PETER GOTTI, who turned 65 yesterday, may not have been the loneliest guy in New York, but he certainly was the loneliest wiseguy in town.
“When he’s not in court, he is in solitary 23 hours a day. But I’m confident life is going to be smoother after some very rough going,” Joseph Bondy, Gotti’s lawyer, said on the 14th floor of the Manhattan federal courthouse.
Rough going? It’s been the perfect storm. He has already been sentenced to nine years in a Brooklyn federal court trial that I couldn’t quite grasp, his longtime lover Margie Alexander committed suicide March 31, and now the Justice Department is looking to give him life in prison.
Add to that, his modest Howard Beach home, perhaps rightly, will be handed over to his wife, Catherine. She wrote a letter to a judge excoriating Peter in words that perhaps she now regrets.
I first met Peter Gotti in 1986 shortly after he retired as a sanitation man on disability. I marveled at the disparity between Peter and his brother, John, in the intelligence department.
Victoria Gotti, Peter’s niece, has told me: “He is a warm and very generous man, but I don’t think he’s one of the smartest people I ever met.”
Another brother, Gene Gotti, was heard saying: “He should be out picking up garbage cans.”
Bondy, his lawyer, said: “I told him honestly that frankly some of the things I say might portray him to be a dope.”
Even John Gotti was heard joking good-naturedly: “I treat him like a two-dollar French hooker.”
One of the few old friends who has managed to see Gotti when he’s not in solitary is Paul Cosentino who told me: “He always seems up. I’ve never heard him complain about anything to do with his treatment, although I wish I could get permission to bring him some espresso coffee.”
Gotti bounces into court smiling, chatting with the marshals and waving to friends. He’s either putting on a brave face or just can’t grasp the fact that his life has disintegrated.
He’s the Rodney Dangerfield of the goodfellas: He don’t get no respect.
(p. 17 in metro and sports extra)