Getting It Through My Thick Skull (11 page)
I
had to pat myself on the back: the move to the new house turned out to be a brilliant idea and made our having to go to my father-in-law for the down payment with our tails between our legs totally worthwhile. Our family was immediately absorbed into the warm, friendly community and its busy social life. Within weeks of the move, it felt like we’d been living there our whole lives. In a sense, Joey and I had: Massapequa was where we’d both grown up. Our kids would go to the same schools we had attended twenty-five years earlier. We had literally come home, and it felt good.
Clean and sober, Joe soon became hands-down the most popular guy on our block. He was a thoughtful and caring friend and neighbor. Nothing was too much trouble or too much to ask: Joey Buttafuoco would do anything for anybody, always with a joke and a smile. The phone rang often at all hours with panicky calls from people who were shaken up by a car accident or fender bender. Joey would immediately drive out to the scene, tow the car to Complete Auto Body, make sure they got home safely, and find them a replacement car to drive, reassuring them the whole time not to worry, it wasn’t a big deal, and that he’d take care of everything, including the insurance hassles. And he did.
The neighborhood kids loved Joey, probably because he was just a big overgrown kid himself. He would patiently and endlessly play and clown around with Paul and Jessie and all their friends. He was unfailingly polite and respectful to all the other wives. After we settled into our productive, wonderful life in Massapequa, we were happy as honeymooners again. Grandparents and babysitters were minutes away. We took exotic anniversary getaway trips each year and had plenty of “couple time.”
Joey was committed to sobriety and hard at work in the family business. I was busy with running the house—I was constantly decorating and improving it—board meetings of the beach club, various neighborhood committees, volunteer work, and most important, two growing kids and their numerous sports and social activities. I’d worked hard to save my marriage and was convinced—once we fully settled into our beautiful home, regained some financial stability, and saw our children thriving—that the long, hard struggle had been well worth it. I was happy, really happy to wake up each day and get moving. My panic attacks were a distant memory. Therapy had given me the tools to calm myself whenever I even started to feel anxious, which was rare. Life was good again.
While I imagined that this was the start of the rest of our lives, the sociopath I lived with thought that life was getting just a little bit too boring. I was thrilled with our ordinary existence: a spouse with a nine-to-five job, family dinners, paying the bills, watching a little TV or visiting friends at night, then going to bed and starting the same old routine all over again the next day. Living with a cocaine addict had been more than enough excitement for me.
Joey took up working out at the gym, and he became pretty obsessed with lifting weights, but I didn’t give it a second thought. I assumed that after years of hard living, he was just generally becoming healthier. I worked out, too, and I was pleased that he was taking good care of himself. A more obvious sign of his restlessness and need for excitement was the boat. I always paid all the household bills, and one of the regular monthly expenses was our boat loan. We owned a nice twenty-four-foot boat with a small cuddy cabin that we docked at the marina next door every summer and put in dry dock in Freeport every winter. We enjoyed pulling the kids around behind us on inner tubes and taking friends out on the weekends for some water-skiing. I loved that boat; it provided us all with lots of good family fun.
One day in November 1990, Joey came to me and said, “Can I see the coupon book for the boat loan?”
“Sure, why?”
“Just want to take a look at it . . . I’m thinking about refinancing it and getting a better interest rate . . .” He was very vague.
It was no big deal. I handed him the coupon book and forgot all about it. I realized a month or two later that I hadn’t seen the bill and reminded Joey that the boat loan was due. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ve already taken care of it,” he said.
“What exactly is going on—what are you doing?” I asked him.
“Nothing, nothing . . . geez, don’t worry about it!” Joey said. Something was up, but as usual, no matter how much I questioned him, he always had an answer. Whatever. I had a household to run and a million errands to do, so out of my head it went.
Three months later, I was taken to see the thirty-one-foot cigarette boat
Double Trouble
at a dealership close to our house. It was huge, with double engines, deafeningly loud, ostentatious, and completely over the top in every way. The inside was outfitted like the inside of a limousine, and twinkly lights were strung all over it. It was better equipped and plusher than many houses. I stood in the dealership where he had already bought this monstrosity—all the salesmen were congratulating me on our wise purchase—and could not believe it. This new toy cost $60,000.
Joey was grinning ear to ear. “Isn’t this great?” he enthused. The look on my face made it clear that “great” was not my feeling. He knew full well what I was going to say when I started to speak and rushed to head me off. “Don’t worry about it, don’t worry about it . . . this is going to be so much fun. You and the kids are going to have a ball!”
I was furious. He took out a $60,000 loan without even discussing it with me? So
that’s
what the evasive answers about the coupon book three months earlier had been about. He traded in our perfectly wonderful, perfectly adequate family boat and added sixty grand to our debt without even discussing the matter with me first! But, the deal was done; there was nothing to do but throw my hands up.
I was all alone in this fight; every one of my friends, not to mention their husbands, thought the racing boat was a fantastic idea. I was the wet blanket, fussing about how much it cost, how fast it went, and how somebody could easily get hurt. Meanwhile, all our friends and neighbors couldn’t wait for summer to arrive so they could get out there and play. The kids and I didn’t need this. But, hey, whatever. I put a smile on my face and went along for the ride, as usual.
When summer rolled around, I was soon forced to admit that the boat really was a lot of fun. The neighbors had an absolute ball. Our new toy was the biggest attraction at the beach club. Joey was like the Pied Piper, with people literally lining up for their turn to ride way out into the ocean and jump the waves. Our neighbor, a firefighter, spent a lot of time at the club with his younger brother, who had been paralyzed in a car accident and was wheelchair-bound. His accident was a real tragedy. He was a very nice guy and young, only in his late twenties. One day, Joey picked him up, carried him onto the boat, and took him out for a long ride. He was exhilarated and talked about it for weeks. He hadn’t had that much fun in years. That was the kind of guy Joey was. By the end of August, even I had pretty much come around. The deceit and guise under which the boat was purchased faded from my memory.
The fall and winter of 1991 were peaceful and normal, at least as far as I knew. On the last night of the year, Joe and I attended a festive New Year’s Eve party at the beach club. Surrounded by all our friends and neighbors, we made a champagne toast and kissed at midnight. “Ninety-one was great; ninety-two will be even better!” I had every reason to believe this was true.
With springtime came the annual round of confirmation parties and communion celebrations, which we “good” Catholics always attended. Some friends threw a lavish communion party for their seven-year-old daughter; they really pulled out all the stops. They rented a huge party boat for the official kickoff event of the summer, to be held on May 17. Everyone in the neighborhood looked forward to it for weeks. My thirty-seventh birthday was on Friday, May 15, and Joe and I had a low-key celebration, just out to dinner with some friends. That Sunday, the weather was perfect. Joe, the kids, and I got all dressed up, and as we walked onto the boat, a band serenaded us. The DJ got everybody up and dancing as we cruised Long Island Sound and had a delicious meal and drink. It was quite a bash.
Our next-door neighbors of six years had been transferred to Florida, and they were moving soon. I was in charge of collecting contributions from all the neighbors for a going-away gift. My friend Marilyn caught up to me for a minute at the party and said, “When do you want to go buy that gift? Tuesday or Wednesday?”
“The weather’s going to be so nice this week . . . I’d really like to get that bench painted. . . . How about Wednesday?” I suggested.
On Monday, the day after the party, a flurry of people stopped by the house to drop off their money for the going-away gift. I put all the money, about $500 cash, in an envelope and stored it safely in my desk so I’d be ready for the shopping trip on Wednesday. (Needless to say, our neighbors never got their going-away gift.)
The next morning, Tuesday, I was allowing Paul and Jessica to ride their bikes to school with the neighborhood kids instead of taking the bus. The weather was beautiful, the end of the school year was approaching, and I didn’t want to be overprotective. At nine and twelve they were old enough to ride along with their friends. I walked them out of the house, gave them each a kiss, and waved good-bye. Back inside, I finished the dishes, changed into some old clothes, gathered paint, gloves, and everything else I’d need for my project, went into the sunny backyard, and painted my bench . . . for about twenty minutes.
O
ur tight-knit community threw a victory party in October 1992 when it was officially announced that, after a thorough investigation into the entire matter, no charges of any sort would be filed against Joey. The small celebration at the senior Buttafuoco’s home turned into a huge raucous party as dozens of family members and friends stopped by to offer their support and good wishes. I was giddy with relief, vindication, and joy. Amy Fisher’s official sentencing date was only weeks away. Once we got that behind us, maybe we could move on for good.
The outcome of the hearing was preordained. Due to her plea bargain, Amy would be sentenced to somewhere between five and fifteen years. No trial, but I would have my chance to speak up when I made a victim’s impact statement in court. As the day approached, I grew more and more nervous. Every news organization in the world—no exaggeration— would be gathered at that courthouse. Television programming all over the country was preempted as every station went live to the courthouse on Long Island.
My parents, sister, and Cass and Bobby picked me up early on the morning of December 1 and drove me to the courthouse. Joey stayed home, as his presence would have been too distracting. This was my opportunity to speak out about how Amy’s crime had affected me. For once, the attention would be focused on me, not the Joey and Amy sideshow. I had gained back a few pounds, my hair had grown out somewhat, and my balance was returning, but I was still in constant pain from continual ear infections. Nerves overtook me on the short ride over—three Valium, and I was still shaking like a leaf. I knew the speech I would make in that courtroom would be seen by the whole world. Not to mention that this was the first time I’d see Amy since that day on the porch.
Our arrival was greeted by the most incredible mob scene, with the police fighting to hold back the press and shouting, “Make room, make way!” Flashbulbs were popping, lights were in our faces, everyone was pushing and shoving, and reporters shouted questions. We put our heads down and inched into the courtroom, fighting every step of the way.
The packed courtroom, once we got seated, was a welcome respite. After I took my seat and got my bearings, I got a good look at Amy’s parents and gave them the dirtiest look I could.
What did you do to that kid? One child, and this is the best you could do?
were my uncharitable thoughts at the time. Anger stiffened my resolve, overshadowed my fear, and got me to my feet to make my speech when I was called.
“I was left for dead with a .25 caliber bullet lodged in my head, one inch from my spinal cord. As a result of this vicious and violent act, my life and the lives of my family have changed completely . . .” My voice grew stronger as I recounted what had happened to me, detailed my injuries, and finally took the chance to tell Amy, directly to her face, that what shocked me most was her nonchalant attitude and utter lack of remorse.
The judge had some harsh words for Amy. “In the eyes of this court you are a tragedy and a disgrace—to yourself, to your friends, family, and to society. You deserve no less than the maximum sentence I can impose by law—a minimum of five years with a maximum of fifteen years.” The gavel banged, and all of the legal proceedings were finally over—or so I thought.
Then, as if my day hadn’t been surreal enough, I went home and packed for my trip to Hollywood. The race for a television movie of the week was on. All three networks were currently shooting their own movie about the case. One was Amy’s version, one was a journalist’s version, and the CBS movie was told from our—mine and Joey’s—point of view. Amy had been paid a ton of money for book and movie rights, so I had no qualms about accepting money for the rights to make our story into a TV movie. The other movies would be made with or without my permission. Everyone, but most especially the perpetrator, was cashing in on this story. We had hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of legal and medical bills, not to mention an elaborate new security system. The movie money—and any paid appearances on television shows—was blood money, for sure, but it had been my blood. I was willing to take it.
A trip to Hollywood and a visit to a movie set where our story was being filmed should have been a fun and exciting adventure.
Casualty of Love
starred Jack Scalia and Alyssa Milano, and after we landed in L.A., we were driven to a fancy Beverly Hills hotel. The next day, a limousine drove us to a distant L.A. neighborhood where the film was shooting on location, and we met the actors and observed. I felt queasy all day. The stress of Amy’s sentencing and the long plane ride had been too much for me. That night in our beautiful hotel room, a vicious headache—different from the regular pain I lived with—blindsided me. I couldn’t stop vomiting and quickly became dehydrated. I wound up in Cedars-Sinai Medical Center for the next two days. My symptoms were so severe that the doctors feared I had meningitis. Shopping and sightseeing in the sun were forgotten. I was forced to return home early to consult my regular doctors.
