Being John Gotti

EVERY WORKDAY ABOUT NOON, WITH RITUAL POMP, A gleaming limousine glides into the driveway of a modest, split-level house in the Howard Beach section of Queens. Emerging from the house is John Joseph Gotti, a spring to his step, his shoulders squared like a West Point plebe. He is dressed impeccably: muted solid-colored double-breasted suit, creamy white shirt and silk tie with matching breast-pocket handkerchief. Behind the wheel of the waiting Mercedes-Benz or Lincoln is one of three driver-bodyguards who rotate in chauffeuring Gotti around New York.