Getting It Through My Thick Skull (17 page)
“Roseanne Fisher would like to meet with you personally. Would you be willing to come out here and do that?”
I would never pass up a trip home. “Sure,” I said. I didn’t even think about it, especially when I learned it wouldn’t be on my dime. I had no particular desire or curiosity to meet Amy’s mother, but I jumped at any chance to go home. Joe couldn’t have been more supportive. “I think you should go. It’s a great idea. It will be good for you. Go ahead.”
“Are you sure, Joe?”
“Absolutely. It’s closure, and you need it. Go!” he said. He could not have been more encouraging.
I felt perfectly confident going into that meeting with Roseanne at Dominic’s office on Long Island. In fact, I felt a bit self-righteous.
Hey, my kids don’t run around shooting people in the head
was my mean-spirited thought. I recollected the one time I’d seen Roseanne face-to-face, during Amy’s original sentencing, and I had given her and Mr. Fisher the most evil glare I could manage. I hated them. They had clearly fallen down on the job. Seven years later, with my own teenagers, I felt more forgiving, but still a bit smug.
I arrived first, and when Roseanne came into the room, she walked over to me and held out her hand. I extended myself and gave her a hug. Seeing her really jolted me. We were the exact same age, only a few months apart, but she looked like an old, worn-out woman. She was painfully thin. I could feel all the bones in her shoulder and back when I hugged her. For the first time, I thought about how devastating this had been for her. She was a mother, after all, and now I had an eighteen-year-old with his own problems. They were nothing like Amy’s, of course, but I definitely had a new perspective.
I suddenly remembered going to visit Joe in jail, the long, humiliating wait in line, the dehumanizing search, the horrible institutional setting. I pictured this small, defeated woman going to visit her only child for seven years, week after week, hours away in upstate New York. I was flooded with pity. For the first time I looked at her with empathy. We sat down, and I soon found myself trying to put Roseanne at ease because she was so nervous and so sorry. She apologized over and over. “What made Amy like this?” I asked, honestly trying to understand what had gone so wrong.
She didn’t know, but the stories she told me that day went a long way toward explaining at least some of Amy’s behavior. Roseanne had been a shy eighteen-year-old girl with strict Italian parents fresh off the boat. When she started dating Mr. Fisher—a divorced Jewish man almost twenty years her senior— they told her in the strongest possible terms to find someone else because they did not approve. She defied her parents’ wishes and married him anyway. Amy was born a year later.
In a trembling voice, Roseanne described how Mr. Fisher had been verbally and physically abusive toward both of them. At some point I had to interrupt and say, “Why didn’t you leave?”
“I tried,” she said almost inaudibly. “When Amy was two, I went back home, and my parents said to me, ‘You made your bed, you lie in it. You did this; you’re not coming back here. This is not our problem.’” With nowhere to go, she went back to her house and abusive husband. Her stories were heartrending. Most of me felt nothing but pity. Still, the angry, judgmental part of my mind asked,
How could you let your kid grow up in that environment?
The Fishers had divorced shortly after Amy went to prison, but it was too late for their daughter. Still, who was I to say or judge her behavior?
The visit went well, I thought. We hugged again when we parted. I had no desire to see Roseanne again or to be her friend, but I felt good about the whole situation. It was refreshing to be healed enough to open my mind and think more about other people, how badly they’d been affected, and what they were going through. In my hurt and anger, I hadn’t spared a thought for Amy or her mother. Now I had to face how badly other families were hurting as well, how many people’s lives were forever changed.
Several days after I returned home, a letter from Roseanne arrived in the mail. She thanked me for seeing her and told me I was a wonderful person, a saint, how great I was, and so on. It was very sweet. A week passed, and a call came in from Bruce Barket. “I have a letter for you,” he said. “It’s a letter from Amy. She’s very sorry about what happened, and she has written you to apologize. May I send it to you?”
“I’ve been waiting seven years for this,” I said in surprise. “I’ve been waiting seven years for that girl to say she’s sorry.”
“Well, she has written you this letter, and I hope you’ll read it . . . so can I send it?”
“Of course, of course,” I said. “I’m interested to hear what she has to say.” I was stunned and curious. I had never imagined this day would come. A few days later, a long handwritten letter arrived in the mail. Amy’s letter was quite vague, as she was in prison and not allowed to refer to many things or use certain words. But the language was heartfelt, and she clearly apologized. The whole incident was her fault. Joe had had nothing to do with it. She had many issues she was working on that she’d tell me about someday, and she was very, very sorry. She had always wanted to say she was sorry, she wrote, but had been advised by former counsel not to reach out to me.
It has taken a long time to realize exactly how serious what I did was and what factors in my life led me to it. I don’t have the benefit of professional help in prison for a variety of reasons, but my mom helps me a lot. She said she met you and you weren’t what she expected. Mom told me you were a nice, kind person. I’ve always tried to think you were mean and horrible because it was easier for me to deal with what I did to you. When my mom was talking about you I became filled with emotions that I had never felt before. I wanted to meet you and tell you in person how bad I feel for everything that has happened. I’m not sure if you’ll ever believe that I’m sorry for what I did to you, but I am. I had a lot of anger inside of me and I directed it at you. That anger wasn’t for you and I know now that what I did to you is the worst thing one human being can do to another.
Tears ran down my face.
At last
—a
seemingly sincere apology from the person who had harmed me.
She was finally taking responsibility for the devastation she had wrought on so many lives.
Thank you. Thank you for owning up to this and apologizing at last.
Shortly after receiving the letter, Bruce Barket filed a brief seeking a new trial for Amy on the grounds that her personal relationship with her counsel Eric Naiburg constituted a conflict of interest, which had interfered with his ability to properly represent her. Amy claimed in her brief that while she was out on bail, they had kissed, touched, and acted out his sexual fantasies. Dozens of poems, notes, and letters Eric had written to Amy over the years were attached as proof. They were certainly damning.
My old nemesis, Assistant District Attorney Fred Klein, officially notified me that based on overwhelming evidence of Eric Naiburg’s misconduct, they were granting Amy Fisher a new trial. The DA’s office planned to negotiate some sort of settlement rather than go through the time and expense of an entire trial. I had been forced to let go of my desire to have my day in court years before. Once again, all kinds of deals were being made behind the scenes. However, I was consulted, and this time I was able to participate in the process without rage or painkillers clouding my judgment.
Their new proposal was this: to reduce the original sentence of five to fifteen years to three to twelve years. With seven years’ time already served, there was an excellent chance she would get out on parole.
I reacted to this news with very mixed feelings. “What do you think, Joey?” I asked.
“Whatever you decide,” Joey answered. “Whatever you think best, I’m behind you. If you want to accept this sentence reduction, good for you. Whatever it takes for closure.”
I flew back to New York for a behind-closed-doors meeting with the district attorney’s office. I reconciled myself to the idea of Amy being let out of prison, but I wanted certain stipulations to go along with her probation. If she was going to be let out, her four-year probation wasn’t going to be a picnic. She would have a curfew of 8:00 PM, drug testing, and be prohibited from going to bars and nightclubs. She would have to get a job and live with her mother. I really thought that she would be unable to live with these terms. She would mess up fast once she was let out. How do you tell a twenty-five-year-old who’s been locked up for seven years—or any person at any age who’s been locked up for years, for that matter—not to go out at night?
As I wrangled through all these arrangements with the attorneys, my attitude was resignation. She’s going to get out, but at least let her get out with conditions attached. Eventually, all the terms were agreed upon, a court date was set for April 21, 1999, and I returned home to California. The rumblings in the press began. Mary Jo was forgiving Amy Fisher, and she was going to be let out! Amy would be free! Mary Jo was returning to the scene where it all began to face Amy in court again! All the TV shows were calling,
People
magazine wanted to do a story with me, and the Long Island press was salivating over the story.
Joe didn’t want to attend—he would stay home with the kids, and my parents would attend the hearing for moral support— but he offered unqualified support. I had one last talk with my husband and kids before I left for the court hearing. “Is everybody all right with this decision?” I asked.
“Whatever you want, we’re behind you,” they assured me. I got on the plane and braced myself for the media onslaught on the other end. As the limo drove me through the city to my hotel, I asked the driver to turn on the local news. The horrifying slaughter at Columbine High School in Colorado was on every station. Nothing of this magnitude had ever happened in an American school before. I was no longer a big deal. Suddenly, Amy’s court hearing was relegated to page five. I was left in relative peace for my entire stay. The news media had a much more important story to report.
Matters proceeded smoothly and as planned at Amy’s hearing. Amy cried as she spoke. She reiterated that the shooting had been all her idea, that nobody else, particularly Joe, was involved, and that she was very sorry. In turn, I made a beautiful speech saying that I knew she hadn’t realized that I was somebody’s mother, somebody’s child, and somebody’s sister at the time of the shooting. I was alive. I had been given a second chance, and I was giving Amy that same opportunity. Seven years after the fact, I was finally getting what I had wanted all along: the victim and the perpetrator facing each other in a courtroom and each getting their say. It was time for Fred Klein to speak. “Your honor,” he began, “I just want it to be known that the prosecution of Joseph Buttafuoco for the rape of Amy Fisher . . .”
I was instantly flooded with shock and outrage—first to hear Joe’s name at all, then to hear it in the context of rape. Once again, this was my day, and it was all about the same old circus sideshow.
I arrived back in California and was surprised to hear from the kids that Joey had gone to Las Vegas for a quick trip while I was back East. Yes, they were nineteen and sixteen years old, perfectly capable of looking out for themselves, but I was a worrier.
“Vegas—what were you doing there? Didn’t you watch the case on television?” I asked.
“Oh, I just decided to go with a few of the guys, last-minute, a quick break. Why would I watch
that
on television?” he wanted to know.
Just that fast, there was a subtle but noticeable change in his attitude. This comment wasn’t like him. It certainly wasn’t particularly supportive not to even watch the highlights on CNN. I was hurt, but brushed it off. My main concern was the kids. “Joey, how could you leave them? What if one of the kids had been in an accident?”
“Come on, they were fine. We’re all fine! Quit worrying so much!”
In making it through rehab, meeting with Roseanne, and very publicly forgiving Amy Fisher, I had directed more of my attention and energy to my personal needs and well-being than I had in decades—since I got married, in fact. Joe and I had been a perfect match. For years, I had been an ideal, willing victim. Unconsciously or not, Joe sensed my new strength, and when a sociopath has completely worn out one willing victim, he will look for a fresh victim to meet and charm.
The next afternoon, there was a knock on the front door. Ever since I’d been shot, I hated unannounced knocks on the door. In fact, I refused to answer them. If I didn’t know someone was coming over at a certain time, forget it—I wasn’t going to let them in. Paul, however, opened the door. A tabloid reporter from the
Globe
identified herself and asked to speak to me. I figured she was looking for a quote about Amy’s imminent release. “Would you care to comment about Joey and his new girlfriend who accompanied him on a recent trip to Las Vegas?” she asked.
This was how I learned about Evanka.
