Part 4 (1/2)

In the grand jury room on the fourteenth floor, which was barred to the press, it was quickly apparent to the younger Bonanno that the government had invested considerable time and money in its investigation of him, and he could not help but be impressed by the depth of its research. It was not the government's probing into his illegal activities that surprised him or its evidence that revealed he was part of his father's organization or its knowledge of his hideaway in Queens (the exact location was not yet known); it was rather the government's close scrutiny of his private life that impressed him; irritated him. From the questions he was asked he could deduce that the government was aware of his extramarital affair, his illegitimate child, his problems with Rosalie; it knew about his own problems as a young man and college student, his business ventures in Flagstaff and Phoenix, his pilot training in Tucson, which had led some government attorneys to suspect that he had been flying his father back and forth between various secret places in recent months.

While he issued a denial, he was intrigued by the possibilities of such methods of escape and reminded himself that he should keep up with his flying. In nearly all of his testimony, he was as candid as he could be, admitting for example that he was acquainted with Sam Giancana, having met him at the Desert Inn in Las Vegas, and that he knew Stefano Magaddino, describing him as a ”distant cousin.” He would not state if he had ever met Carlo Gambino or Thomas Lucchese and said he had never met Vito Genovese. He said that his business interests in New York were in real estate investing, and in his pocket he carried business cards listing himself as an executive vice-president of the Republic Financial Corporation of 140 Cedar Street. Regarding his personal life, he admitted being the father of his mistress' child, adding that he felt a moral and financial responsibility to them both but that Rosalie and his four children came first. He had no idea where his father was, he said, or if his father was indeed alive; beyond that, he would not comment on his father's disappearance, including the fact that it was he who had telephoned Maloney on December 18 with word that his father was alive.

It was Bill Bonanno's contention that the conversation with Maloney was privileged information protected by the rights of a client-attorney relations.h.i.+p-he felt that Maloney at the time of the call was not merely the elder Bonanno's lawyer but also the legal representative for Bill and his sister, Catherine, who had also been summoned to testify before the grand jury. In her instance, Maloney's role was not contested; he in fact submitted reports from West Coast physicians that Catherine's small children were suffering from tonsilitis, that she herself was undergoing treatment for an intestinal ailment and sinusitis, and therefore could not serve as a witness. (The judge countered by appointing another physician in California to examine Catherine and verify her incapability of appearing in New York.) But the legal argument over Bill's relations.h.i.+p with Maloney went on for days, during which several other developments were reported to be occurring on the outside.

There was the announcement in Rome by the news agency Italia that Joseph Bonanno was believed to be hiding out in Sicily; attributing its information to unidentified sources within the police department, the agency stated that FBI agents were now searching the island and it suggested that the elder Bonanno had sailed from the United States on a Panamanian merchant s.h.i.+p under an a.s.sumed name and went ash.o.r.e on a fis.h.i.+ng boat.

There were also news reports about an underworld meeting in a Long Island restaurant that had been held to discuss the Bonanno situation; among those present were Sam Giancana of Chicago, Thomas Eboli, reputed leader of the Vito Genovese organization during Genovese's imprisonment, and Carmine Tramunti, an officer in the Lucchese organization. The restaurant in Cedarhurst was closed to regular patrons on the night of the meeting, and as a result the proprietor was subpoenaed along with the others to testify before the grand jury.

Although nothing of great significance seemed to emerge from their testimony, the exposure of that gathering and similar ones in 1965 kept organized crime in the headlines and focused constant attention on such men as Sam Giancana, who had once been able to travel freely between fas.h.i.+onable gambling casinos and night spots in the United States and overseas without interruptions and questioning from agents. But as the media accelerated its coverage of the Mafia, a trend concurrent with the intensified anti-Mafia campaign begun initially at the Justice Department under Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy and gradually endorsed by J. Edgar Hoover, there was no longer much privacy for Giancana and other reputed dons; almost everything they did was observed and made available to the press, and the publicity not only affected them but anyone with whom they were seen in public. Giancana's travels with singer Phyllis McGuire were widely reported, as was his acquaintance with Frank Sinatra. Giancana'a relations.h.i.+p with Sinatra, specifically his presence at Sinatra's Cal-Neva lodge at Lake Tahoe and his inclusion elsewhere in Sinatra's entourage, caused a dispute between Sinatra and the Nevada gambling authorities and was believed to have been instrumental in Sinatra's decision to sell his interst in the Cal-Neva lodge and in The Sands motel in Las Vegas. But the pursuit of the slim, dapper Giancana continued, haunting him even on the golf course as agents trailed him from tee to green, causing him finally to file charges against the agents in a Chicago court. The judge ordered the agents to stay at least one foursome behind Giancana, but a United States appeals court later overruled the judge's surveillance restrictions.

The Supreme Court meanwhile had rejected an appeal by the family of the late Al Capone on their invasion of privacy complaint against the CBS television series ”The Untouchables,” which dramatized Capone's activities during the heyday of Chicago gangsterism. However, Capone's fourty-eight-year-old son, Albert Francis Capone, Jr., of Fort Lauderdale, Florida, did suceed in having his name legally changed to Albert Francis, claiming that his father's reputation ”pushes me into the glare of publicity for even minor violations of the law.”

Bill's brother also changed his name, though never legally or consistently, when he was concerned about getting part-time work on television Westerns or in rodeos or was trying to arrange bookings for the teen-age musical groups he sometimes managed. Nevertheless he, too, was subpoenaed in January 1965 by the grand jury to testify about his father's disappearance, and his photograph was printed in The New York Times The New York Times and other publications. Joseph Bonanno, Jr., remained in New York for one day, during which he had no comment to make to the jury or the press, and he did not smile as the camera lights flashed into his face while he stood waiting outside the courtroom door. After he was released from further questioning, he returned quietly to Phoenix College. and other publications. Joseph Bonanno, Jr., remained in New York for one day, during which he had no comment to make to the jury or the press, and he did not smile as the camera lights flashed into his face while he stood waiting outside the courtroom door. After he was released from further questioning, he returned quietly to Phoenix College.

Bill Bonanno appeared twenty-one times before the grand jury during January and February, contending throughout that what he had said on the telephone to Maloney was privileged information that should be legally withheld from the jury. But the government attorneys disagreed, and the a.s.sistant United States Attorney, Gerald Walpin, insisted that ”the unanswered questions are of vital importance in our efforts to learn what happened to and the whereabouts of Joseph Bonanno.”

Bill remained adamant. He had already made one big mistake in calling Maloney, disregarding the warning don't make waves, don't do anything don't make waves, don't do anything, and he feared that his father's life might be in greater jeopardy if he again ignored the advice and discussed the substance of the call he had received at the phone booth and the call he had made to Maloney afterward. So he persisted in his silence as the government interrogators became increasingly irritated, and finally the question of what to do next was placed before Judge Charles H. Tenney.

On March 1 the judge announced his ruling-a client-attorney relations.h.i.+p had not existed between Maloney and the younger Bonanno at the time of the call in December, and the judge therefore ordered Bonanno to reveal the substance of the conversation. Bonanno, facing the judge, replied, ”With all due deference and respect to the court, I decline to answer on the grounds of attorney-client relations.h.i.+p.” Judge Tenney, suddenly impatient, cited Bonanno for contempt of court. He sentenced him to jail immediately, for an indefinite term, and denied bail pending appeal.

Bill Bonanno displayed no sign of emotion as he was led by court authorities out of the room to the elevator, then down to the bas.e.m.e.nt where, in a large dimly-lit room, several handcuffed prisoners sat waiting to be driven across town to jail. Bill was searched and relieved of his wrist.w.a.tch, ring, pocket hankerchief and other personal possessions by a guard who noted the contents on a doc.u.ment that Bill signed. Then he was handcuffed to a large black man with facial scars and a vague expression about the eyes. The black man did not speak, did not even look at Bill as their wrists were linked.

Soon they were lined up with the other prisoners and marched through a corridor up a ramp into a faded green bus. The crosstown ride over the narrow cobblestone streets of downtown Manhattan was slow and b.u.mpy. Bill looked out the window at the crowds of people going home from work, jamming themselves into subway kiosks, waving at cabs. The other prisoners paid no attention to the street; they sat looking at the floor or straight ahead and Bill guessed that they had taken this ride before.

Many of the prisoners were black, a few were Puerto Rican, a few were white and had hard aging faces and hollow eyes common on the Bowery, except these men did not have the shakes and their hands were strong and steady, hands of a safecracker. Most of the men were probably small-time thieves and dope pushers, pimps and numbers runners, rapists and maybe even killers, but Bill did not sense any great strength of character about them; they were doubtless part of the anonymous ma.s.s of criminals who dominate the national statistics but never make a name. Bill was the only one in the bus who was well dressed; the rest wore s.h.i.+rts without ties, tattered coats or leather jackets over rumpled trousers and scuffed shoes, and they sat slumped in the bus looking tired and hopeless, a team of losers after the game.

The bus turned into West Street near the waterfront along the Hudson River, a neighborhood of warehouses, loading ramps, and trailer trucks parked for the night under the elevated roadway still busy with commuter traffic. The bus stopped in front of one st.u.r.dy-looking stone building that looked like a warehouse but was in fact the jail, although it was too dark for Bill to see the building clearly from the outside. He heard a guard yelling in the front of the bus, heard the clicking sound of handcuffs as the prisoners filed out in twos, then walked with his companion past large steel doors that clanged quickly behind them after they entered the Federal House of Detention.

They pa.s.sed through small rooms with barred windows; then, in a large room, they were halted, uncuffed, lined against the wall. They waited in line for at least an hour as guards and an orderly inspected each newly arrived prisoner, forcing each prisoner to remove his clothes and stand naked for inspection. While certain guards examined the shoes, particularly the heels where hollow portions might contain drugs, other guards probed between the prisoners' toes, teeth, into the ears, a.n.u.s, under the t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es. The shoes were returned to the prisoners, although the clothing was confiscated for the term of confinement; cotton robes were issued, and the men, wearing their shoes without socks, were led into the record room. There they were interrogated by desk clerks who collected personal data for the files, then they were fingerprinted and given medical examinations, finally they were led past stock clerks who issued each prisoner a pillowcase and a single sheet for a cell bunk.

Bill noticed that several uniformed prisoners were a.s.sisting the jail staff in processing the incoming men-the clerk typists were prisoners, the medical orderlies were prisoners, so were the men in the stock room. These prisoners were more lively and alert than the group Bill had come with, and he also a.s.sumed that the holders of these positions held a certain power over the other inmates. But what impressed him most at this point was the deferential manner in which these men were treating him. They had been noticeably attentive as he moved through the lines, a few had smiled at him, and one prisoner-confined to a cell near the corridor-had called out his name, saying, ”Hi, Bill, we heard you were coming.” The man looked vaguely familiar. He was a white man in his fifties who seemed healthy and relaxed, possessing an air of innocence.

Bill returned the greeting and moved on, following in line up to the second floor, to the captain's office, where cell a.s.signments were announced. Bill was given a cell in the maximum-security section. He was escorted to it by a guard who was formal but not abrupt and who, after Bill had entered the cell, closed the steel door gently. The cell was more heavily fortified with steel than the others he had seen, and it was located in an isolated corner near a staircase. It was small, damp, and depressing, with a bunk in one corner and a toilet and tiny sink in the other. The cell next to it was unoccupied. The place was intensely quiet.

He stood for a few moments, but his feet without socks felt clammy in his shoes. He sat on the edge of the bunk. It was cold and he thought of covering himself with the bunk blanket but decided for no particular reason that he had better wait. It was probably 8:00 P.M. He had not eaten since lunch and was hungry. Now he heard voices echoing in distant corridors along with the clanging metallic sounds of heavy doors opening and closing. He sat for what seemed like an hour thinking about where he was, almost doubting it, and wondering how Rosalie had taken the news that he was in jail. When he left the house in East Meadow in the morning, it was a.s.sumed that he would return by evening, a routine he had followed since he had begun appearing in court two months ago. Neither he nor Krieger had ever antic.i.p.ated that he would be sent to jail without being able to post bond and to remain free pending appeal. Bill knew now that he could remain in prison until the expiration date of the grand jury in April 1966, more than a year away, unless he agreed to answer the questions about the phone calls. Although Krieger planned to file papers immediately with the United States Circuit Court of Appeals asking that bail be set, Bill was not optimistic. He felt that the government intended to press him hard now, and he expected no favors from the court.

After hearing the sound of approaching footsteps, Bill saw a guard peeking into his cell holding up a few magazines, newspapers, and a chocolate candy bar.

”Bill,” he said, ”Harold would like you to have these.”

Bill did not reply. Harold? He was confused but did not want to show it. He also did not want to indicate that he knew who Harold was.

”Harold,” the guard went on, ”you know-the one you saw when you came in.”

Bill recalled seeing one effeminate creature among the medical orderlies who had smiled at him, and he remembered the other uniformed prisoners, too, including the gregarious one in the corner cell who had seemed familiar. Then he suddenly remembered that this man was was named Harold-Harold (Kayo) Konigsberg, the so-called king of the loan sharks. Bill had met him briefly a few years ago in New Jersey, and he also remembered reading in newspapers about Konigsberg as a privileged inmate in a Jersey prison in which guards were accused of allowing women into the cells for brief s.e.xual interludes. Bill was amused and impressed that Konigsberg apparently still knew how to make the best of things behind bars, but he did not reveal any sign of recognition to the guard. He thanked him and accepted the magazines, newspapers, and candy, and he was relieved when the guard walked away. named Harold-Harold (Kayo) Konigsberg, the so-called king of the loan sharks. Bill had met him briefly a few years ago in New Jersey, and he also remembered reading in newspapers about Konigsberg as a privileged inmate in a Jersey prison in which guards were accused of allowing women into the cells for brief s.e.xual interludes. Bill was amused and impressed that Konigsberg apparently still knew how to make the best of things behind bars, but he did not reveal any sign of recognition to the guard. He thanked him and accepted the magazines, newspapers, and candy, and he was relieved when the guard walked away.

Bill was now extremely suspicious of the special treatment he was receiving, and he certainly had no intention of eating the candy, although he craved it. If his father's enemies wished to dispose of him in jail there was no easier method than poison. For all he knew, Konigsberg and the others who had been friendly, including the guards, might be involved in a contract with the commission. He remembered reading once how Gaspare Pisciotta, the alleged betrayor and a.s.sa.s.sin of Giuliano, died of poison in a Palermo jail in spite of the extraordinary precautions Pisciotta had taken. Pisciotta's mother was permitted to bring him food, Pisciotta was allowed to make his own coffee in jail, and he also fed bits of everything to his pet sparrow before consuming it himself. Then one day Pisciotta complained to a prison doctor of chest trouble; vitamin concentrate was prescribed, and Pisciotta added a teaspoon of it to his coffee. Two minutes later he was on the ground writhing in pain, and within a half hour Pisciotta was dead.

Bill put the candy aside and sat reading the newspapers. There was no mention of him in these editions, the grand jury ceasing to be news at this point, although he was sure there would be a story in tomorrow's editions about his imprisonment. Perhaps word of his refusal to talk would make points with his father's captors, would perhaps contribute to his father's well-being. Bill was anxious to see what effect, if any, his going to jail would have on the outside. If nothing positive resulted after a month or two, if he saw no reason for remaining behind bars and thought he could be more useful back in circulation, despite having to spend most of each weekday in court, he could inform the warden that he wanted to resume testifying before the grand jury. Judge Tenney had guaranteed his immediate release under these conditions.

In court Bill could tell the jury all about the phone calls, explaining the coinbox system his father had devised, relating the call from the stranger, the substance of his own call to Maloney-things he now considered too risky to discuss. If his father was still missing months from now he might decide that he had nothing to lose by talking. The whole telephone episode, after all, revealed nothing about his father's whereabouts or the men who took him there. The government thought the calls were significant, but Bill knew they were not-in any case his decision about discussing them was something he could consider in the months ahead. Meanwhile he would remain in jail. He thought that jail was perhaps not such a bad place for him at this time. It offered him the luxury of not hiding, not running; he could relax for a while and think about his future. The only thing he had to worry about in jail was staying alive.

Bill Bonanno heard hissing sounds through the bars and looked up. He saw a skinny, nervous dark-eyed prisoner motioning toward him.

”You got any clothes?” the man asked in a whisper.

Bill shook his head, saying he had only the robe that he wore.

”Let me see what I can do,” the prisoner said, adding that his name was Joe and that he was a friend of one of the Bonanno organization's bookmakers on the Lower East Side. Joe then disappeared quietly up the steps to the third floor.

Within a half hour, Joe returned carrying a freshly laundered T-s.h.i.+rt and pair of shorts, a blue denim s.h.i.+rt and trousers, and a pair of woolen socks. After Bill thanked him, Joe again disappeared upstairs.

Although the trousers and s.h.i.+rt were small, Bill managed to squeeze into them. His was curious not only about Joe but about the whole way of life in prison. There was obviously a small society and specal pecking order within this thick-walled world and he wanted to learn more about it, but he had to be careful, he reminded himself. He began to feel warmer and more comfortable in the clothes. Later he wrapped himself in the blanket and went easily to sleep.

A guard banging on the bars woke him up early the next morning. While other prisoners were escorted to a mess hall, he was confined to his cell where a breakfast tray was soon shoved through a slot in the door. It consisted of oatmeal, toast, and coffee. After he finished, he stood waiting, thinking that soon he would be led out for a shower and shave. He waited for a few hours but no one came. He had noticed that his toilet did not flush, the sink did not work, and he planned to mention this to the guard, but then he decided he had better wait until he understood more about the place before making complaints.

Most of the afternoon pa.s.sed before a guard appeared. Under his arm the guard carried a folded sheet of paper, and, peeking into the cell, he said to Bill, almost confidentially, ”Look, this is not a very good cell. I don't think you're too comfortable here. Why don't you fill out this sheet-its called a 'cop-out sheet'-and tell the warden you'd like something better...”

Bill looked at the guard, astonished. But the guard seemed sincere. Bill took the sheet, thanked him, and returned to his bunk, not even reading the paper. If he signed it he was sure it would somehow be used as evidence against him, would mark him as a chronic complainer on his first full day in jail, might even justify some special punishment they had in store for him. If he got out of this cell, he might be given something worse, if that were possible, might be placed in some special room designed to break him down or otherwise subject him to incriminating temptations. His imagination raced with dire possibilities. He waited until the guard had turned away and was gone, then he placed the ”cop-out sheet” on a ledge next to the newspapers and the unopened candy bar.

The dinner tray that night contained food barely edible, although he admitted to himself that nothing would seem palatable while he was in his current state of mind. Later Joe reappeared outside the cell holding three hard-boiled eggs in a paper napkin. He handed them quickly to Bill, explaining that they had been smuggled from the commissary, then he was gone. Bill was sorry he had taken the eggs. If he ate them, he might die; if he did not, he might get caught with them by a guard and be charged with smuggling, or at least have to explain where he got them. Quickly he crushed the eggs into tiny pieces which he deposited into the toilet. He waited, but the guard did not come. He suspected that Joe might be a prison spy, having heard that such men are commonly found in jails, lessening their own term as they reported on fellow inmates. Bill also thought it possible that his cell was bugged, that some hidden camera might be focused on him, but he was almost accustomed to that feeling, and it did not bother him.

On the following day the guard returned with another ”cop-out sheet.” Again Bill took it but did not sign it, and the same thing happened on the third day. There was no exchange of words or emotions between them, it was all impersonal, automatic-the guard shoved the form through the bars, Bill took it, said thank you, then placed it on the ledge with the other unsigned forms. But he was becoming increasingly uncomfortable now without having had a shower or a shave since his arrival, and he could not escape the odor of his own excrement and the smell of the eggs.

During the next morning, his fourth day in the cell, he was escorted to an outside bathroom and told to shave-his lawyer, Krieger, was waiting to speak to him in the warden's outer office. Krieger had come to say that the legal papers were filed with the court of appeals but that the process would be slow. Krieger noticed that Bill seemed rumpled, unkempt, and he was shocked to hear that Bill had not been permitted to shower in four days and that the toilet was not functioning. Krieger wanted to report this immediately to Judge Tenney, but Bill begged him not to, saying it would only cause more trouble for him in jail. If Krieger insisted on doing something, Bill suggested that he might drop a hint to the warden but that under no circ.u.mstances was Krieger to convey the impression that Bill was complaining.

Three days later a guard came for Bill, led him out of the maximum-security cell and escorted him through a long corridor into a large cell in which there were a dozen or more bunks on each side and a number of prisoners standing around and talking. The place was brighter and obviously less restrictive; in the parlance of prison life, Bill Bonanno was now ”in population.” Harold Konigsberg and Joe were not there but he recognized a few faces from the first day, and after the guard had gone the men introduced themselves and a few seemed very intelligent. At dinner time Bill accompanied them in line to the mess hall, sitting at one of the long tables and noticing that there were spoons and forks on the tables, but no knives. He also noticed that the salt and pepper was sprinkled on tiny pieces of paper in front of each plate; one prisoner explained to Bill that there had once been salt and pepper shakers but that all had been stolen.

When the prisoners were not eating or sleeping, they were kept busy at various tasks; and as Bill had suspected, the prison was in many ways run by the inmates. The chefs were prisoners, as were the bankers, plumbers, launderers, carpenters. The blue denim uniforms worn by the men-Bill had finally received clothes that fit him properly-were made by female prisoners in a women's penitentiary. The library was staffed by prisoners, whose taste was dominated by escape literature-science fiction, mysteries, but s.e.x novels were prohibited. Prisoners also were in charge of the movie projector-on evenings when films were allowed. Bill was often bored by the films that could be shown-light comedy, Doris Day, La.s.sie, Tarzan; no gangster films, no violent Westerns, nothing s.e.xually suggestive. The magazines included The Reader's Digest The Reader's Digest, trade publications dealing with automobiles and sports, comic books but not Playboy Playboy. It was apparently prison policy to try to curb masturbation by denying access to photographs of naked women, but Bill noticed that several advertis.e.m.e.nts evidently featuring young women had been torn out of the available magazines, possibly by guards, most likely by inmates. h.o.m.os.e.xuals were obvious around the prison, but they tended to keep to themselves, being available if desired outside their circle although fearing the brutality that often accompanied the risk.