This Family of Mine: What It Was Like Growing Up Gotti (34 page)

In the end, Ruggiero didn’t take my brother’s advice—he was too jaded by the bells and whistles that went along with being a made man—and a thirty-year relationship was destroyed. It was the first of many life-altering changes John suffered as a result of his decision to leave the life. At one point he even wondered if he might be killed because of it. Still my brother stuck to his guns. He later told me, “This decision was not born out of anger or fear . . . that life leaves little to be desired, where I’m standing. It’s not for me. It’s not what I want any longer. I have my kids to think about. Their lives, their opinions of me, mean much more than anything
that life could ever offer me.” John ended our conversation with “Vicki, I’m not Daddy. He’s the last of his kind. He lived for that life, that world. It was his mission in life, to honor and support his men. It’s not who I am.” I don’t think I have ever been prouder of my brother than at that moment. I was so relieved John was getting out; I had waited for this moment since I learned he was made. I never wanted to see my little brother live that life, and I knew his heart wasn’t really in it, either. It was all about impressing our father.

Before accepting the plea package, John requested a visit with Dad. John’s lawyers went back to the prosecutors and told them John needed to get his father’s blessing. The prosecutors objected at first. But in the end they gave in and arranged a visit between father and son.

Two weeks later, John took a flight to Marion, Illinois. He went through the usual process of being searched and scanned. John was considered a regular visitor that day. The only difference between earlier visits to Marion and the visit that day was it would be a “contact” visit. John was looking forward to hugging Dad after nearly ten years of incarceration.

The visit was an emotional one. John would tell me later that Dad understood his decision, but he did not agree with it. He kept telling John the government was lying. He tried to impress upon my brother there would be no closure in the end. Dad tried his best to convince John the plea deal “reeked.” He swore once they got their hands on John and put him in jail, they would never let him out. John believed Dad was being paranoid. Dad also let John know that taking pleas in the life was “not acceptable.” Men were expected to stand tall. They were expected to be stand-up guys from the moment they were inducted into the life. Taking a plea was seen as a sign of weakness, and Dad did his best to dissuade John from accepting the plea deal. He told John, “Listen to me, son, you will
never get out of prison if you accept this deal. The FBI will never leave you alone. The
only
way to beat these motherfuckers is to fight them. Do you understand me?”

The visit ended with Dad telling John, “Do whatever you want to do. I would never tell you what to do, how to live your life. But I will give you advice and tell you this deal is wrong.”

What John remembers most was the hug at the end of the visit. He remembers fondly the way our father felt: “It was the best hug in the world for me. Yet I knew it meant so much more to him. After not having any human contact for ten years with anyone it must have felt exhilarating.”

John returned home with a heavy heart. He had a major decision to make. He wanted to take the deal. He also knew if he did, Dad would be greatly disappointed.

The night before John made his final decision, he said this to me, “I like children. I love mine. I want to be free to raise them while they are still young. Most of all, I don’t want them following in my misguided footsteps—ever.” John and I went over the predictable scenarios that accompany kids with fathers in prison. They rebel. They get into trouble. Some even end up in jail themselves. John did not want this for his kids. I was proud of my brother—for many reasons. He was man enough to take his own medicine and man enough to walk away from the temptations the life offered. He was also man enough to stand up to our father. He wanted to serve his time and start a new life. I believe his decision was both smart and brave.

In the end, John took the plea deal. A few weeks later, I went to see my father. He was agitated during that visit. All he did was rehash his conversation with John, and then rant some more about how “real men don’t accept plea deals—they fight, fight, fight!” I tried telling Dad most men were not like him. Most men were only human and usually followed their hearts. In the end, Dad still
disagreed with me and took John’s plea deal as a direct sign of disrespect. It was the beginning of a two-year feud between John and our father.

Judge Barrington Parker sentenced John to seventy-seven months. But John paid little attention to the jail time—it was the judge’s words that affected my brother the most: “You grew up in circumstances where your father was incarcerated, so you knew the kind of toll that takes on family—particularly children. The pattern, for reasons I am unable to fathom, is duplicated.” John took in Parker’s words and responded, “I’m a man. I am here to take my medicine.”

I
t was a beautiful spring day in 1998. I found a comfortable shaded spot under a blooming cherry blossom tree in a local park in Old Westbury, Long Island, where my family now lived. That day my sons, Carmine and John, were excited beyond the imagination. Both were Little League members and their team had made it to the “World Series.” I packed a picnic of sandwiches, snacks, and cold drinks. The baby, Frank, was not yet old enough to play on the team, so I brought along some board games and toys to keep him busy. I spread a checkered tablecloth out under the tree and emptied the picnic basket. The kids grabbed at the treats, eyes wide, smiles stretched across their faces, they stuffed themselves silly. Then the coach yelled out and they went running.

The players took their assigned positions: Carmine covered first
base, John was the catcher. It took four batters to strike the opposing team out. Carmine was first up at bat. After two tries he hit a double. The next batter got up and struck out, but not before Carmine managed to steal a base, rounding the corner of third. He was fast on his feet. John was the third batter. After two pitches he had two strikes. The pitcher threw the ball and the bat cracked loudly. John hit a home run! Meanwhile, Carmine was heading toward home plate, bringing in the first run of the game. I jumped up and threw my arms in the air, pumping my fists with pride. My children were the reason the crowd of friendly neighbors were on their feet, cheering as loud as they could. The last thing I remembered was my son Carmine searching the crowd for my approving eyes—then everything went black.

I
WOKE UP
in St. Francis Hospital Heart Center in Manhasset. My mother was standing at the foot of the bed with a worried look in her eyes. I scanned the room, searching for my husband and children. As if Mom could read my thoughts, she said, “Carmine took the boys downstairs to get something to eat.” I looked away from her and stared out the window. “When were you going to tell me you’re pregnant?” she asked.

I’
D KNOWN ABOUT
the pregnancy for three weeks; I’d already been to the doctor for a checkup and confirmation. The news wasn’t good. The doctor thought the pregnancy was coming at a bad time. I had just started taking a few new medications for my heart condition and some of those meds were not yet proven safe for pregnancy. Dr. Stern was concerned. She sent me to a specialist. He let me know the pregnancy was going to be risky, but he also offered words of encouragement. I was convinced I would have a
normal and uneventful pregnancy. The only person I’d told was my husband. I didn’t want to tell anyone else until I got through the first trimester. The day of the ball game, I was nearly ten weeks’ pregnant.

Many doctors surrounded the bed; each of them suggested an abortion. I wanted to be left alone. I asked Mom to leave. As I lay in bed, crying, all I could think about was Justine, the daughter I had buried, and my three beautiful sons. It’s not a position any woman or mother ever wants to be in. I kept the lights off and tried to sleep. I prayed over and over for God to make the decision for me. If I miscarried, it would have to be God’s will. But to abort the baby willingly was not something I wanted to think about. The doctors came back in around dinnertime. They had some test results back from the lab. The results were not good. The pregnancy was putting a tremendous strain on my already weakened heart. A decision would have to be made quickly. More serious, though, was evidence of severe, life-threatening arrhythmias on the EKG. My cardiologist told me I would need a defibrillator to prevent my heart from going into sudden cardiac arrest. I wanted the baby so much, I was hoping for a miracle. At the time, my marriage was unraveling more and more by the day. Carmine and I were fighting over every little thing. Lately, nothing I could do was right. Stupid issues became full-blown arguments. Even my health troubles became fodder for fights. He was spending less and less time at home and more time at the office. I was pretty much left to raise the kids on my own. Even on his days off he found excuses not to spend the day with the kids. In the past he’d take them to breakfast at the local IHOP and then to a park or even the racetrack, but lately he didn’t even seem to have time for them. I really did believe a new baby would bring us together again as a family.

My brother John was still home, but under house arrest, and getting ready to go off to jail.

I remember him coming into the dark room and shaking my foot, tucked neatly under the wool blankets. Once I was awake, he put the light on and pulled up a nearby chair. He spoke softly at first, telling me how sorry he was about everything and asking if there was anything he could do. Then, when I started crying, his expression turned dark. He scolded me and let me know getting pregnant was a “stupid thing to do in my condition.” I agreed. But it was unexpected and accidental. Then John said, “My heart goes out to the innocent, unborn baby inside you right now—as much as it does for you.”

He lowered his head and said, “Right now, I’m also thinking about my three nephews whom I love like my own kids. They
need
a mother, Vicki. You can’t be selfish here. You must put their needs before yours or anyone else’s.” John left the room nearly in tears.

The phone on the night table rang a few minutes later. It was my father. I was stunned to hear his voice. Immediately I started crying uncontrollably. This upset Dad terribly. He told me Cutler was able to get him a special call.

I hardly spoke, just listened. Dad told me how sorry he was about the situation. He’d also reminded me about how much I loved being a mom, and how previously doctors had said I would never have a child. He reminded me of the three beautiful sons I did have and let me know each one was “nothing short of a miracle.” He ended the call with, “You need to do what’s necessary to save your life—for you and for your children.”

I signed the authorization paper and was transferred to Long Island Jewish Medical Center a few miles away. St. Francis was a Catholic hospital and did not permit abortions. The procedure took about three hours and I was back at St. Francis before ten that evening. It took less than an hour to get me settled in. Mom was with me every step of the way along with Carmine and my brother John.

I insisted everyone go home around eleven. Mom looked
exhausted and stressed out. John and Carmine were tired as well. Everyone needed a good night’s sleep. In the morning we would discuss the upcoming cardiac surgery.

I fell asleep just before midnight. I slept peacefully for forty-five minutes. Then I woke up in excruciating pain. I pressed the call button clipped to the sheets and waited for the nurse. The nurse appeared and saw that I was hemorrhaging—the sheets were nearly covered with blood. She ran to call the doctor. Meanwhile, the pain was getting worse by the second. At one point it was so bad, I wrapped my hand around chunks of my hair, pulling clumps out as hard as I could in an effort to transfer the pain from my abdomen. They couldn’t find the doctor for almost an hour, and when they finally did, she took one look at me and knew right away what was wrong. But there was one major problem: because the procedure was done elsewhere and because of the strict religious ban on abortions, doctors at St. Francis could do little to help me. Politically, their hands were tied. And there was no time to airlift me back to Long Island Jewish Medical Center. The situation was getting more critical and a split-second decision had to be made.

I was shuttled down to the emergency room, where a screen was put up. The doctor needed to perform an emergency D&C. The abortion had been incomplete and was causing internal bleeding. Because of the legalities there was no anesthesiologist allowed. I felt every scrape of the scapel.

W
HEN
I
CAME
to, there was a team of doctors and nurses around me. It was over and I was alive. I was transferred back to my room and slept for two days straight. Three days later I was released. I was not strong enough to have the heart surgery yet. Instead, I was sent home with an external defibrillator. It was a box, the size of a clothing gift box, with two paddles attached. A registered nurse
accompanied me home and spent nearly two hours teaching me, my husband, and even the kids how to operate the machine in case of an emergency. It took me nearly three weeks to get out of bed. Four weeks from the day of the emergency surgery, Dad called to see if I was okay. He kept repeating things like, “I can’t tell you how awful I feel, how helpless, because I’m here and I can’t do anything to help you.” He felt so guilty. There was little I could say to change his feelings. He ended the call with, “I lay awake nights realizing just how lucky I am to have a daughter like you.” The following week I received a beautiful card in the mail. On the cover was a picture of a unicorn, a beautiful, white unicorn. Inside Dad wrote the words, “Beauty belongs with beauty.” I still have that card, framed and hanging in my home office.