk him to the car. “Can we drop you somewhere, Don?” “No thanks, I still have people in the restaurant.” The big white afro disappears through the steakhouse door. Dad is halfway in the car when he begins to protest. “Hey, let’s grab one last drink.” “Dad, Mom’s on the warpath.” “Yeah, she’s a tough one,” he says, settling in. “You don’t know how to

have any fun anyway.” “Don’t you have an appearance tomorrow morning? You need your beauty sleep.” Dad is sullen. He hates party poopers. When we pull up in front of the apartment, Carlos is on duty. He is good and strong and helps me get Dad to the elevator. As we approach the twelfth floor, all is quiet until the door opens into the apartment vestibule. Mom is waiting. I grab Dad, trying not to trip over the giant ceramic elephants my mother loves so dearly, but it’s too late. She’s on him in a flash, fists flying and bouncing off Dad, who doesn’t even raise his arms. I protest. “Come on, Mom, you promised,” but the blows keep coming. I slowly lead Dad toward the master bedroom as Mom continues to pummel him, mainly in the arms and chest. Dad is choking back laughter. “Sting like a butterfly, fight like a bee.” “Don’t laugh,” I whisper. “She’ll get her second wind.” Finally, she tires and I get Dad to the bedroom and lock the door. Mom bangs on the door twice, then leaves. I get my father’s suit jacket off as he begins to fall on the bed. I make sure he’s away from the edge of the bed, take his tie off, unlace his shoes, remove them, unthread his belt, release his pant buckle, and open his shirt buttons. I fold everything neatly on a love seat, get three Tylenols ready (which I know already he won’t take) and a glass of water from the bathroom and put them on Dad’s side table. I kiss him on the cheek and sneak quietly out of the bedroom. Mom is nowhere to be seen. I sneak into the vestibule, overjoyed to see that the elevator is still on our floor. In something of a jail-house reprieve, it closes behind me and I race back downtown into the night, rescue accomplished. Later that same week, I swing by the office at cocktail hour. Dad is sealed in a conference room with some clients. Andrew and one of Dad’s partners, Mike Ross, are lounging on the office couch in Jimmy’s office. Andrew looks a little haggard. He must be on Jimmy sitting duty this week. When they see me, they start in. “You won’t believe what your father did this time.” When Andrew launches into his story, I realize that the morning after scooping Dad up in front of Abe’s was the very morning he was scheduled to argue Andrew’s three-month-old motion. As the hour for the argument nears, Andrew is still apoplectic. “We’re waiting downstairs in the car for your father to head to court,” says Andrew.

“Finally, I head up to the apartment and find him soaking wet from a shower, having passed out on the bed.” “That couldn’t have been pretty.” “Worse than that,” chimes in Mike, “we’re due in court in fifty minutes for oral arguments on the motion.” “And Jimmy hasn’t even read the motion papers,” says Andrew, a hint of hysteria still in his voice. Dad somehow gets dressed and down to the car. Neil has a black coffee waiting. By the time they reach FDR Drive, Dad’s starting to pull himself together. “Give me the papers,” he says to the wild-eyed Andrew. “I’ve been trying to get him to read this fucking thing for months,” Andrew says for the umpteenth time. “I poured my heart into this motion.” They speed to court. Andrew places the motion on Dad’s lap. Jimmy puts his two palms on it and starts to chant like he’s in a séance. Andrew and Mike look at one another while Neil, who’s watching in the rearview mirror, stifles a chuckle. “Jimmy, for Christ sakes…” He raises his hand for silence, opens the thick blue-covered court document, and starts to leaf through the document page by page. Toward its end, Dad starts slowly shaking his head with a downturned mouth. “What? What?” pleads Andrew as Neil pulls the giant Caddy to the curb in front of the courthouse. Jimmy bolts out the door with nothing but the motion papers, leaving all the legal bags for Andrew, Mike, and Neil to carry, as usual. The courtroom hushes as Jimmy walks in and places himself at the middle of the defense table. “At this point,” Andrew recounts, “it takes everything I have not to go into the bathroom and just throw up, but somehow I make it to the table and lay out the evidence next to your father, who’s just sitting there without a care in the world. “Judge Platt is seated. You could hear a pin drop. Suddenly, I realize that the motion papers are gone.” “Jimmy, where are the papers?” “Garbage,” he says, getting up from his chair to approach the podium. Jimmy smoothes his suit jacket and looks back at Andrew with feigned disgust. Mike has seen this behavior before, so he’s trying to keep a straight

face. At this point in the telling of the story, the usually cool Andrew is so redfaced that I have to sit down. “Without pausing for more than five seconds, Jimmy goes through the motion in perfect sequence for a full hour, point by point, as if he’d done it a million times. The assistant U.S. attorney and Judge Platt don’t interrupt your father once.” Andrew stops, his mouth halfway open, as if he is still in the courtroom. “Of course MY FUCKIN’ motion was granted.” Dad’s conference room group is breaking up as Andrew finishes, his big body falling into itself again. Jimmy looks in from the doorway and gives me a wink. “I have a table at Primola. Let’s eat.” Phyllis is behind him, helping him with his overcoat and rattling off his appointments for the next day. He stands in the doorway, smoothing his camelhair coat. “Are you still pouting, ya stiff?” he asks Andrew with a big smirk on his face. “Andrew,” he starts. “I wasn’t going to tell you, but I read every draft of your memo. I knew it cold. You did a very good job. Now stop moping and come to dinner.” Jimmy starts down the hall with the three of us in tow. “He’s lying, isn’t he?” Andrew asks no one in particular. Neither Mike nor I have the heart to confirm Andrew’s suspicion, so we make like stooges. Dad and Mike settle into the back seats, while Andrew and I stretch out on the jump seats. As we pull on to Madison, Dad starts in on Neil, an ex-garbage man turned loyal driver. “We’re going to Primola, Neil, and don’t get behind any fucking garbage trucks. I’m in no mood.” As Dad gives Neil a good-natured ribbing about what a terrible driver he is, I tell Andrew the “duck story.” “A woman walks into an artist’s studio to commission a picture of a mallard duck. The painter pulls out a sketch pad and does a rough pencil drawing. ‘Yes, yes,’ the woman exclaims brightly, ‘just like that.’ He tells her to come back in a week. “She returns on schedule. He’s not done, he tells her. ‘Please come back in another week.’ The same thing happens for three consecutive weeks. ‘I need more time,’ the artist tells her each time. “She returns on the fourth week slightly exasperated at the thought of being told he needs another week. This time, the artist invites her to sit. A

pallet of paints and a blank canvas are on the desk. He sketches for a while and then rapidly paints the mallard, exactly as the woman had commissioned. “When he’s done with the fine touches, she admits the work is exactly what she wanted. ‘But I have to ask: Why did you make me wait four weeks if you could just do it at will like that?’ “The artist smiles at her. He pulls from a long, deep drawer a stack of twenty-five renderings of the mallard in different stages. She leafs through them in amazement. ‘You see, madam, I was not ready to complete the painting until the exact moment you walked in today.’ “She pays him and leaves.” The car is silent. Everyone’s been listening to my story. “Do you know what I’m trying to say, Andrew?” He nods. “I don’t know what your mother did to you, but you are one of the great assholes of all time,” my father chimes in. “Neil, if you don’t get out of this lane, we won’t be eating until midnight.” “I’m blocked in, Mr. LaRossa.” “Well, unblock. I’m hungry as a mule. Unlike you, we don’t have three girlfriends, all vying to make us dinner.” Andrew turns toward Neil. “Did you find some of your buddies on the garbage truck again?” Andrew asks. “You are the worst fucking driver of all time, Neil. JESUUUS!” Neil smiles, well acquainted with this end-of-day ritual at his expense. When the car quiets down, I pose a question. “Hey, Neil, did you like my duck story?” “I liked it.” “A lot or a little?” “A lot. But I think you lost the big stiff back there. That went right over Andrew’s big melon. I think I saw his eyes glaze over.” Everyone in the car jousts freestyle until we’re close enough for the garlic emanating from the restaurant to pervade the car. I hang back a beat as everyone files into Primola. “How do you put up with these guys every day?” I ask Neil, who had taken over for Otis ten years earlier. “It’s like the duck. I keep drawing. They’ll get it good someday… when I’m ready.” I laugh and the good-natured Neil points the car toward Staten Island,

where homemade lasagna and a bottle of Chianti await.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE CANNABIS CONUNDRUM Daddy can’t get no fine cigar But we know you’re smoking Wherever you are Daddy don’t live in that New York City No more —Steely Dan, lyrics by Donald Fagen and Walter Becker

Except for immediate family and close friends, we kept Dad’s future quiet, letting people believe that he would return to NYC after rehabilitating in an exclusive pulmonary facility somewhere in the Arizona desert, where Marilyn Monroe-like nurses/barmaids teach patients to play wheelchair tennis on fancy clay courts. The more I examined whether it was possible to make a pit stop at a topnotch pulmonary facility out west, the plainer it became that the days of the exclusive sanatoriums on Lake Geneva had disappeared in the early 1900s. Today, pulmonary rehab facilities are, by and large, for patients who are responsive but cannot be weaned from ventilators—the proverbial iron lung. It was a fate that I promised Dad he would not suffer; he left me no doubt that he preferred to die. Other than the night I flew the red-eye to find him in the ICU at NY Hospital, Dad never spent another minute on a ventilator. To some of his clients, it was unfathomable that Jimmy’s keen legal mind was no longer available to them. I ported his office number to a cell phone, which rang and rang until I shut it off and stuck it in a drawer. In Manhattan Beach, my father and son Gianni, along with any visiting family or friends, slept upstairs in one of three guest rooms, while I played guard dog in a small room downstairs halfway between the house’s front and back doors. All Dad had to do was press an intercom button next to his bed and it would ring me. During those years, I learned the true meaning of “twilight sleep.” Even though we stayed under the radar for a good long time, I could not shake the feeling that people would just show up, or that something with Dad would go amiss.

Soon after we settled in the new house, Dad decided to accommodate a client’s request to be deposed by a psychiatrist on the mental state of his former patient, who was jailed after we left NYC. I settled Dad in the dining room with the psychiatrist and the stenographer. I set stern ground rules with the psychiatrist. Dad would need to rest after forty-five minutes. The doctor begged for an hour. Dad nodded and I left the room. I listened closely to the proceedings from my room. Dad and I knew that nothing good could result from this fishing trip of an interview, but he wanted to be cooperative and assist the client. Perhaps he was bored and wanted to get back in the game, even for an hour. I returned at the thirty-minute mark to check on Dad’s strength, standing at the head of the table until the shrink became unnerved and stopped. I repeated the same drill at the forty-five-minute mark, reminding everyone of the time. The doctor did his best to ignore me, which was all I needed to get my blood up. After a full hour, there was no sign of the doctor wrapping things up. I stripped down to a pair of board shorts, strolled into the dining room, and banged a palm on the table. The shrink looked up at my torso of colorful Japanese tattoos and stopped dead. I went to Dad, unlocked his wheelchair, and started to push him to the mechanical chair to take him upstairs. When we were halfway, I turned to the stenographer, still open-mouthed. “Do you need assistance getting to your car, madam?” I could hear the front door slam as we were moving up the stairs. When we reached the top, Dad disengaged the chair lock and swung to face me. “Why can’t you ever be nice?” he asked rhetorically with a smirk and a smile. This from the man the NY press had dubbed “meaner than a junkyard dog.” I smiled and gave him the standard answer in my pigeon Jamaican. “Das my yob, MAAN; das whaad I dooo, BABY.” When it came to Dad, I left nothing to chance. I kept hidden in my room a loaded, powerful over/under twelve-gauge breech shotgun and a 9mm pistol with two loaded clips. I had been well trained in handling long guns, small arms, and a bow during the ten years I owned an old farmhouse in Millbrook, New York, in the Hudson Valley. There was another reason close to my heart that caused me to watch the goings-on in the house like a hawk. In the spring of 2008, prior to all hell breaking loose with Dad, I made an emergency trip to New York to check on the kids after learning that Gianni, not even fourteen yet, was showing

alarming signs of hurting himself and his sisters, Sofia and Juliana. I had left them in the autumn of 2006 for California, all safe and sound in the idyllic horse country of Millbrook. By the spring of 2008, I found a household more like Lord of the Flies than Father Knows Best. After seeing for myself the results of what had occurred after leaving my children, it would take the better part of a decade of constant contact to get my kids to start to forgive me. Not until the surreal odyssey with my father was complete would I even address the possibility of forgiving myself. Gianni had “fallen through the cracks,” simple as that. After professional consultation as to how we could move my son with as little emotional upheaval as possible, Gianni, just fifteen at the time, flew to California on August 23, 2008. He started high school in Manhattan Beach four days later, not knowing a soul. After school, we walked along the ocean or rode our beach cruisers up The Strand toward Venice to calm the anxiety and sense of loss Gianni felt without his mother and sisters. I helped keep his schoolwork organized, which his mother had told me was a constant hurdle. I rubbed his back at night. Sometimes he fell asleep in my bed and we would snore side by side until I heard The New York Times hit the driveway just before dawn. Some mornings, when the marine layer swept in, I’d light a small fire and we’d watch the sun slowly illuminate the Pacific as it rose in the eastern sky. Gianni had been a student at a small private school in New York. Somehow he had been convinced that he was a loser—a characterization that set my teeth on edge. I worked with him to repair that perception over the course of the next year. He did make one close friend within the first few weeks of school—a good-natured local boy named Jared. Through Jared, Gianni was welcomed into a small group of boys who liked to laugh and were inherently kind. One day out of the blue, Gianni said he wanted to take a short walk to the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH) to speak privately with his mother. He rarely strayed from the house alone, so, after ninety minutes, I became alarmed when he had not returned. The excuse he gave me for the delay rang hollow, but I let it drop. We ate, studied, watched Family Guy, and slept. After I took him to school the next morning, I tossed his room. I found a shoebox chock full of rolling papers and homemade pipes that Gianni had constructed from supplies in my toolbox. I was surprised by his ingenuity, but I couldn’t get my head around the fact that my son was a bona fide

Stoney McBoney pothead. The evidence made it quite clear that he had started down this path long before he came to live with me. Gianni confirmed that his mother was in the dark, so I would find no assistance there. At the time, there were more cannabis dispensaries in Los Angeles than bars. Nevertheless, the law did not look kindly on kids under eighteen smoking pot. I spent the better part of the day trying to grapple with the reality of the situation. No matter how I spun it, it all boiled down to one simple, overarching choice: Was I going to spend the next four years fighting tooth-and-nail with him over his use of cannabis, or was there a way I could defuse the issue so we could concentrate on raising a “good man” who could make a contribution to society and lead a happy, productive life? Handling this would be dicey. Much to my surprise, Gianni didn’t even attempt to deny his marijuana use. He admitted that he had gone to the PCH to buy pot, but local cops had busted the sellers before Gianni got there. The thought of my son out in the open at the mercy of law enforcement made me crazy. I had to find a novel way around all of this so we could get down to the important life lessons he so badly needed in order to dispel his terrible self-image. As we talked, it became clear that Gianni thought of cannabis as medicine, which soothed his anxiety and made both he and his friends more fun-loving. I had kept the anti-drug promise I had made to my father when I was in my twenties. How to proceed presented a maze of dangers. So I did what I always do: I dug in and learned everything there was to know about the subject. There is no doubt that California cannabis has nothing in common with the brown, seed-riddled pot I smoked as a kid. Today, medicinal cannabis growers are more likely to have a doctorate in biology than a prison record. Strains of indicas, sativas, and hybrids grown in highly controlled environments have been perfected to enhance mood, to improve sleep, or to reduce pain, among many other things. Some of these name brands are so sophisticated that full genome panels of each strain are widely available online. There was no getting around the fact that Gianni’s teenage brain was still wiring up, so one of my goals was to utilize the type of strains that would discourage “checking out,” and to keep the smoking to a minimum by giving him the highest-grade cannabis. I knew he was highly determined, so I would not be able to stop him, which gave me few choices. This was my cannabis

conundrum. So I concentrated on sativa strains like Blue Dream, Lemon Drop, Tangerine Dream, Lambs Bread, and Super Silver Haze. These strains are well documented to lift mood, enhance focus, and increase creativity. My internist referred me to a sympathetic oncologist, who would do me the favor of providing the necessary documentation to acquire medical-grade cannabis. I swore Gianni and his best friends to absolute secrecy. They could smoke ONLY in the house when I was there and nowhere else. As long as Gianni maintained a B average in school, I would provide an eighth of an ounce every week (which increased over the years). I implored his friends to initiate open dialogues with their own parents about the matter. When the boys gathered, I would lock down the house and keep a sharp eye out. The cannabis and paraphernalia were to be stored in my bedroom after they finished smoking. The license was in my name, so I would shield them if need be. The plan could have backfired if any of the parents discovered what I was doing, but I had no choice but to trust the boys and give them a safe haven to experiment. By February 2010, we had all moved to the new house with Dad. As they got older, the Stoney McBoney group grew, so I could not keep what was going on from my father. Dad could not fathom how I could be so reckless, no matter how many times I attempted an explanation. Nevertheless, when it came to my kids, Dad (or Pop-Pop as my kids referred to him) and I had agreed that I would have the final say. I coached the boys to be level-headed, considerate and, above all, quiet. My headstrong father never let up on me, but I had made my decision and that was that. My father was sometimes a thorn in my side when it came to my children. He could be a controlling and despotic taskmaster about how they conducted themselves. He could never be a “doting granddad”—that much was evident. In fact, his highly critical monologues, often within earshot of the kids, had me in a state of chronic damage control. He could be intimate and loving one minute and dolorously cruel the next. He often interspersed his “opinion” about where to attend college, or how to set the dinner table, with unnecessarily biting personal critiques that had me playing defense for days at a time. I chalked up these moods of his to the laissez-faire way in which he had raised me; he was making up for the lost time of my childhood, during which he tried case after case after case and was rarely home. Luckily for us all, Pop-Pop’s spikey moods would disappear as quickly as they reared their ugly

head and we would all return to our brilliant lives of peace and harmony. Seven years later, I revisited those days. Gianni’s twenty-first birthday was bittersweet without Pop-Pop. I was on the balcony finishing a big birthday barbecue. When I stepped into the living room to take a head count to make sure I had enough food, I realized that all six of Gianni’s closest high school friends were in attendance. These were the kids I had watched over as they smoked all those years. Now they were grown men working and finishing college. After we ate, I pulled the six of them aside to join me on the balcony. I asked them flat out if providing them with a safe haven for all those years was helpful. They looked at me with incredulity. “Are you kidding us?” they seemed to say in unison. “I don’t know what would have happened to us without you. We certainly would have gotten into a lot of trouble.” And, they said, “having a safe place to smoke kept us from situations where we would have experimented with harder drugs.” I hugged each one of them and thanked them for their honesty. Dad was right, of course; I was rolling the dice with house odds at best. This time, some of Dad’s luck rubbed off on me as the gamble fell in my favor, as it often did when my true north was in the house.

For the better part of my time in California, I routinely spent ninety minutes every day running on the beach, or in a Pilates or yoga class. Some days I would double up. The week I turned fifty, I celebrated by running fifty miles. Before Dad and I would embark on one of our crazy trips, I weighttrained in a gym to be able to handle the rigors of moving a man in a wheelchair with hundreds of pounds of equipment. This was my therapy and social life all wrapped into one neat, happy bundle. When it was all said and done and Dad had left us, I was completely and utterly heartbroken. Though the more I talked about my father, especially with my three kids, the more I found myself laughing about our shared escapades. It drew the kids and me closer—another of Dad’s many gifts to me. I could look at myself in the mirror without the self-loathing I had felt for so many years. Somehow, the devil be damned, the solemn promise I had made to Dad that bleak day in the ICU of NY Hospital had been honored to the very end.

In my heart of hearts, I knew that Jimmy and I were not done yet, and that fact buoyed me. The story I had to tell was difficult for many reasons. More than a few of the lives that Jimmy intersected with were just that: still living. I would have to write with care, or face the consequences. Hell, I had already put my children through a gauntlet of challenges that I was unable to save them from. If nothing else, I could show them the depth of feeling I had for my own father, which was matched only by my love for them. I would soon learn, first-hand, just how intertwined we all were with one another. It is more than the scientific determination within DNA that led me to know deep within me that when I kiss my children’s smooth faces, I am, as well, sharing my love of Jimmy. To me, we are all wrapped up in one big gift, or as lawyers say, we are part and parcel.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

HONOR THY FATHER “There is no language without deceit.” —Italo Calvino, “Invisible Cities”

After my father left us, it took me more than four months to be able to recall our rich lives together without emotion creeping into my voice. I awoke each morning with dread, as if I was about to betray Jimmy again by walking the earth another day without him. We had spent five years together, virtually day and night. I might not have made the best partner when Jimmy was alive, but I was in the kind of daze that people who have lost a spouse describe. Sooner or later, it would lift, but the waiting was akin to being stuck for eternity in a dentist’s waiting room with nothing to do but listen to the sounds of drilling. I had no choice but to get out of bed: My children sought me out, the dogs needed walking, the journals that I had fostered and which had gained value steadily for decades were dying on the vine. I even went so far as to experience a week of pure panic after I “lost” a bank account, prompting me to humiliate myself by begging friends for loans, until the money just appeared. I had never really lost the dough; I just couldn’t know for sure whether it was real or not and where had I misplaced it. I was, as well, dipping pretty hard into Jimmy’s stash of vodka at sunset. To dub my daily state of mind a haze is being exceedingly kind. It looked like a bomb had gone off behind my eyeballs. My siblings and I were planning a big memorial for Dad at All Soul’s Church on Lexington Avenue in New York. I couldn’t let all our friends and family see me in this blitzed condition. So the week before the memorial, I walked into one of those mysterious “med spas” that seem to be on every corner throughout Southern California and asked a nurse if she could give me something to hide my bloodshot countenance. She shot me up with fifty units of Botox—an average amount she said—and told me to scrunch up my face ten minutes every hour.

The memorial was inspirational, but when I look back at the professional photographer’s pictures of the night, I look like someone had punched me in the temples, swelling my forehead enough to raise my eyebrows into Spocklike arches. I had no doubt that, somewhere, Dad was having a good laugh about my backfired vanity, which cheered me in a masochistic way. After the memorial in New York, I returned to California as upside down as a grown man could be. I had mistakenly thought that my true north was gone, but after more than fifty years, that wouldn’t be so easily true. I didn’t know that at the time, so I girded myself and kept moving as best I could. If Dad had been there to see what a dope I was making of myself, it would have taken me ages to live it down. I would have to really ham it up in my redemption quest. I would waltz into his room like James Caan at the end of the 1974 film The Gambler, when the hooker cuts his face to the bone. Caan stares at his grotesque image in a mirror and smiles enigmatically at the blood coming from the wound as if he finally feels something “real.” I could see Dad as he aimed a shoe at my head and launched it with all his might. I’d fall back into Caan’s movie bathtub, where he’d been listening to the final basketball game on a transistor radio, which I’d knock into the tub and fry myself. “Serves you right, Botox Boy,” Jimmy would yell at me as the steam rose from the water. We’d roll down to the kitchen and trade barbs in between some grilled clams and octopus and a perfectly ripe Tuscan worthy of a virgin sacrifice. For as long as I can remember, friends and acquaintances had been telling me to write a book about my father’s extraordinary life. Dad and I spoke about nearly everything under the sun in our many years together, but he never wanted to spend the time necessary to do the hard work of writing. He still had a lot of living to do, so the idea of spending any more of what little time he had left sitting around did not appeal to him. How could I not respect that? Except for comprehensive lists of food provisions, Dad rarely put pen to paper, as many of his legal associates can attest. Jimmy’s legal conquests were oral, when the jury was seated and he could pace the floors of the courtroom like the bull of a man he was. Dad was a big reader of about anything he could get his hands on, so he understood my love of writing as an appreciative reader. Making a living as a writer, however, was a mystery to him. Like many parents who came up the

hard way, he felt that a literary life would be a foreign, unknown, and, thus, scary life for his namesake. While I was in Rome tinkering with the first makings of a novel (in my mid twenties), I discovered that journalism could be the grand compromise. Don’t mistake my use of the word “compromise” to mean something “lesser.” Writing journalism appealed to my collaborative nature. It allowed me to nurture my introverted self while fueling my gregarious spirit. When I returned from Rome to write for Fairchild (ABC/Cap Cities), I did so knowing that the solitary life of the novelist was not for me. Truth be told, until I began to scratch out this very work on a yellow pad at the beach, I was never wholly comfortable working alone for long periods of time. One morning in January 2016, more than a year after he had died, I quickly wrote half a dozen simple paragraphs, which would later become the introduction of this book. I then moved on to the vast piles of medical writings that had been aging in my office for years. While I started to put a plan in place to save my publishing company, a family friend showed the short “Jimmy synopsis” to two producer types. It blew their minds, he told me. They wanted to meet with me right away. Their enthusiasm was flattering but a little unrealistic. There had been plenty of press about Dad over the years, but I doubted they could possibly know what they were getting into if I didn’t draw a detailed picture for them. So, against my better judgment, I wrote a comprehensive fifty-page synopsis, including names, themes, historical background, character overlap, etc. I sent them the long synopsis through my emissary. I followed up with detailed appendices as the urges hit me. They offered me a contract right off the bat. In the world I come from, the more you bring to the table, the more valuable you are to the project, but early in the process, the producer seemed to want me to stop feeding them material. I truly was perplexed. Even though I could write hundreds of pages of true, mind-blowing stories about Jimmy’s exploits over the course of four decades, they seemed to be intimidated by my “real” father. Perhaps what they had realized and had not admitted to me was that properly understanding Jimmy’s four decades in New York City was too difficult and complex for television to get its arms around. What they were saying without quite saying it was, “It would be easier to just make most of him up… We’ll take it from here. Thanks. Have a cigar. You’re gonna go

far.” I assumed these professional writers with impressive resumés were well meaning in their quest to honor Dad. However, my inner suspicions were confirmed rather quickly. A short draft treatment of a pilot had Jimmy, by the tenth page, embroiled in a completely unnecessary conspiracy to commit murder. I was a bit stunned by their formulaic choices and subsequent defensiveness. For example, mobsters don’t generally kill for sport. There’s always a tightly held rationale. Should a prominent lawyer participate in such a crime, counsel would be rendered useless to their clients. Jimmy tried damn close to a thousand major jury trials in his life, winning about 800 of them. He couldn’t have done that if he, himself, was also a tough guy. Did Jimmy know where the bodies were buried? Yes, he did. But Dad was a trial lawyer, through and through. If these big-time writers couldn’t figure out how to maneuver around the basics with a bit of New York-style cleverness, I would have to take an alternate path. (I had to consider, as well, that the frenetic Road Runner pace in which I write does not automatically translate to other mediums.) I began to block out dialogue of real conversations between Dad and me in every situation imaginable. I put together riveting cross-examinations that had Jimmy’s exact timbre. The trial scenes alone, based on transcripts and contemporaneous press accounts, were mesmerizing, and not because of my writing. I just wrote what happened, which is not how Hollywood always does it. For the project, I started to use the title Lawyers, Guns & Money, which, to my utter surprise, my lawyers managed to register with the United States Patent and Trademark Office. Before I knew it, I had completed ten fifteen-page treatments, enough for an entire season, and a sixty-page treatment, in two sections, for a longer pilot episode. The series was truthful, minus a few sensational “exaggerations.” I knew Dad would get a huge kick out of a project like this should it ever be realized. That alone kept me writing. But, first, I had to do something for myself. So, I locked my ten episodes and background materials in a big-ass filing cabinet and shifted gears. In March of 2015, Sonya (a new friend) and I bought a new house just down the road from where I had lived with Dad and I began a two-year slog through shoulder, leg, eye, and back surgeries and the months of physical

therapy to maximize my recovery. By winter, I started to feel human again and revisited how I could best honor my father in words. So, once again, I did what Jimmy had taught me to do: In January 2017, I went to Costco, bought a stack of yellow legal pads and boxes of black Flair pens, sat on the beach, and just let hundreds of pages pour out of me. As I wrote, I realized that I had been fooling around, doing busy work for the sake of keeping my mind occupied. I hadn’t gotten close to the heart and soul of who Jimmy really was and the impact he had on the world. Nor had I gone beyond scraping the surface of him and me. Even more telling, as I slowly came out of my Botox-infused fog, was that I had so many funny and heartbreaking things to say about our five years in Manhattan Beach, that what was appearing on the page before my eyes was something akin to a father/son memoir—indeed, if the truth be told, a love story. Jimmy and I led complex lives over the course of many years, in which our loyalty, confidences, and love were affirmed time and again, under circumstances not for the faint of heart. Dad didn’t raise a fool. So I took my stacks of yellow legal pads, opened a blank Word file, and lit the fuse. One afternoon, I rose from my computer to make a cup of tea and found myself laughing tearfully about an incident with Jimmy. It wasn’t until then that I knew I was on to something that just might be wholly unique, with a simultaneously tragic and celebratory subject matter. I was confused but unrelenting, so I kept the daily march to fill pages until I knew what it was I was writing. Soon thereafter, I had the shell of a book to send to a highly respected agent in NYC, and a well-published dear family friend who I knew would give me the straight poop. Both confirmed the value of the subject and expressed serious interest in seeing the finished product. Both cautioned me against an abundance of optimism, which, believe it or not, was highly refreshing. I was off and running. So I began the real work of writing an 80,000-word memoir. As I dug through the hundreds of pages of notes about Jimmy and the myriad memories that these writings sparked somewhere in my noggin, an undefined sense of contentedness came over me, allowing me to work unabated. Writing about Dad in his “prime,” so to speak, when he was close to the age that I am now, was a rip-roaring trip down memory lane I did not anticipate. I had become so accustomed to his broken body those last years, I had

forgotten the man who could pick me up off the floor and hug the guts out of me. Was the world ready for such a father-son love story? I would never really need to know the answer. So, I began to write at breakneck speed, as if I had a death sentence hanging over my head. The first draft poured out of me in six months. As I wrote, I realized what I should have known all along. I would write this book for my kids—Sofia, Gianni, and Juliana. What better legacy could I provide than to show my own children in words and deeds the profound, rich, and unrelenting love I had for my own father, and his love for me? We may have led crazed lives, Jimmy and me, but when all was said and done, this living memoir would be an ode to the axiom that “love conquers all.” It would include most every bittersweet lesson two lives could offer up to our children and grandchildren. What was that worth? My kids had grown close to their grandfather during his last five years in California. They were proud of his many accomplishments, and enjoyed his far-flung stories of legal and personal conquest. He had not mellowed—not by a long shot—so they were equally wary of his occasional wrath. But, perhaps more than anything, they benefited from the relative stability and peace that had taken over my warlike mind. I was there for them, day in and day out, which drew us closer. My father’s body may have succumbed to incurable illness, but we were all divinely affected by his benevolent gravitational pull. Dad had made us a family again for the first time in a very long time. As I come to grips with life without Jimmy, I am at peace knowing that my father and I fought the fight of all fights, laughing rhapsodically as we spread good cheer to everyone who crossed our paths. We were on borrowed time. That was as plain as penny loafers and argyle socks on a Mormon, so we celebrated our conjoined lives each and every day as if it was Christmas Eve and Dad and I were the mischievous elves loading the big sleigh. We’d put a whoopee cushion on Santa’s seat when no one was looking and run for the highest hill as the sleigh took flight to hear the big fart as Santa plopped down his big, red ass. From the distant sleigh, we’d hear Santa’s exasperated voice saying, “Those LAROSSA BOYS!” And we’d roll down the snowy hill to accept our lumps of coal without a care in the world.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHARLEMAGNE “Come now, and let us reason together…” —“Song of Solomon,” Isaiah

It is widely acknowledged by “insiders” that few “made men” in the history of the Mafia were ever released from their blood oaths alive. Dad rarely asked for favors. They just appeared like neatly packaged sides of beef in our garage freezer every three or four months. From the time I was a boy until I was in my thirties, a carton of twenty-four 1 1/4-pound Maine lobsters appeared at our door every Christmas Eve. Dad had long forgotten which client supplied the crustaceans, but to this day, Christmas Eve dinner always features lobsters. I pay a fortune for them now, but no matter. The biggest lobster is base for the sauce and is the first to go. I offer him up, with love, to my father, whose picture hangs high on the kitchen wall, and toss him into the deathly vapor of water, vermouth, and a touch of Grand Marnier. There was one time, though, when Dad reached out for the favor of all favors, and I don’t mean deep-sixing somebody. If Dad had wanted someone dead, there would have been a line of volunteers a mile long. But he was in the saving-of-lives business and had no need for such things. Dad forged real friendships with just a tiny handful of clients. One very powerful leader with ties to politics, Wall Street, and Hollywood became a longtime client. Both men had grown up in the same Brooklyn neighborhood. This guy, however, was also a captain in the Gambino Crime Family, with an infamous pedigree to boot. This man—let’s call him Charlemagne—came to Jimmy and poured his heart out. Charlemagne had a wonderful wife and a big, close-knit family. He and his family desperately wanted a “second act” to his life—without the demands of the Mob—to build a business about which they were passionate. Being a “made man” would make that impossible. At the time, Paul Castellano was at the height of his power as the don of

the Gambinos, the most powerful family in the U.S. Jimmy had gained two acquittals for the don and was well on his way to a third. Castellano was interested in making the family legit by buying most of the Canadian farms that exported baby back ribs to New York. At one point, there were tons of rib joints in The City, all supplied courtesy of Big Paul, who had few people other than Jimmy with whom to talk business. Paul openly acknowledged how much he owed to Jimmy, and if the truth be known, the opposite was also true. Jimmy was in a famous eatery one night when Rudy Giuliani came in with his entourage. Jimmy motioned to the owner. “Don’t seat him,” he requested. “He’ll just ruin my meal.” Rudy left after being told there was no room for his party. Few people said no to Jimmy. That was because of Paul. I know just how hard it must have been for Dad to sit the boss of bosses down, with Charlemagne, to discuss the request. In a windowless conference room with thick walls, Jimmy let Paul know that this was a once-in-a-lifetime request, then left the two men alone. Ninety minutes later, Charlemagne walked out a free man. The week before Dad died, Charlemagne flew to California “on business,” he said, but I knew why he was there. I left them alone. Charlemagne sat next to Dad’s bed and they started in on the old days until Dad was too tired to speak anymore. I was in the kitchen prepping a Moroccan tagine, one of Dad’s favorites, for later that night. I was halfway through the laborious process when Charlemagne started down the stairs emptying into our large family room and our kitchen. I won’t describe him other than to say that this giant of a man, made more of stone than flesh, was sobbing uncontrollably, unable to speak. Before I could get him a box of Kleenex, he was at the front door, his great shoulders hunched over and his whole body shaking. He had said his last goodbye to the only man on Earth who could orchestrate his “second act”—his new life. He shut the door behind him, and that was that.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A NEW LEAF “I wanted to sit there forever, drinking in bitter satisfaction, using someone else as a license.” —Pete Hamill, A Drinking Life

Throughout our many decades of horsing around, Dad and I always found ideal outlets for our ribaldry. When I was ten years old, we often went to the bathroom and made X’s together in the toilet bowl in a one-sided competition to see who could keep the stream going longest. We were both circumcised similarly and shared happy, gleeful-looking penises. In my twenties, I learned to sip pre-dinner cocktails at the Columbus Club and roam around the place, marveling at the antique harpsichords. Three long courses would be served in the ornate, sconce-lit basement dining room, where an abundance of specials kept things interesting. My father and I would take turns dominating the family conversation until we were well baked. I’d head out of the club at a trot to kick the tires of the FBI van before he could catch and throttle me. We’d put my sisters and mother in a northbound cab on Madison and walk home. In my thirties, we’d stand in the Bridgehampton drizzle in our parkas, martinis in hand, stoking marinated meats and whole fish on the Weber Cooker, or we would take turns chasing my young children around the big house until they fell into bed. Dad never let me retire without the proverbial “nightcap.” In my early forties, we shared season tickets for home Knicks and Giants games and became regulars at The Garden of my childhood. When he had a free night, I’d invite Jimmy to one of the ritzy “cigar clubs” that were all the rage in New York City. I rented a humidor, where I kept our favorite robustos. Truth be told, neither Dad nor I were ever that keen about cigars, so the smallish robusto-size cigars were perfect for us. One night I was feeling particularly perky and informed Jimmy that if he was “nicer to me, I’d place his ashes in one of the deluxe cedarlined humidors in the club.” At that point,

there were few secrets left between us, so he let my arrogance slide. If I had known then the noxious taste and unbridled grief of death as I know it now, I would have kept my big mouth shut. My father was not one to sit around and brainlessly watch the tube (unless he was on it, of course). No matter which decade, we shared a love of nostalgic films, many of them Italian classics like Cinema Paradiso, Il Postino, and Three Brothers. In hindsight, Three Brothers could be a metaphor for the many lives Dad and I survived in our five-plus decades together. The film begins with the haunting, familiar echo of Camus: Three blood brothers receive the message to “come home; your mother is dead.” To grieve, the brothers retreat to separate corners of the large palazzo of their childhood. In a series of criss-crossing flashbacks, we learn little of the dead mother, but everything about the complex stories and difficult personal problems that have brought each brother to this moment of reckoning. My father and I were careful to sit out of eyesight of one another during screenings of Cinema Paradiso, a stunning and beautiful tale of Italian life in a small Sicilian village that never failed to make us emotional. This film hit home for reasons that were readily apparent, at least to us. A dark, quickwitted boy, Toto, befriends Alfredo, the old man who runs the projector at Cinema Paradiso (New Paradise Cinema), the town’s lone form of entertainment. Through grit, determination, and an obvious love of movies, Toto becomes Alfredo’s “assistant.” Prior to the public screening of each new film, the local priest “edits” each scene by ringing a bell at the moment when the screen characters kiss. Toto dutifully marks the celluloid film at the bell. Alfredo cuts out the kisses from each scene “flagged” by the stickup-his-bum priest. The friendship blossoms over the years until Toto is a handsome young man ready for university. He sadly leaves behind Alfredo, the only father he has ever known. Certain in his heart that the boy has limitless potential, Alfredo, in his last words to Toto, says: “Never come back here—NEVER. There is nothing here for you.” The boy reluctantly agrees. Fast-forward thirty years. A beautiful young woman answers a phone in the vaulted Rome apartment of her middle-aged boyfriend, the famous Italian director Salvatore Di Vita. A strange voice on the line asks her to relay a cryptic message: “Alfredo is dead.” The famous silver-haired director is quiet after absorbing the news. The grown man, the director, is actually Toto. Just as my father had escaped from the Marine Park section of Brooklyn, Toto

had escaped Sicily to achieve unrivaled success. An Alitalia jet touches down in Sicily, and Toto, now known by his proper name, stands before his ancient mother. She greets her son as if he’s come from the other side of the world. When Toto corrects his mother with the news that the flight was under an hour, she subtly scolds him for his absence the last thirty years. The townspeople are incredulous to see the famous moviemaker in their midst. Toto stands as one of Alfredo’s pallbearers. As he is about to depart, he receives a reel of film from Alfredo’s wife—the old man’s final gift to the boy he helped raise. The director returns to Rome and immediately goes to his private screening room. “Play it from the beginning,” he tells the projectionist, who spools the ancient film on a reel. The lights go down. As the haunting Ennio Morricone soundtrack swells, every kiss and embrace ever cut by the priest from a Cinema Paradiso film appears on the screen, one after another after another. Alfredo had kept every bit of “censored” film and spliced it together as a final “goodbye.” The director is visibly moved (as were Dad and I). For me, Toto, the little street urchin, is my father, Jimmy LaRossa, a small, quick-witted, dark-haired boy from Flatbush, Brooklyn, without a pot to piss in, who somehow surpassed everyone in the place from which he hailed. After a film afternoon in California, I would often give Dad a nebulizer for his lungs and put him to bed for a quick nap before retreating to our Manhattan Beach kitchen to start an elaborate dinner. I would catch myself thinking about Toto and Alfredo while I pulled the necessary provisions from the cupboard and refrigerator to chop and marinate. On those nights, more often than not, we would eat too much and overindulge on vodka, as if we were trying to reset our overloaded emotional neurotransmitters from the day.

After Dad passed and we celebrated his life at the New York memorial, I returned to Manhattan Beach with a weariness that felt as if I was walking in quicksand. I would not have survived as long as I had without knowing those dangerous pre-manic “signposts” that signaled an oncoming mental tornado. Age helped but did not necessarily bring “wellness.” That would always take work. But my many years of “watching myself” gave me a detached intelligence about how I was acting. For someone like me, monitoring my

“feelings” could only get me so far. How I was behaving is where the pedal met the metal. Was I sleeping? Could I read and write for a prolonged period? Was I avoiding phone and other human contact? Were my fantasies the result of hours of pacing? And above all else, was I exercising? At my ten-year mark in California, it was obvious I needed a major tuneup, simple as that. I was fortunate to find a clever psychiatrist with a natural feel for psychopharmacology. We sent a mouth swab to the Mayo Clinic and pondered the results. Somewhat reluctantly, I was falling in love again with medicine. I dug in and began to renew my passion as an editor/publisher who could influence the field. I poured over the newest treatises on psychopharmacology and began to get my publications back on track. Slowly, we swapped out four components of my “cocktail,” which had gone unchanged for more than a decade, with four of the newest agents on the market. For the most part, I tend to be a mule. I often respond to higher medication dosages, so these newer drugs with fewer side effects were easy to handle. Still, for the eighteen months it took to ramp up the new cocktail, any further quest to improve my mental well-being went unnoticed. I knew from experience what “wellness” would look like; I hadn’t seen that in the mirror in quite a while. There was a complicating factor to my malaise. I had no other choice but to face the fact that I was drinking far too much every night in order to “commune” with Jimmy, and the liquor was preventing me from reaching some sort of baseline. Taking powerful psychotropic drugs while drinking heavily is like hoping a tire’s slow leak will get better by itself. No leaking tire in the history of tires ever got better without intervention. The slow leak becomes a medium leak, and just keeps getting worse, until you find yourself trying to push fifty pounds per square inch of compressed air into a deflated tire while fifty-one psi leaks out the other side. I’d be better off putting the high-pressure hose up my la-de-da and blowing a neat hole through the top of my melon. I asked my doctor if we could put into the mix an opioids-agonist developed many years prior for heroin addiction that I had some knowledge of. The drug was shown to be of modest benefit for drug addicts, but could work well to ease alcohol cravings. So I added it to my morning cocktail and settled in for the months-long wait it would take to activate in my stubborn, war-weary mule of a body. “What do I do while I wait?” asked the sick mind

to the body. “What else can I do?” I kept drinking harder and harder, day in and day out. As night fell, I somehow convinced myself that I couldn’t begin to prepare for dinner without a cocktail. Drinking and cooking and pacing and talking to myself left me a sweaty, spent mess by the time Sonya drifted in from her day. Still, how could I not drink the night away? Isn’t that what the LaRossa Boys did decade after decade? If it was good enough for Dad, it is good enough for me. After all, who did I think I was? Somebody special? “NO, I DON’T DRINK.” That’s what I’m going to say to the bartender? Really? Dad had introduced me many years earlier to an often-forgotten comic film written by, directed by, and starring a young Elaine May. From the first to the last moment of A New Leaf, we would howl with laughter. Like many great comedies, unpredictable twists and turns belie an ingeniously simple plot. Walter Matthau plays a millionaire playboy who has run through his inheritance and is ill-equipped to provide for himself. If he does not marry a rich bride and repay a loan to his uncle within six weeks, he will forfeit all his property. One of Dad’s and my favorite gags involve Matthau’s Ferrari. Every morning he screeches out of his Park Avenue garage in the shining red rocket; every night he is towed back to the garage, only to have the mechanic confirm time and again the Ferrari’s Achilles heel: “carbon on the valves.” In order to keep his property from his greedy uncle, Matthau agrees to marry an introverted botanist with thick glasses, who happens to be an heiress from a wealthier family than his own. It’s a sham—Matthau intends to marry and then kill her on their honeymoon while they forage for new botanic discoveries. Before he can hatch his plan, however, she finds an entirely new species of plant life, which she names after him. Finally, when the moment to do away with the heiress arrives, Matthau, unable to kill this kind but hapless woman, saves her from drowning. Her innocence causes him to abandon his murderous plot and to accept his fate as her husband. Thus, he turns over a new leaf. After the day’s last flight was canceled, Dad and I were once stuck in Puerto Rico. We both desperately needed to get to our offices. Dad had an important court appearance and I was shipping a new journal. We were able to buy the last two seats on a small twinturbo prop that would land in Miami at sunrise. Dad and I were drinking vodkas without a care in the world, when, midway through the trip, we began to hit heavy turbulence. As other

passengers began to scream and pray, Dad and I looked at one another and, without missing a beat, uttered almost simultaneously, “Carbon on the valves.” The days with my father were not always wine, women, and song, though that was a good start. Our lives were, as well, chock full of obligations, which we tackled with little complaint. Still, when the witching hour arrived, I could not pass the freezer without salivating. Bottles of Kettle One, Grey Goose, and Tito’s were waiting for me in frosty suspension; the nectar that Dad and I had shared so many times was calling to me. At the very least, I wanted to feel in my bones that my father somehow roamed the same Earth that I did. Alas, no amount of drinking could provide such false equivalents. Life without my father was a crappy bargain any way you sliced it. Trust me, I tried. What I was yet to realize is that I had everything ass-backwards. Of course Dad would have wanted me to find my baseline and to get well. Instead, I used my father’s favorite vodka tumbler like a thimble, all the while in denial that I was committing slow suicide, like my dear mother before me. If Dad had taught me just one thing, it would have been that living is not for the faint of heart. So, after a fit of pure self-loathing, I stopped. I just stopped drinking. I turned the page and found my new leaf. Knowing him as well as I do, I am quite sure that Dad would have been proud. Somehow, even in his thundering, permanent absence, and the ensuing grief that washed over me day in and day out, I got my life back.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA “I knew you did not leave me because you doubted.” —Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea

You never know in life when the proverbial rubber is going to meet the road and traction takes you to a place you’ve never been before. Well, this might well be my day. As this memoir winds down to its natural conclusion, and the story of my true north draws to its inevitable close, I hope that the jewels of insight that made up my father’s unique life continue to sparkle a little longer in these last pages. I am reminded time and again that we are all on a similar journey, as were our fathers before us, and their fathers before them. If there were two opposites in my family, they were my father and his own father. My grandfather, Pop, was a constant presence in our Connecticut house as I grew into manhood. He’d arrive for months on end in the winter and summer and we’d shoot pool, play gin rummy, or split cord upon cord of wood for the fireplaces once winter arrived, which I tended while my father spent much of his life in court. I loved the challenge of simultaneously keeping four fires ablaze for much of the night. Pop was also the first person to teach me in earnest how to operate in a kitchen, starting with breakfast food and basic pastas, until we moved to the Mother of All Guinea Sauces: MEATBALLS AND SAUSAGES. Pop was a large man who had started working for his own parents in the maelstrom of the longshoreman’s restaurant where the Scotto ancestors frequented. He was a rough character as a young man who softened with age. I was the beneficiary of Pop’s older, mellower self, which had not been the case in my father’s youth. Dad rarely, if ever, spoke about it. Jimmy once let slip that he and Pop had an argument when Dad returned from Korea. Pop had gone off and backhanded him as he stood in the living room, dressed in his Marine Corps officer’s uniform. It was, perhaps, the only time my father let on the true nature of his own relationship with his father, which seemed

borne from the ashes of a foreign civilization I could not begin to fathom. Whatever thoughtless things Dad had suffered at Pop’s hands were no longer an emotional influence on my father. If he dwelled on anything, it was his beloved mother, who believed in him without qualification but never lived to see his significant accomplishments. Even so, thanks in large part to my many hours with Pop, the universe, again, made its grand shift twentyfive years after Pop died, enabling Jimmy and I to make up for lost time. We played gin rummy for hours and sat around for half the night cooking in our Manhattan Beach kitchen, ensuring that the recipe for meatballs and sausages survived into the next generation. For two guys who had spent more time working and chasing women than raising kids, there was nothing we loved more than the sense of family “togetherness.” During my time living in Italy, I couldn’t help noticing how normal it was to see three generations of a family walking about, or picnicking in the park. The children seemed to genuinely engage with the grandparents, which I felt was a boon to my ancestors. Dad explained it like this: When an ItalianAmerican makes a lot of money, they purchase, for their children, houses in the general vicinity of the parental spread but far enough away so everyone is not “stuck” together. On the other hand, he said, when an Italian makes a lot of money, they build on to the family palazzo so that everyone can live under the same roof and share the common bounty. Dad and I were most certainly cut from the latter group. There was little that gave us more happiness than a house full of family and friends and an immaculately set dinner table. Once Jimmy came to stay with us, my transformation became complete. The guy who, five years prior, often returned home at dawn, spent and sweaty, no longer existed.

I returned to Rome in January 1986, after Paul Castellano’s murder in New York, still smarting from the image that my father might have been killed in front of Sparks Steak House on the night of December 16. Knowing him as I do, I am quite sure his last thought would have been, “I wonder what the specials are tonight?” Leave it to a bunch of crude fucking wops with big hair to forget that killing a man is horrible; killing him before he knows the

specials of the night is unspeakable. Dad described Paul’s private funeral as sorrowful. As usual, he did not hide out in the Hamptons in the days after the murder but kept his firm moving ahead in his glass office high above Madison Avenue. I settled back in to my studio in the Trastevere section of Rome, writing for the International Courier. As luck would have it, while I was in New York, Ernest Hemingway’s last book, The Garden of Eden, was being posthumously published. Hemingway had been dead for twenty-five years, so the forthcoming publication was quite a sensation in the U.S. My editor blocked out a spread in the center of the newspaper and gave me a deadline of one week. Few could argue that Hemingway’s simple, masterful narration was a wonder to behold. But, until the assignment in Rome, Hemingway had never been a favorite writer of mine. I viewed many of his themes as “forced,” as if to teach boys what it was like to be a “real man.” It didn’t help that my college friends—boys on their way to manhood—all idolized Hemingway. So, I did back then what I always did. Since women in college overwhelmingly preferred Fitzgerald to Hemingway, I went over to the winning side and thumbed my nose at the boar hunter. Nevertheless, I had a job to do. I realized that to give the new posthumous release its due, I would have to reread just about every word Hemingway ever wrote. The newspaper had a “loaner” deal with a large English-language bookstore in the center of Rome. I’ll never forget the haggard bookstore owner’s face when I emptied Hemingway from his shelf of “H” and walked out. With the back-to-back publications of The Sun Also Rises, Men Without Women, and A Farewell to Arms in the course of four short years (19261929), Hemingway became the first literary “rock star” of his generation. He was often pictured at the most elegant parties in Paris, or fighting giant fish off the coast of Cuba. His wives were beautiful, his friends urbane, and a red carpet seemed to appear under his feet wherever he roamed. But it was the publication of his shortest novel that brought Hemingway both his greatest professional accolades and prefaced his deepest sorrow and tragedy. The Old Man and the Sea won the Pulitzer Prize in 1953. The book was specifically cited in 1954, when Hemingway was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature. Ernest Hemingway committed suicide in Ketchum, Idaho, in 1961.

The time between his Nobel Prize win until his death was shorter than a decent bottle of California Cabernet Sauvignon ages in its cask. I didn’t know at the time that I was a budding psychopharmacologist, so I tried to avoid Hemingway’s depression and suicide and let the books speak for themselves. Try as I might, I could not shake the lone image of the author’s last hours in his cabin. It was not maudlin curiosity that pulled me in that direction, but I somehow reasoned that The Old Man and the Sea and Hemingway’s suicide were somehow inextricably linked. I couldn’t prove that, of course—there was no web to fall back on in 1986—so I would follow the clues Hemingway left for me in his books. I crossed my fingers and settled in for a long read.

The week prior to Jimmy’s memorial service, I wrote and rewrote draft after draft of the words I would use to summarize my father’s rich and adventurous life. It was unlike me to struggle like that, but I stuck to it. I realized that I needed, and had not yet fully grasped, an all-encompassing question with which to frame my father’s life. The attempt to answer that question would be the subject of my memorial talk. What could I say that would encapsulate Jimmy’s joyfulness, generosity, and mentorship; his killer instinct that could isolate the one faulty leg of a legal argument; his legendary propensity for carousing; his disdain for injustice and hypocrisy; and his blind love of family and friendship? My close friend from New York, Scott Slater, is an entrepreneur presently living in Palo Alto, California. He enjoyed any time he could spend with Jimmy in Manhattan Beach, having lost his own father about five years earlier. The last time he visited, Scott, Dad, and I sat around comparing notes about Winston Churchill and Israel. Following our afternoon rap session with Dad, Scott and I had blind dates with two gorgeous women. We made reservations at one of my favorite places in Manhattan Beach. After the ladies arrived in the most tricked-out Tesla I had ever seen, we grabbed some cocktails and went upstairs to make introductions to Dad. As Scott later reminded me, Dad, within minutes, had the girls eating out of his hands. They were mesmerized. Finally, with the timing of a Saturday Night Live actor, Dad asked, rhetorically: “Can I ask you ladies something? What in God’s name are you doing with these two guys?” That was about the highlight of the night for Scott and me.

We received polite kisses a few hours later and watched the ladies’ spaceship head west, our heads in a cloud of sensuous perfume. To this day, Scott and I speak three or four times a week. He has been a faithful friend and ingenious contributor to this work. Scott and I share an almost mystical belief that if you listen hard enough to smart people, notice life’s trends as a matter of course, and are unafraid to put disparate sources and ideas side by side to see how they stack up on any given day, eventually a jewel will drop. If you are savvy enough to see it drop, and are ready to catch it, this may well be the seed of an invaluable opportunity. Before the memorial, I called Scott to run some ideas by him. The question I settled on and asked from the ornate church pulpit was, “How does one measure the arc of a truly accomplished life?” Dad had a generosity of spirit that made virtually everyone around him a captive. Few people continue to evolve throughout their lives. My father had the ability to evolve before your eyes, as if his perspective on and curiosity about humanity was so large that it was like a spotlight on a swivel. He mentored more young lawyers than I could count. He wasn’t hiding from anyone or anything. If he liked you, you were granted access to his real, true self. If not, he was polite, and that was that.

For the two years between the autumns of 2012 and 2014, Dad’s illnesses began to advance quickly, but we both kept our cool and journeyed on. To someone who had lived a daring, full-throated life like Dad had, even great literary metaphors about death, like the Dylan Thomas image of “raging against the light,” seem like a hollow sound-bite better suited to poetry than to the stuff of blood and tears and the crushing reality of death. It was a miracle that Dad was still alive after the life he had led, and we both knew it. We never deceived ourselves about how this would end. Still, we weren’t going down without a fight. I watched the color of his skin, the rise of his chest, the timber of his voice, and the clarity of his eyes for the faintest sign of oncoming distress. Dad rarely submitted to discomfort or complained. Still, if his lungs were left to become “juicy” for more than a few hours, the result could be catastrophic. I had become so well-versed in pulmonology that I knew just when to spike his steroids, or strengthen his nebulizer, or start a regimen of antibiotics, or strap a special vest around him

to stimulate his pulmonary system to keep his fragile lungs from “tipping” into a fatal case of pneumonia. No matter what, I stayed by his side, summoning every ounce of cool and expertise I could muster. As the winter of 2014 approached, Dad and I, like so many basketball fans, were on the Carmelo Anthony watch. Anthony, one of the greatest players to ever suit up for the New York Knicks, was the subject of enormous speculation. Phil Jackson, the former New York Knick of my boyhood, had retired as the legendary coach of two basketball dynasties (Bulls and Lakers), until the Knicks waved enough money at him to coax him out of retirement. As the team’s new general manager, he took full control, choosing both the coach and the players. There was talk that Carmelo, a multi-season NBA All-Star, would not suffer Jackson’s heavy hand and would insist on being traded. Dad and I loved Carmelo and were on pins and needles. If my Twitter feed popped with news about Anthony, I would run upstairs to inform Dad. Likewise, if ESPN commentators sniffed out a new fact about Anthony and the Knicks, Dad would ring me downstairs to pass on the news. We took some solace in the predictions of some prominent commentators: With Jackson’s magic touch, the Knicks would be in championship contention within two years. When it came to Dad’s health, I lost my composure just once—after a 2014 endoscopy confirmed that Dad’s esophagus was filled with “cauliflower-like cancer cells.” The surgeon who said those words after performing the procedure must have read the look on my face when he compared my father’s throat to cauliflower, which we liked to slice thin and broil with olive oil, cracked pepper, and a thin crust of primo parmesan cheese. The surgeon glanced at his cell phone and fled the room, just before I kicked the chair he had been sitting in halfway across the recovery area, which got the attention of hospital security, who wisely kept their distance. At that moment, I had assumed the wild-eyed protectiveness that was rightly Pop’s. I had nothing left to do but stand at the foot of Dad’s bed with my head in my hands and just weep. Finally, I put my arms around him and rested my head gently on his chest. “I’m so sorry, Dad. I never dreamed you’d go out this way. I so didn’t want this for you.” He tapped me on the shoulder so I would look at him. “Hey, kid,” he said, his voice still hoarse from the scope. “You’ve got to call Phil Jackson and tell him we don’t have two years

anymore to win a championship. Tell him he has to do it this year.” I read everything about pain management I could get my hands on and acquainted myself with top-notch home hospice outfits. I had squirreled away enough meds in the black safe in my room to send Dad to the Bunny Ranch for an indefinite period. I had made a promise at New York Hospital and I was going to see it through to the end. I began to steel myself for the inevitable. Time slowed. There was no need for hospitals or doctors anymore. My entire world narrowed to one and only one direction: true north.

During the five years with my father, when death was often at our door, I pulled The Old Man and the Sea from a shelf and read it with great regularity. The more time I spent with my ninety-three page, Scribner hardcover edition, the more it spoke to me. It said to always keep your back strong and level the bow. Know your bearings in relation to the horizon so you don’t lose your way. And keep your knife sharp and handy to fight what comes as hard as you can. Because sooner or later, the blood will seep into the water and they will come. I realized, then, that Hemingway, toward the end of his life, had just “let go” of any preconceived notions of manhood, and that this state of mind had transformed his writing. The Old Man and the Sea shows something Hemingway kept buried deep inside: his sense of fatalism, the inevitability that some things are predetermined and cannot be altered no matter how much force we apply. He wove this sense of fatalism deep into this simple novel, during a time when the Black Dog was at his front door, and created one of the most unforgettable literary masterpieces of the twentieth century. Hemingway’s description of the old man matches in great detail that of my father as he neared the end. The brown blotches that the “sun brings from its reflection on the sea were on his cheeks.” Deep wrinkles creased the back of his neck and “ran well down the sides of his face.” These scars were “as old as erosions in a fishless desert.” Everything about him was old, except his eyes, which were “cheerful and undefeated.” I might have given Dad another five years when I stole his bruised and battered body, and we lifted off from Teterboro on that cold January morning and headed west. But he gave me back the meaning to the rest of my life.

Thanks to him, I had developed a rich dialogue with my children, a little vain white dog, Hootie, and a near-limitless horizon. Yes, I might have “saved” him, but he saved me in the most profound way a father can save a child. Until he allowed me to take charge of his life, I was as lost as a man can be. You might not have known it if I was sitting at your bar, or posed next to you in a yoga class, or waved to you on the street. But I was on automatic pilot. How lucky am I to have known and cherished each and every day with Jimmy? How sweet are my tears to have had that privilege? Whatever the world may dream up and throw my way can never take that from me. The road that brought me to this very moment was crooked and steep, but delivered me to a place where I could begin to live with myself again. My true north would soon be gone, but he left me a road map so I could claim my rightful place in the world without the regrets and self-loathing that had weighed on me for so many years. The themes of The Old Man and the Sea were just as significant and steep. An old man fishing alone in a skiff out of Cabañas hooks a great marlin on a heavy hand line, pulling the skiff miles out to sea. The old man stays with the giant marlin a day, a night, another day and another night, while the fish swim deep and pulled the boat. Finally, the old man is able to lash the giant fish alongside the skiff. As the marlin’s scent leached into the sea, the old man suffers mightily as he fought off sharks all night, stabbing at them with a club and then an oar, until he is exhausted and the sharks have eaten their fill. Days later, when the old man, Santiago, finally returns to the harbor, bloodied and exhausted, everyone is asleep. In the morning, fishermen and tourists crowd around the skiff to look at the skeleton of the great fish lashed beside it. The boy, Manolin, who had been waiting and watching for the old man for days, sneaks into his shack to see that Santiago is still breathing. As the old man drifts in and out of consciousness, he tells the boy what he can about what had happened aboard his small boat. Even though the old man had lived his life on the sea, he no longer dreams about the ocean, Hemingway tells us, but only about his childhood in Africa, where he had watched lions frolic on the white sand. That early image has invaded his dreams and makees him happy. The last line of the short novel is vintage Hemingway and tells us everything left to tell. As the boy sits by Santiago’s side, crying and watching him, fearful that he would die, “The old man was dreaming about the lions”

of his childhood.

I watched my father sleep the Saturday night before he died, unaware of what the morning would bring. He suffered a TIA, or mini-stroke, during the night, and never was fully conscious again. I alerted the home hospice team late Sunday morning when I was sure what had transpired. For a few days, as he lay dying, I thought long and hard about trying to pull his great mind from the funk it was in so we could continue our journey. (This was not his first mini-stroke, but it was the most serious medical event he had suffered.) Perhaps, at that point, we had both tired of the many miracles that had blessed us over the years. I leaned in close to him and blurted out something I would regret over the course of the next six months of grief. “Dad, we’re never going to beat this fucking cancer.” At that moment, his body visibly relaxed. He was ready. Over the next few days, with the help of the hospice physicians and nurses, I adopted a focused, military-like strategy to send my beloved father to a place devoid of pain and blood and tears, where he could sleep the sleep of his childhood, in his mother’s bosom. She had been his true north and he had been grieving for her for almost sixty years. I wrote a press release about his death and dated it two days later, which turned out to be the exact day he would die. I increased the meds as rapidly as sound medical practice would allow me, watching for any possible disturbance in his calm demeanor while keeping his body temperature as close to normal as possible. When Dad was finally at peace, I shut down the oxygen compressor and listened to the foghorns blow in the Pacific. My feeling of accomplishment—that I had succeeded in my promise to him five years before—was fleeting at best. I could not bear to watch as the men came to take his body away. I had wheeled him into this house five years before, and had been his constant companion whenever he left. I could not watch him leave without me. It was the one “task” I did not have the strength to oversee. (Luckily, my sister, Susan, and brother, Thomas, were present.) For a brief time, I was a mortally wounded animal, stripped of the usual filters, unable to protect my own son from my howling grief. When the terrifying moment had passed, I was, for a brief second, adrift between

islands of mysterious emotions, until my eyes lit on a yellow legal pad and pen beside my bed. For the many nights we spent together in Manhattan Beach, I always made it a point to kiss my father goodnight, no matter how angry we might have been with one another. I picked up the pad beside the bed and, in one brief draft, penned the following:

Goodnight My Father When I kissed your face that night Like I do every night You were planning an extravagant Thanksgiving And next summer in Sicily Or maybe Thailand for the food. When I kissed your face that night Like I do every night We felt bulletproof Reeking of ravioli and booze Having cheated time And outsmarted death 100 times over. Had I known you would die When I kissed your face that night I would have fired a bright light Got the cards, climbed into bed beside you And we would have played Gin Rummy Deuces wild Until the end of time. But I did not know that you were Already beyond games And were heading for that place where The little disturbances of man no longer matter That we had cheated time for the last time

And the moment of heartbreak was upon us with fury. You once said to me: “Jimmy, when I’m dead, I’m fucking dead,” Cocksure and alive as the Vintage wisecrack rolled off your tongue. I remember, too, a time we both choked up When I uttered out of the blue, “How am I ever going to face you and say goodbye?” And we wept in silence—you at the table, Me standing by the stove—just the two of us Lost in our deafening unknowingness. When I kissed your face that night Like I do every night It matters not what we knew or didn’t know Because you showed me in word and deed Throughout our rich times together That a kiss is just a kiss A symbol for living a life that is Full and honorable and real. For that I owe you a great debt. When I kiss my child’s face I am kissing your face. That is the way of things from this night on: I am you. We are you. You taught us well what truly matters. So if by some divine act I could have known that night When I kissed your face That we would soon part for eternity And never again sit shoulder-to-shoulder, I would have lingered a moment longer

To share a knowing wink with you That our work together was concluded. We had wrung the life out of life Had made the most out of much And could move on together as one. Thank you dear friend. Bless you for my life. Goodnight my Father. As my father lay dying, he dreams of his beloved mother, who was close to my age now when she died. She is youthful and buoyant and has been waiting for him. They sit in elegant chairs on a vast green lawn, gazing upon one another without touching. “Look what I did, Mother,” he says to her, beaming, sweeping his arm along the great French Tudor home in Greenwich, Connecticut. “I know, Son,” she says to her long-lost boy. “I’ve always known.” As he looks at her, the obvious dawns on him like the first morning of summer. His mother was, and always will be, his true north. He glances at his black slick-shined shoes, then to the epaulettes on his shoulder. “I was not a very good soldier,” he says. “You were a Marine. That made me proud. I couldn’t let you know about me when you were doing something so important.” “I wish I had known. I would have done anything to help you. I’ve missed you so all these years. Everything I did I did for you. I wanted to tell you so badly.” “I heard you, Son. But you needed to be left alone, to make your own way. I never doubted. Not for a second. We have the newspapers here. Everyone talks of you. I read the ads mostly: stretch slacks, diet pills, digital scales. Imagine, digital scales.” She shakes her head slowly, her smile as radiant as he had remembered. “Have you always been here, like this?” “I could choose to dream and then make it my life. Or, if I choose, simply watch.” “The world was gloomy when you left me. Pictures of Jesus on the wall practically killed me. I hated him so. I mean, would it be so much trouble to

save someone if you can? Would that be such a pain, for Christ’s sake?” She laughs. He could always make her laugh. By the time Korea was done, she was too far gone to laugh. “You were never a Job type, Jimmy. You would never stand for all that Old Testament stuff. You always had the most optimistic demeanor. How you became such a gladiator, I’ll never know.” Now it is his time to smile. For a moment, he swells with a son’s pride. Of course she knew. How could she not? A wind begins to blow. Jimmy looks down. He is in his wheelchair and Grinch pajamas. “My son is grieving,” he says sadly. “Yes, he is,” his mother confirms. “But think what it was like stuck on an island with you, like that horny uncle of your father’s from Calabria, to watch at breakfast, lunch, and supper, and listen to your snoring in the night.” “Still, I wish I could have had one more cup of coffee with him.” “Dying can be a hard pill to swallow, Jimmy.” Mother and son stand before one another, taking each other in. “Is it time?” he asks. Jimmy is now dressed in a finely tailored dark Brioni suit just a shade lighter than his jet-black hair. He smoothes his strong hands over the material. “I’ve been waiting for this moment,” she says. “Let’s go in through the billiard room. We’ll start there and move on to the library.” “It’s quite a house, Jimmy. You were happy here?” He gives her the look. She rolls her eyes. “I know, as happy as you could be.” He takes her hand and they walk toward the house. It’s as if I am watching from the treetops in the orchard. I can see them and hear them and feel them, but I am frozen in a single breath of time, a mere witness. My father leans in closer to his mother. “Each room has a story. In James Jr.’s case, so does the roof.” Dad points. “He used to climb on that eve at night to smoke pot.” They both chuckle at the thought. “These kids think they’re so smart.” “He was a good climber at least.” I want to shout to them—to plead my case—to feel my father’s presence

just one more time, but I have no voice. Dad and I had shared so many things during our rich, long lives together. But this dream is his and his alone. They begin to pass through the open doors, arm in arm. I can hear the giant weeping willow bend in the warm breeze outside my bedroom and smell the ripe Japanese plum trees in the orchard as I commit the moment to eternity. Suddenly, they stop to look back. Light is beaming off them. For a brief second, I think they are looking at me. Sure enough, Dad flips me the bird and smiles a last toothy smile, happy as a bowl of freshly shucked razor clams steaming on fresh linguine. Mother and son turn and disappear together into the shadows.

EPILOGUE

ONE MORE CUP OF COFFEE BEFORE I GO They say I shot a man named Gray And took his wife to Italy She inherited a million bucks And when she died it came to me I can’t help it if I’m lucky. —Bob Dylan

It wasn’t long after Jimmy died that I found myself standing alone in the big silent house in Manhattan Beach, wondering about my next move. I had never allowed myself to focus on the aftermath. I just figured that whatever would be would be. Let it come, I had thought fatalistically. In truth, I was flummoxed about what the world would look and feel like without Jimmy. So I did what I always do: I kept moving. Men in white coats and vans had come and gone in groups, collecting the vast amounts of medical equipment. Except for the flat-screen TV over the fireplace and a simple wooden cross I had mounted just inside the bedroom door, Jimmy’s hospital suite was stripped bare and painted. The deep mounting holes that held the mechanical chair to the grand wooden staircase were sealed and re-stained. Otherwise, the house was the same, right down to the martini shaker on the counter, awaiting Dad’s evening cocktail. I had placed a bouquet of orange tulips at the place where I usually set his plate at night. It would be quite a few days before I even thought of firing the burners. When someone dies suddenly, his or her finances are frozen. Bank accounts and credit cards that Dad and I used for household expenses just stopped. I had plenty of cash. I just had to find it. The last thing I wanted to do was dig through boxes of banking records. No matter. The gardeners were paid and I kept the house humming through the holidays, while Dad’s suite stayed cloistered out of respect for the man who had guided my world for more than five decades.

Out of habit, I went to Jimmy’s room every few days to open windows so the heat wouldn’t become unbearable. Then I’d seal them at night. From time to time, when I was sure no one was around, I’d linger at the spot where he had died in his bed. The greatest gift my mother gave me was my belief in God, which I had always kept to myself. At those moments, though, I asked God to take care of Jimmy. I’d quietly leave when I felt composed enough to keep my visits a secret. Marta had done a yeoman’s job packing up his clothes and getting them to our local Goodwill. Even though she spared me much of the heavy lifting, my body still felt like a lead-filled piñata at the close of each day. I was present enough from time to time to plug the leaks that sprang open in our world of leaks. That was about the extent of things I could handle. If one of our cars needed tires or a new headlamp, I was the man to handle that. Otherwise, just roll me over and let me be. Using sleep to pass the time can be a blessing in disguise. Somehow, I knew of a temporary cure for my monolithic malaise. Women would get my motor running, I decided. As Dad and I fought death those last few years with every weapon at our disposal, I had kept those instincts buried, but I had never forgotten my early times in Southern California as a freewheeling single guy. I recalled with fondness those mornings “sneaking” back to the Manhattan Beach house as the sun rose, trying to keep the RPMs down on my old BMW so as not to wake the neighborhood. As tempting as it was to reminisce about all this potential woman nonsense, two things stopped me dead in my tracks: The first was that I was no longer that same man. The second and most important was Sonya, who was becoming the love of my life. If you’ve not come head to head with a badass, green-eyed English woman before, you have something to look forward to. I met Sonya in the late summer before Dad passed. After a fantastic first date, she disappeared to focus on settling her only child, Max, at the Gallatin School at New York University. I passed along as much New York advice as I could muster through social media, but Dad and I were down to our last months, so I was rarely able to emerge from my steel curtain of controlled emotion. Ironically, as Sonya prepared to return to her empty nest, Dad and I went eastward for our farewell trip to New York City. After both Dad and I miraculously returned to California, Sonya and I

became inseparable. Dad actually invited her to the opera, a sure sign of his developing fondness for her. After a few weeks, as the end drew near, she left for a while, praying that I would still be in one piece upon her return. One day, when all was said and done and I was standing alone (again) in the big, silent house in Manhattan Beach, Sonya returned. I had been shattered by Dad’s death—no doubt about it—but I was equally determined to regain something that resembled a life. I had learned more from my father about living those last five years than I could have imagined. Leave it to Jimmy to guide me even in death. From the beginning, I felt strongly that my father had somehow gifted Sonya to me. It seemed highly unlikely that I would meet the woman I would spend my life with just weeks prior to his passing. Sonya and I bought a modern, light, four-bedroom house down the road. On the day we closed, I took a large framed picture of Dad in his Marine Corps uniform, painted in Okinawa, and placed it on a high eave over the kitchen so he could look down on us as we cooked and ate. After I had hung Dad’s picture, I started down the stairs of the new house, trying to focus on the final engineer’s report. During our various trips overseas, I had ripped most of the rotator cuff tendons in my left shoulder. Not to be outdone that day, I missed a stair and began to fall head over heels. My only option was to use my left arm to slow the fall, ripping to shreds however few tendons were still hanging on. After three and a half hours of surgery, in which the orthopedic surgeons made seven incisions, they managed to rebuild most of my rotator cuffs except for the infraspinatus and the bicep, which were beyond repair. After months of physical therapy, I could practice yoga if I used two blocks and a strap and set my mat against a wall. I had spent so long in the role of Dad’s unstoppable Type-A medical advocate that I mistakenly thought I was bulletproof. The torn left shoulder was a mere warning shot. While the shoulder was healing, I fell off a ladder twice, compounding the injury. While still on Vicodin for the shoulder, I walked in a daze on hot sand and burnt a foot so badly it necessitated surgery in my left leg to laser out the malfunctioning veins. Finally, after a long run on an uneven beach, I lost all feeling in one leg and was hit with wrenching double nerve pain in the other leg. An MRI showed that the nerve bundles that run through the lower spine were completely occluded and I had met a most fierce opponent: spinal stenosis.

I was the first patient scheduled for endoscopic back surgery that July day in 2017. By the time I was scrubbed and ready, the spinal surgeons at Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center had further reviewed the MRI and concluded that the operation would be more dangerous than they had originally anticipated. They wanted permission to fully open the back to get better access to the spine. I said “yes.” It proved to be a tough, long surgery. I was bleeding so badly that they accidentally nicked my spinal cord, but were confident that they had repaired the damage. I returned home after about four days. Within hours, intense pain and subsequent paralysis set in. The same Manhattan Beach paramedics who once came for Dad took me down my stairs on a sled and rushed me to a local hospital, where they didn’t know what to do with me. I was shaking with pain as two techs stuffed me flat into an MRI tube, the most painful position imaginable. After fifteen minutes of a scheduled one-hour MRI, I couldn’t endure another moment and they took me out. Luckily, they had captured the image we needed. It showed that the surgery had gone haywire and I was bleeding internally. A private ambulance rushed me back north to UCLA Medical Center, where I underwent two emergency surgeries within days of one another, resulting in a “natural” spinal fusion of my lower back. They put two large drains into my back that filled every few hours. I was on a Dilaudid drip for ten days and have no memory whatsoever of seven of those days. (Dilaudid is stronger than heroin or morphine.) Sonya, Sofia, and Gianni were at the hospital 24/7. My youngest, Juliana, was at school in Boston and had to stay put. I hallucinated for more than a week, communing with nurses posing as voodoo priestesses, and ripping the IV leads out of my arms at regular intervals. I even escaped from my bed and stole a wheelchair to “take a tour of the ship.” After that, the doctors put an alarm on my bed and posted a nurse in my room all night. I have no independent recollection whatsoever of any of this. My kids told me that I was very funny throughout the ordeal. Much to my relief and their astonishment, I did not yell at, or insult, anyone. After the third surgery, when I had not yet regained my memory, one of the surgeons came into my room to ask if I knew what had just happened to me. According to the kids and Sofia’s boyfriend, Alex, I looked at the surgeon as if he was on the heroin drip and not me. “You just performed a hemi-laminectomy on my L3, and a medial

facetectomy on the L3-L4 and L4-L5,” I said. “Two drains are collecting blood from the spinal area.” At this point in the story, my eyes started to droop. “At night, the blood drips down to the basement where the rats have at it. The rats are taken to NASA and are split open to see what is wrong with… my… back…” And then, in mid-sentence, I fell sound asleep while the kids howled with laughter. One night, believing I was hallucinating, I looked at my dark room and saw Sofia’s big black eyes shining at me like an owl. How can that be? I thought. Sofia is in New York. So I lifted my head and peered out again. Sure enough, there were Sofia’s piercing eyes staring at me. Thinking I was batshit crazy, I tried to sleep. Later, I found out that Sofia had spent days sleeping in the chair across from me to make sure I wouldn’t bolt from the bed. It was during daylight of my third week in the hospital when I finally “awoke.” As the world focused around me, I thought I had been napping on my yellow couch in my New York City office. My son, Gianni, was sitting in a chair across the way. I introduced him to my new “secretary,” Caitlin, who was really the nurse who had just come on duty. Gianni and Caitlin played along. “You must be hungry, Son. Let’s go get some lunch.” I started to stir, anticipating a nice martini. “No, no, Dad, let’s wait for Sofia and Alex. They will be here soon.” I was incredulous. MY SON REFUSING A MEAL? Impossible! “Come on, we’ll call them from the restaurant. Let’s go somewhere nice.” Gianni pulled his chair next to my “couch.” Only then did my fuzzy brain focus enough to realize that I was in a hospital bed. He put his hand on my shoulder, and the days and nights of my caged torture slowly began to crystallize. I didn’t need to ask him any questions. They all rolled out in my memory like an awful movie. I was struck by one fleeting image: Sonya slumped to the floor, crying uncontrollably, unsure if I would ever walk again. Gianni could see that something had changed in my demeanor. The party was over. I remember feeling dejected and my eyes welled up. “It’s OK, Dad,” Gianni reassured me again and again. It was hard to ignore the obvious. There I was, hooked up to every machine possible, peering at my son with almost three weeks of beard growth on my face. How many hours had I spent looking at my own father in that

same position? In the irony of all role reversals, it dawned on me that the difference in my age from that of my kids was about the same as between Dad and me. For a brief second, I could not face Gianni. As I buried my head in my pillow, I could see Dad’s face and I could clearly smell him. When he was walking into the Greenwich house with his beloved mother, with me watching from the treetops in my last dream of him, I longed for one more moment. This was my moment. Voiceless words sounded deep inside me, and I knew. Snapping back to reality, I gathered my composure and looked up at my big, strong lumberjack of a son. “Come on, Gianni, I want to walk.” The nurse, sensing my new sobriety, lowered the bed rail and helped me swing my legs toward the floor. “Ready, Son? Let’s stroll.” “Anytime you are, Dad. Just take it slow.” I felt my feet on the ground and pushed off the bed before I could lose my nerve. Gianni grabbed me around my thin shoulders, while the nurse guided the two rolling IV stands and followed behind us. I held on to Gianni as tightly as I could. I did not know it then, but I had lost twenty-five pounds during my hospitalization and was extremely weak. The first few steps were searing. Gianni knew I wasn’t about to retreat. As we emerged from the room, I could see every eye at the nurse’s station turn toward us. We continued to hold on to each other and slowly walk down the hall. Finally, we turned a corner where a bank of chairs and tables marked an empty waiting area. “Let’s sit down for a minute,” I suggested. Gianni and I sat side by side while I caught my breath. Recently, the kids had started referring to me as “Pops.” I thought they meant to honor the passing of a generation while breaking my chops at the same time. Perhaps, though, they were also trying subconsciously to get me to slow down and live at a reasonable pace. No need to worry about that. Nature had certainly taken care of that. With Gianni’s help, I stood to begin the long slog back to my hospital bed. “You know,” I said to Gianni as I held tightly to his shoulders, “I think it’s time I taught you and your sisters my grandfather’s recipe for meatballs and sausages.”

A huge smile crossed his face. He’d been asking me for the recipe for years. It had never been written down. “If you want to learn, you have to watch over and over again until you understand it like a second skin.” “I hope you live long enough to teach me,” Gianni cracked wise, giving me the business. He had been so worried about me that it was good to hear a little irreverence in his voice. “Well, Son, you never really know what the future will bring. But I wouldn’t bet against me. A lot of guys lost their shirts betting against your grandfather.” “I know, Dad,” Gianni started, and then recited my mantra. “You just can’t help it if you’re lucky.” I chuckled. “You just might be ready after all, my boy.” He slowed his pace and turned toward me as if I was about to spill the secret of a lifetime, like where Jimmy Hoffa was buried. “Ready? For what?” he blurted out excitedly. “For the meatballs, meathead! Take it easy; one thing at a time …one thing at a time.” While making the Mount Everest-like trek back to my room, I decided that circumstances warranted a “final recipe.” I would adopt the character of the most manipulative man I had ever known: my father. Powerful opioids coursed through my raggedy brain, but I made my decision, as I often do, by asking myself, What would Jimmy do? “Can I have a few minutes to myself before Sonya comes?” Sofia and Gianni shuffled off to the cafeteria in a daze. I had carefully learned how to disarm the bed alarm by pressing three consecutive numbers on the base of the bed. I made it to the bathroom, dragging one of the lighter room chairs and placing it in front of the sink. I piled towels on the chair so I wouldn’t slip. I somehow retrieved my bath kit to remove shaving cream, a razor, and as many blades as I had. It took some time and a lot of blades, but I emerged cleanly shaven. I even managed to rinse and comb my hair. I settled victoriously back into bed. CNN was giving me a welcome update on the news of the world. When the hospital door opened, my momentary solace became an emotional three-ring circus. First, the senior spinal surgeon, Dr. Van Allen, walked in. He had heard enough about me in the weeks after the botched first surgery to be scared. If he had crippled me, I was not the kind of guy to go gently into the night. Things would go very badly, like screwing up nose jobs

on the Gabor sisters. Lots of people would hear about it. It took three surgeries, but, somehow, a good result had been achieved. When the surgeon saw me shaved and sitting up with a big smile, palpable relief spread through his being. Then Sonya and the kids walked in. I smiled that smile of Jimmy’s as I carried him home from Abe’s Steakhouse that night so long ago. He and I had exchanged knowing glances in the elevator just before the door to the apartment opened and my mother pummeled him with her fists for being out all night drunk. He had known what would happen, but he’d done it anyway. At that moment in the hospital, I could see life’s intricate handiwork come full circle. The road that brought me to this moment had been long and steep. In return, it gifted me the true knowledge I had always sought but was afraid to admit: I was a man blessed by the universe. Jimmy was nothing if not lucky. And so, it seems, am I. I put out my arms to embrace everyone in the room. We were all fellow conspirators now. “Doc,” I said to the surgeon, “get my discharge papers. I’m ready to get out of here. I have things to do.” In this way, the meatball matter was decided.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My debt is to such a large swath of individuals that I need to divide them into two distinct groups: those who were integral to keeping my father “physically” alive until he could tell me his entire story, and those so close to our hearts that they made our lives worth living. Louis J. Aronne, MD, lifelong friend and collaborator of mine and my father’s, and pulmonologist Daniel M. Libby, MD, both of the New YorkPresbyterian Hospital, kept Jimmy alive until I could get him to Southern California. On the West Coast, John Belperio, MD, Bich-Thuy T. Tran, MD, and Susan Golleher, RN—all from the UCLA Medical Center—were largely responsible for nursing us through those last amazing and fruitful years. To all of these medical professionals, I owe a significant debt. Attorney Gerald (Jerry) Shargel, along with the entire Shargel family, have been steadfast friends throughout a lifetime. Attorneys Michael S. Ross, Andrew J. Weinstein, Matthew S. Dontzin (and his late father, Judge Michael J. Dontzin), Jeffrey Lichtman and his wife, Nance; Marty and Carol Abrams; my father’s longtime assistant, Phyllis Mehl; and his private investigator and friend, John McNally, all showed in words and deeds the profound love they felt for Jimmy LaRossa in life and in death. In turn, they all have my eternal gratitude. I relied on a seminal group of New York writers for historical punctuation throughout this work. I am indebted to them all. They are Jimmy Breslin, Jerry Capeci, William Flanagan, Denis and Pete Hamill, Jack Newfield, Selwyn Raab, and Ron Rosenbaum. Fiction writer Joseph Papaleo will always be one of life’s great influences. The last dream sequence in this book was inspired, in part, by Joe’s poem, Sitting With Caliban (from “Picasso at 91”). This work would not have been realized without my partner, Sonya, who kept her composure throughout the year in which I wrote draft upon draft of Last of the Gladiators. To Sonya and her son, Max, and to my children,

Sofia, Gianni, and Juliana, I owe my very breath. Three of my best friends from New York blazed the trail to California, in addition to being true comrades in the daily fun and games played by the LaRossa Boys—Frank R. Hussey, Scott E. Slater, and Douglas P. Textor. At my lowest points, I could count on Scott to talk me out of my dead end so I could realize an alternate path. Many thanks, as well, to David Aretha of Chicago, IL, who as my line editor, did a yeoman’s job of smoothing out my complex prose for a wide audience. Bruce L. Bortz, publisher of Bancroft Press, recognized immediately the quirky, deeply revealing tale that is Last of the Gladiators and dared to bring the work to light. I am very thankful. I acknowledge my three siblings, Susan, Thomas, and Nancy, my Aunt Dolores and Uncle Dick, and my cousins, who were like brothers to me growing up—Robert, Kenneth, Thomas, and William Nelson. I would have to search far and wide to find harder heads or bigger hearts. Jimmy was the most significant person in my life, bar none. To him, I owe everything.

Pop’s Sunday Meatballs & Sausages Recipe (AS TOLD TO MY KIDS) -Feeds 8 or more -Two courses—pasta and meats -Allow for two hours over the course of two days Note: This recipe is worth investing in what my father called a filetto di pomidoro pan—a large, industrial aluminum pan with lid. INGREDIENTS: -Four cans Italian peeled tomatoes (28 oz.) -1 ½ pounds each beef, veal, and pork ground and mixed together -Three large sweet Italian sausages and three large picante sausages -Three pounds favorite rigatoni macaroni -Two tablespoons fennel seeds -Two eggs -Six garlic cloves -Handful of favorite breadcrumbs -1/2 cup of port wine -Tablespoon of dried or fresh oregano -Olive oil -Best Parmesan cheese Before you start, take from the pantry your largest sauce or frying pan, your largest pasta pot (8 QT or larger), and your largest oven-safe casserole dish. Fill the saucepan with an inch of water and the fennel seeds. Boil the sausages in the water and seeds while turning and piercing them with a fork until the fat leaches out. Remove the sausages and water and lightly oil the pan. Brown the sausages. (The centers will still be raw.) Let the sausages

cool. Cube them in ½-inch pieces. Combine the meats, eggs, port, and enough breadcrumbs to keep the mixture solid but moist. Form the meatballs according to the size you prefer. Empty the canned tomatoes into a large bowl and squash gently with hands (careful or the tomatoes will splash on you). Chop oregano if fresh and place in the tomatoes. Put enough olive oil in the same large pan where you browned the sausages so that the oil just covers the pan. Brown garlic cloves (lightly) in the olive oil. Remove the garlic. Begin to slowly brown the meatballs in olive oil in the pan, turning them so they don’t stick. When the skin is lightly browned, remove the meatballs. (The centers will still be raw.) You can deglaze the pan with a bit of water and add to sauce later. Fill a large pot with the crushed tomatoes, oregano, and browned garlic and fire the burner fairly high. Stir when bubbling; carefully add the meatballs and sausages and lower the heat. After thirty minutes or so, re-settle the soft meats from the bottom with a slotted spoon. As the mixture begins to bubble, lower the heat to a slow simmer. (The kids are watching me raptly. My guess is that they haven’t heard a word, which is just fine, because the “art” of the process is yet to come. Any decent cook knows everything I have just told them.) Here’s the secret, so listen carefully. This is where the average Sunday Feast is transformed from a meal to the miraculous. Remember, it’s all about time and temperature. Begin the cooking for the Sunday meal in the late afternoon on Friday. Keep the sauce and meats simmering until bedtime. Stir gently one last time. The meatballs and sausages should be feeling “solid” by now. Take one of the iron grates over the burners and place it on top of the other row of burners so the pot sits high. (Use a sauté burner if your stove is equipped.) Simmer gently with the cover slightly ajar all night without touching the meats. In the morning, cut the burners and lid the sauce. After a few hours of cooling, you’ll see that the ragout has sunk a few inches. Move the meats carefully and begin to slow simmer again. Shut the burner every few hours to let the mixture cool slightly. Carefully move the meats and repeat throughout the day, every two to three hours. As everything infuses, the temperature remains hot enough to thwart any bacteria. Before bed on Saturday, let the pot cool. The meats will have

enough body to withstand being shifted from the bottom up. Put the cooled pot in the refrigerator or large cooler for the night. (You can also simmer for a second night if ambition takes you there. In my experience, you’ll sleep better with your baby on ice at this point.) This part is very important. On Sunday, four hours before guests arrive, begin to simmer again. When the mixture softens, carefully begin to separate the meats from the sauce into one large oven casserole. (You can put the casserole in the fridge if more than four hours from mealtime.) At this point, be sure to have enough fresh Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese and good crusty bread. Sunday dinner is usually in the early afternoon. Two hours before mealtime, take the meats from the cooler or refrigerator and bring to room temperature. Put the ragout under low heat, stirring occasionally. One hour later, put a healthy ladle of the hot ragout over the meats casserole and put it in a cold oven with the lid on. Slowly raise the oven temperature to 350 degrees. (If need be, put a little more sauce on the meats.) When you throw the rigatoni pasta into a large vat of salted water (after guests arrive), turn off both the burner under the ragout and the oven. Take some of the steaming sauce and place a ladleful in the bottom of the serving bowl(s). Strain the pasta, mix with the ragout—which will taste like the elixir of the Gods—and place the pasta in deep bowls for each guest with a healthy dusting of freshly grated cheese. (I use a mouli grater.) After the pasta course, people will need to rest. I suggest that you withhold the bread until the meat course. (You’ll have to trust me here.) After a suitable break in the action, remove the piping-hot meats to serving platters. The tastes will be so pungent that a few guests may fall into a coma at this point. (My father liked me to serve a Caesar Salad with the meat course.) Large, stuffed couches and armchairs along with mindless TV or soft music will be welcomed now by most guests, some of whom will revert to pre-birth goggling (it’s a word, so look it up) and drooling after the meat course. Choose a light, refreshing desert, if any, like poached pears stuffed with vanilla gelato. Drinkers might enjoy an Italian digestive, or scotch/brandy. This recipe requires a modicum of skill, but a lot of stick-to-itness. Few guests will think to ask for the recipe, because most of their motor skills will lapse following the meal. Whatever you do, don’t give them this recipe, but

suggest they buy a copy of Last of the Gladiators. This is, after all, my grandfather’s legacy. Bon Appetit! PS. You’re only as good as your last meal, so do it again next month… and keep doing it.

INDEX

Abu Ghraib, 61 AFL-CIO, 156 AFSP (American Foundation for Suicide Prevention), 114 Albanian mob, 65–68 Ali, Muhammad, 59 American Express, 35 American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (AFSP), 114 anarchism, 77, 152–53 Anastasio, Anthony, 158, 161. See also United States v. Scotto Anthony, Carmelo, 231 antidepressants, 109 Arena, Vito, 173–74 Aronne, Louis J., 33, 35 Asbury, Edith Evans, 147 Barnes, Nicky, 139 Barrett, Wayne, 146 BCCI scandal, 140, 176 Beame, Abe, 148, 156–57 Beard, James, 39–40 Belperio, John, 50 Berlusconi, Silvio, 180 Berra, Yogi, 185 Bianco, Nick, 125–29 Bilotti, Tommy, 44, 164, 168, 172, 174 bipolar disorder, 107–13, 116 Black, Hugo L., 103 Blackmun, Harry, 103–4 Blakey, G. Robert, 155 Bonanno Family, 170 Boston Scientific, 141–42 Bove, Frank, 65 Brennan, William J., 103–4 Breslin, Jimmy, 158, 174, 177–78 Brownstein, Irwin (“Bobby”), 148–49 Buchwald, Art, 114 Burger, Warren E., 103–4 Bush, George H. W., 112

Bush, George W., 69 Bypass gang, 136 Cabrera, Pepe, 136–37 Caesar, Julius, 131 Calley, William L., 9, 61, 109 Calvino, Italo, 205 Camp Pendleton (California), 42, 88–89 cannabis, 200–202 Capeci, Jerry, 161, 165 Carey, Hugh, 143–44, 156–57, 159–60 Carter, Jimmy, 157 Castellano, Paul, 168, 170–74 and the Albanian brothers, 66 appearance, 168–69 assassination, 8–9, 164, 167, 170–71, 174–76 funeral, 227 and Carlo Gambino, 166 as head of the Gambinos, 168–69, 214 indictment, 43–44 last words, 181 power, 167 and Sinatra, 74 Chertoff, Michael, 156, 166, 169–70 Christmas verdicts, 178 Churchill, Winston, 131 chutzpah, 83 cigar clubs, 217–18 Cinema Paradiso, 218–19 CNS Spectrums, 112 Coffey, Joseph, 176 Coffini, Dom (“D.O.A.”), 67–68 Cohn, Roy, 10 Columbo Family, 68, 170, 177–78 Columbus Club (New York City), 217 Comfort, Robert, 136 Commission Trial, 136, 151, 166, 170–71, 179–80 Confucius, 163 Constitution (U.S.), 122 Cooper, Alice, 75 Cooperman, Arthur, 157 Cosa Nostra, 44 Cuomo, Mario, 156–57, 160 Cutler, Bruce, 177 Cutolo, William (“Wild Bill”), 68, 177–78

Daily News, 158, 161, 165, 174 Darkness Visible (Styron), 114 Darrow, Clarence, 125 DeCicco, Frank, 164 Democratic Party, 11, 85. See also Tammany Hall DePalma, Greg, 74 depression, 114–15 DeSapio, Carmine, 84–87, 156 Diapoulis, Peter (“Pete the Greek”), 126–29 Dietl, Bo, 175 DiLorenzo, Ross, 146–47 DiPaola, Anthony, 102 Doctorow, E. L., 75 Dodge, Jeff, 80 Domingo, Placido, 55 Dontzin, Matthew, 127–28 Douglas, William O., 103–4 Dreams of My Father (Obama), 131 drug cartels (Colombia), 136 drug cartels (New York City), 139 drugs antidepressants, 109 cannabis, 143 cocaine, 143 side effects, 116 duck story, 193–95 Duffy, Kevin, 108, 170, 175 Dukakis, Michael, 76 Duryea, Perry, 93 Dylan, Bob, 241 “Joey,” 125–26 Ennio & Michael’s (West Village, New York City), 28 Esposito, Anne, 63 Esposito, Meade (“Uncle Meade”), 62–64, 84–86, 134 Failla, James, 164 Fairchild/ABC Cap Cities, 109, 207 A Farewell to Arms (Hemingway), 228 FBI in the Castellano case, 171, 179 Scarpa as informant for, 177–78 in the Scotto case, 157–59 top-ten list, 84 Feast of San Genaro, 167 Federal District Court, 99

Federalist Party, 85 Fiscetti, Ronald P., 103 Fiske, Robert, 122, 158, 161 Five Families (Raab), 171 Flanagan, William, 176–78 Fordham Law School, 95, 108–10 Frankfurter, Felix, 76 Frazier, Joe, 59 Freeman, Tzvi, 83 Friedman, Ted, 139 Furnari, Christie (“The Tic”), 136, 179 Gallo, Albert, 125–26 Gallo, Joey, 125–26, 128 Gambino, Carlo, 68, 74, 165–66, 168–69, 190 Gambino, Thomas, 44, 164 Gambino Family, 68 under Castellano, 168–69, 214 (see also Castellano, Paul) under Gotti, 176 and Jimmy, 164–65, 213–15 legitimate businesses, 165–66, 169–70, 214 power, 165, 179, 214 and Sinatra, 74 gangsters. See Colombo Family; Gambino Family; Mafia, American The Garden of Eden (Hemingway), 227–28 Garibaldi, Giuseppe, 77 gay rights movement, 144 Genovese Family, 170 Giglio, John, 102–5 Giuliani, Rudolph (“Rudy”), 86–87, 132–33, 151–52, 156, 166, 170, 180, 214 Gleason, Thomas W., 156 Gluck, Louise, 75 Goldman, Lawrence S., 8 Gotbaum, Victor, 160–61 Gotti, John Castellano murdered by, 8–9, 164, 170–71, 174 as head of the Gambinos, 176 trial/imprisonment for Castellano’s murder, 176–81 Gravano, Sammy, 174, 177 Griswold, Erwin N., 104 guns, 119 Gurganus, Allan, 75 Hall, Paul, 157 Hamill, Denis, 9, 127, 129

“Jimmy LaRossa,” 124–29 Hamill, Pete, 11, 217 Harlan, John Marshall, 103 Harris, Mel, 62 Hemingway, Ernest, 225 appearance and reputation, 228 depression/suicide, 228 A Farewell to Arms, 228 The Garden of Eden, 227–28 Men Without Women, 228 Nobel Prize won, 228 The Old Man and the Sea, 225, 228, 232–34 The Sun Also Rises, 228 Hentoff, Nat, 146 Hermosa Beach (California), 32 Hernandez, Keith, 140 Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon), 51 Hollander, Eric, 112 Hurwitz, Justin, 107 ILA, 154, 156–57, 160 International Courier, 79, 227 Iraq War (2003–2011), 61 Italian cooking. See also under LaRossa, James meatballs & sausages, 43–44, 225–26, 247–48, 255–58 sauces, 43 Italian immigrants anarchists among, 77, 152–53 first wave of, 76–77 lynching of, 76 Jackson, Phil, 231–32 Jamison, Kay Redfield: An Unquiet Mind, 108, 114 Ja Rule, 142 Jesuit Catholics, 122 “Jimmy LaRossa” (D. Hamill), 124–29 “Joey” (Dylan), 125–26 Johnson, Lyndon, 61, 166 Kazan, Elia: On the Waterfront, 153 Kennedy, John F., 11, 99–100, 166 Kennedy, Robert F., 7, 99–101 Kennedy family, 10–11 kickbacks, 153–54 King, Don, 189–90

Klieger, Bernard, 148 Korean War, 10, 88, 100 Kunstler, William, 133 La Cave (St. Bart’s), 163 Lambert, Marie, 139 LaRossa, Gayle (Jimmy’s first wife; James’s mother), 45 appearance and personality, 26 background and childhood, 26–27 and Castellano, 167 divorce from Jimmy, 28–29 drinking and smoking, 26, 30 health, 28, 30 illness/death, 30–31, 96–97 marriage to/relationship with Jimmy, 27–28, 190–91 personality, 186 photographed with Sinatra, 74 relationship with James, 24–25, 28, 96 suicide attempt, 25–26, 114 LaRossa, Gianni (James’s son), 211 birth, 81 cannabis use, 200–203 and father’s hospitalization, 245–48 in Hermosa Beach, 32 in Manhattan Beach, 199 during 9/11, 69 youth and friends, 32, 199–200, 202–3 LaRossa, James basketball enjoyed, 59, 231 boxing enjoyed, 59 car accidents, 22–23, 69–70 and Castellano, 168–69 children (see LaRossa, Gianni; LaRossa, Juliana; LaRossa, Sofia) cooking, 42–43, 45–47, 213, 226 drinking, 217, 219, 221–23 as driver for his father, 20–21, 60 exercise, 108, 203 films enjoyed, 218–19, 222 at Fordham Law School, 108–10 in Fort Lauderdale, 62–63 grief following Jimmy’s death, 203, 205, 235, 239 gun use, 198 in Hermosa Beach, 32 hitchhiking, 74–75 in Italy, 54–55, 226 literary interests, 107

luck, 12, 23–24, 110, 249 in Manhattan Beach, 41–42, 48–49, 241 marriage to Maria, 79–80, 111 mental illness, 107–13, 115–16, 220–21 in New York City, 39–41, 79 opera enjoyed, 55–56 orchestrates Jimmy’s escape from New York City, 34–37 personality, 186, 198 publishing/journalism career, 11, 31, 69, 79–81, 111–12, 114–15, 207, 220, 227–28 relationship with father, 9, 11–13, 18, 24–25, 71–72, 115, 188, 203–4, 210, 217, 226, 233 relationship with grandfather (“Pop”), 43, 78, 225 relationship with mother, 24–25, 28, 96 religious views, 242 in Rome, 27, 78–79, 227 at Sarah Lawrence College, 75 science, interest in, 107 as a seaman, 63–64 smoking, 86, 108, 217–18 in St. Bart’s, 163 surfing, 41 surgeries and recovery, 115, 209, 243–49 tattoos, 113–14 and the UCLA Medical Center, 49–50, 244–45 in Vietnam, 51 and women, 32, 49, 242–43 writing about Jimmy, 204, 206–11, 236–37 LaRossa, James Vincent (“Pop”; Jimmy’s father) background, 76, 154–55 cooking, 43–44, 225 (see also meatballs & sausages) death and funeral, 78, 169 sense of humor, 185 LaRossa, Jimmy in Antigua, 84 appearance, 18, 44 background and childhood, 28 basketball enjoyed, 59, 231 biopic, 132, 156, 171 birth, 8, 152 black limousines owned, 129–30 as B’nai B’rith Man of the Year, 83 boxing enjoyed, 59 Bridgehampton home, 163 and Castellano, 168–69, 227 chutzpah, 83–84 Connecticut home, 97 on the Cosa Nostra, 44

death, 12, 17–18, 78, 234–35 dinners with James, 45–47 on disorganized crime, 180 divorce from Gayle, 28–29 on dreams, 46–47 drinking, 20–21, 143, 217, 219 escape from New York City, 34–37, 41 films enjoyed, 218–19, 222 at Fordham Law School, 95 in Fort Lauderdale, 62–63 and the Gambino Family, 164–65, 213–15 health/toughness, 44–45, 99 in Italy, 54–55 kept alive in California, 19 last rites given, 50 lifestyle, 20 luck, 12, 102–3, 110, 249 malapropisms, 185–86 in Manhattan Beach, 42 in the Marine Corps, 7–8, 10, 42, 88–94, 143 marriage to/relationship with Gayle, 27–28, 190–91 media coverage, 62 medical care/provisions, 42, 48–50, 52–58, 197–98, 230–32, 235 memorial, 205–6, 219, 228–30 moral values/injustices fought, 10, 62 in New York City to say farewells, 134–35 nickname “Jimmy” acquired, 9 obituary, 47 opera enjoyed, 55–56 Ostrow Award received, 176 personality, 7, 24, 48, 186, 198 political views, 10–11 power/success, 62, 121–22, 166 on prejudice, 10, 124 pulmonary disease suffered, 30, 32–34 “reconnaissance missions,” 187–91 relationship with father (“Pop”), 225–26 relationship with grandchildren, 202, 211 relationship with mother, 46–47, 97, 226, 235, 238–40 relationship with mother-in-law, 27 relationship with son (see under LaRossa, James) separation from second wife, 35–36, 48 smoking, 19–20, 143, 217–18 in St. Bart’s, 163 traveling, complexities of, 52–55 on TV, 7

in Vietnam, 51 wine passion, 163–64 and women, 29–30, 46, 49 work ethic, 99 —AS A DEFENSE LAWYER. See also United States v. Scotto and the Albanian mob, 65–68 Bianco case, 125–29 Brownstein case, 148–49 Cabrera case, 136–37 Castellano case, 168, 170–74 Commission Trial, 136, 151, 166, 170–71, 179–80 confidences held, 65 Cutolo case, 177–78 DiLorenzo case, 146–47 fame/influence, 8, 62, 133–34 Friedman case, 139 Furnari case, 136, 179 Giglio v. U.S., 102–5 government fought, 8, 122, 162 Hernandez case, 140 as house counsel to the Colombos, alleged, 177 as house counsel to the Gambinos, alleged, 87 investigators used, 134, 140 Israeli general case, 141–42 jewel merchant case, 137–38 jockey case, 138 Klieger case, 148 Levy case, 147–48 Motto case, 102 Myers case, 139 vs. Nadjari, 146–49 newspaper coverage, 135–36 Perrin case, 140–41 reputation/success, 102, 123–25, 132–33, 176, 208 summations, 142 Terpil case, 83–84 trial obsession, 73, 78, 132, 186, 208 for underdogs and the Mafia, 122–24 LaRossa, Jimmy—AS A PROSECUTOR and distrust of an unchecked government, 10, 121–22 drunken war hero case, 100–101 under Robert Kennedy, 7, 99–101 resignation, 101–2 LaRossa, Juliana (James’s daughter), 69, 81, 199, 211, 245 LaRossa, Maria (James’s wife), 69, 79–81, 108, 111 LaRossa, Sofia (James’s daughter), 69, 80–81, 111, 199, 211, 245–46, 248 LaRossa, Susan, 25, 28–29, 140, 235

LaRossa, Thomas, 25, 235 LaRossa family, immigration of, 77, 152–53 Letterman, David, 168 Levy, Norman, 147–48 Lindsay, John V., 85–86, 156–57, 159–60 loading racket, 153–54 lobster dinners, 213 Lombardozzi, Carmine, 164–65 longshoreman’s restaurants, 154–55 Los Angeles, 40 Los Angeles Opera, 55 Lowell, Robert, 108 Lucchese Family, 136, 170 Luciano, Charles (“Lucky”), 166 Lynn, Frank, 149 Mack, Walter, 122, 170–71, 173–74 Madison Square Garden, 59 Mafia, American. See also specific families blood oaths, release from, 213–15 businesses and muscle of, 169–70 the Commission, 166 demise, 8–9, 87, 136, 150–51, 179–80 Italians as members, 68 media coverage, 170 on trial (See Commission Trial) Mafia, Italian, 179–80 Mailman, Bruce, 144 Manhattan Beach, 41–42, 48–49 Marcus, James, 102 Marino, Frank, 26–27 Marino, Mary, 26–27 Marshall, Thurgood, 103–4 Marta (Jimmy’s and James’s housekeeper), 48, 242 Mastriani, Louis F., 157 McNally, John, 130, 134 Meadowlands trotter racing (New York City), 138 meatballs & sausages, 43–44, 225–26, 247–48, 255–58 Medevac Gulfstream jet, 35 Medlink, 53–54 MedWorks (New York City), 69, 112, 114–15 Meese, Edwin, 145 Mehl, Phyllis, 164 Mekong Delta, 51 Melville, Herman, 17 Mental Fitness, 112

Men Without Women (Hemingway), 228 Metropolitan Opera, 55 Milton, John, 108 Mitchell, John, 175 mobsters. See Colombo Family; Gambino Family; Mafia, American Montanti, Nick, 64 Montella, William (“Sonny”), 158–59 Morricone, Ennio, 219 Motto, Daniel, 102 Mouthpiece: Voice for the Accused—James M. LaRossa, 132, 171 Mudd Club (New York City), 144 Murtagh, John M., 147–48 Mussolini, Benito, 77 Myers, Freddie, 139 My Lai Massacre (1968), 9, 61, 109 Nadjari, Maurice, 144–50 Nalo, Samuel, 136 National Institutes of Health, 143 Neil (Jimmy’s driver), 29, 141, 168, 187–88, 192–95 Nelson, Dolores (Jimmy’s sister), 28, 96 Newburgh, Marc, 45 Newfield, Jack, 146, 149–50 A New Leaf, 222 Newman, Gustave (“Gus”), 159, 161 New York Athletic Club, 18 New York City anti-smoking laws in, 86 corruption on the docks, 153–54 as the epicenter of the criminal world, 8 longings for, 39–40 Nadjari’s corruption investigations in, 145–49 New York Giants, 175 New York Hospital, 30 New York Knicks, 231 New York Post, 158 New York–Presbyterian Hospital, 33–34 New York Shipping Association (NYSA), 154, 157 New York Times, 156, 158, 171–72 Nha Trang (Vietnam), 51 Nickerson, Eugene (“Gene”), 123–24 nightclubs, 144 9/11 terrorist attacks (2001), 69–70, 87, 179–80 Nixon, Richard, 60, 71, 157 NYSA (New York Shipping Association), 154, 157

Obama, Barack: Dreams of My Father, 131 The Old Man and the Sea (Hemingway), 225, 228, 232–34 On the Waterfront (Kazan), 153 organized crime (OC). See Mafia, American Organized Crime Federal Task Force, 179–80 Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO), 83 Paley, Grace, 75 Papaleo, Billy, 78–79 Papaleo, Joseph, 75–78 Pasamonte, Sonya, 93, 209, 242–43, 245–46, 249 Pax Mafiosa (Mafia Peace), 180 Pellegrino, Frankie, 70 Perot, Ross, 140 Perrin, Arden, 140–41 Persico gang, 177 Pierre Hotel robbery (New York City, 1972), 136 Platt, Judge, 129, 192–93 Pollack, Milton, 148 Pop’s Meatballs & Sausages, 43–44, 225–26, 247–48, 255–58 Powell, Lewis F., Jr., 103 Preminger, Eve, 139 Primary Psychiatry, 112 Prozac, 109 Psiquiatria y Salud Integral (Psychiatry and Integral Health), 112 Puccini (dog), 56 Puccini, Giacomo, 56 pulmonary rehab facilities, 197 Quin Marine, 158–59 Raab, Selwyn, 155, 179–80 Five Families, 171 Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. See RICO Rao’s (New York City), 44, 68–70 Real, Manuel, 102–3 Red Biennium (Red Two Years), 77 Rehnquist, William H., 103 RICO (Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act; 1970), 8, 150–52, 155–56, 180. See also United States v. Scotto Rockefeller, Nelson A., 144–45 Rome, 27, 78–79, 227 Rosenbaum, Ron, 171, 173–74 Rosenberg, Julius and Ethel, 109 Ross, Mike, 132, 134, 175, 191–93 Rumsfeld, Donald, 61–62

Sacco, Nicola, 75–78, 152–53 Salerno, Thomas J. and Tricia N., 153–54, 157, 159 Sand, Leonard B., 148 Sarah Lawrence College, 75 Saudi royal family, 140 Scarpa, Gregory, Jr., 177–78 Schneerson, Menachem, 83–84, 137 Schulman, Howard, 157 Scotto, Anthony (“Tony”). See United States v. Scotto Scotto family, 161–62 September 11 terrorist attacks (2001), 69–70, 87, 179–80 Shakespeare, William, 121 Shargel, Gerald (“Jerry”), 102–3 Simon, Paul, 39 Sinatra, Frank, 74 skyjackings, 100 Slater, Scott, 229–30 Sorkin, Aaron, 151 Steely Dan, 197 Stewart, Charles E., Jr., 158, 160–61 Stewart, Potter, 103–4 Styron, William, 115 Darkness Visible, 114 Suarez, Lucy, 41 Suarez, Phil, 41 The Sun Also Rises (Hemingway), 228 Supreme Court (U.S.), 102–5 Taliento, Robert, 102 Tammany Hall (New York City), 62, 85–87, 99, 156 tattooing, 113–14 T.E.N., 112 Terpil, Frank, 83–84 terrorism, 9, 179–80. See also 9/11 terrorist attacks Thomas, Dylan, 230 Thompson, William C., 159–60 Three Brothers, 218 Tisch, General, 91–95 Tosca (Puccini), 56 Trager, David, 149–50 Triavil, 109 Troy, Colleen, 80 trucking industry, 153–54 Trump, Donald, 87, 146, 152 Tweed, Boss, 85 Twin Towers, terrorist attack on (2001), 69–70, 87, 179–80

Tyson, Mike, 108 UCLA Medical Center, 49–50, 244–45 Umberto’s Clam House (New York City), 125 union leaders, 156. See also United States v. Scotto United States v. Scotto bail, 158 the “conduit” defense, 158 as first major RICO case, 8, 156, 160 Fiske’s opening statement, 158 how RICO works, 155–56 impact on the Mafia, 155 indictment, 157, 160 Jimmy’s summation, 160 jury deliberations, 160 media coverage, 158, 161 the Salernos on, 153–54, 157, 159 Scotto’s background, 152, 154 Scotto’s power/influence, 156–57 sentencing, 161 verdicts, 160–61 witnesses, 158–61 An Unquiet Mind (Jamison), 108, 114 Van Allen, Dr., 249 Vanzetti, Bartolomeo, 75–78, 152–53 Vesco, Robert, 84 Vietnam War, 9, 61, 109 Village Voice, 145–46, 149 Vivendi, 142 Vongerichten, Jean-Georges, 41 Wagner, Robert F., 145–46, 159–60 Wallace, Mike, 114 Warhol, Andy, 144 Warren Report, 166 Washington Post, 158 Watergate, 10, 59–61, 87 Watts, Joe (“The German”), 68, 70 Weinstein, Andrew, 132, 189, 191–95 Westmoreland, William, 61 West Village (New York City), 39–40 White, Byron, 103–4 Williams, Edward Bennett, 9 wiretaps, 145, 149, 157 Woodward, Bob, 59

Workingman’s Association, 77 workmen’s compensation law (New York State), 157 Zevon, Warren, 119 Zusak, Markus, 7

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

James M. LaRossa Jr. was born in Brooklyn, NY, and raised in Manhattan and Connecticut. He is a publisher, journalist, and third-generation New Yorker. LaRossa spent four years in the writing department at Sarah Lawrence College. In 1984, he left Fordham Law School to become a journalist for The International Courier in Rome, Italy. LaRossa has almost 1,000 bylines in subjects as varied as literature, medicine, and business. Upon his return to New York City, he wrote for Fairchild and ABC/Cap Cities, before founding MedWorks Media Inc., one of the largest publishers in psychiatry, drug development, and mental fitness. In 2006, he relocated permanently to Southern California. His dying father, the famous trial lawyer and political insider Jimmy LaRossa, joined him in Manhattan Beach, California, on January 30, 2010. In the last five years of his life, the legendary attorney revealed to his eldest son and confidant the most closely-held secrets to more than a generation of New York City’s organized and white-collar crimes. LaRossa continues to live within a mile of the house where he lived with

his father. He resides with his fiancée, Sonya. Their four children—Sofia, Gianni, Max, and Juliana—are frequent visitors. A large photo of their fearless father and grandfather hangs high on a prominent kitchen wall.