I had recovered enough to go about my regular life again— errands, carpooling, housework—and Joe was back at work, where life had finally returned to business as usual. Oh, Complete Auto Body got the occasional prank call or curious tourist, but for the most part they were going about the business of auto body repair again in blissful anonymity. Joey and I were in great shape financially—we’d received settlements from both Amy Fisher’s and Peter Guagenti’s parents’ homeowners’ policies, plus the Hollywood TV movie money.
Three years after the shooting, the window to a regular, normal life had cracked open. I had the feeling, not that I dared to put it into words, but for the first time I felt deep inside, Maybe we are going to make it. Everything’s finally going to be all right. The only cloud on the horizon was the health of my father-in-law. Cass, a nonsmoker all his life, was diagnosed with lung cancer. His doctors theorized that it was caused by working around asbestos on submarines during his service in World War II. Mesothelioma was a terrible disease, and it quickly weakened my vital, powerful father-in-law into a shadow of his former self. That, and the regular visits from Joe’s parole officer, who interviewed me periodically at our house, still fueled my rage. I was still very angry at the system. I hated being forced to answer their standard questions about whether or not Joe was doing drugs, hitting me, had a job—more unnecessary harassment, as far as I was concerned.
Cass’s doctors did their best to alleviate his pain, and he went through a number of unofficial drug trials as they searched for the right combination. Industrial-size pill bottles were all over his bedroom, including a container that held 120 Percocet. Cass took two, but they didn’t agree with him at all, and the doctors moved on to other drugs. I, meanwhile, kept a covetous eye on that huge bottle of pills. I had my own standing prescription for Percocet, but my doctors were giving me an increasingly hard time about my frequent refills. They kept telling me I was taking too much; I kept telling them I was in pain. When several days passed and no one touched Cass’s discarded bottle, I scooped it into my purse one afternoon. I should have been ashamed to steal medicine from my terminally ill father-in-law, whether or not he intended to take it, but I was elated at the prospect of 118 extra pills I wouldn’t have to fight to get.
In May 1995, Joey flew out to L.A. for an art show. Usually, I accompanied him on these trips. This time, however, I wanted to attend end-of-the-school-year meetings for the kids and a friend’s birthday lunch, so Joey went by himself. He was the L.A. attraction, anyway—not me. The night after he left, I was jolted out of a sound sleep in the middle of the night by a phone call from our new attorney, Dominic Barbara.
“Joey’s been arrested in Hollywood,” he said.
“What? For what . . . what are you talking about?” I said, still half-asleep.
“For soliciting a hooker,” Dominic said. He assured me that he was taking care of the matter. He would handle the legalities over the phone with Joe’s court-appointed lawyer first thing the next morning. He had called in the middle of the night to warn me because the arrest would hit the newswire any minute. And make no mistake about it, this would be big news.
Right there, at that moment, in my dark bedroom in the middle of the night, sitting all alone listening to the voice on the other end of the phone line, something inside of me died: a vital force that hadn’t been destroyed by the shooting, the trials, or by Joe going to jail. I had stayed strong throughout all that, my inner core fired by anger more than anything—it had been a great motivator. This was different. I wilted like a broken flower. I literally fell out of bed onto the floor and curled up into a ball.
Joey had served time for statutory rape. He swore up and down that he didn’t do it, and we all believed him. But to now get arrested for soliciting a hooker? It just had to be something sex-related, didn’t it? I saw myself sliding right back down into a cesspool after three years of everybody standing by my husband, trusting in his word and innocence, really believing he took that plea not because he’d done anything wrong, but because he was so railroaded that there was no other choice. This was how my family, our friends, all the wonderful people who’d stood by us would be paid back for our love and loyalty?
I couldn’t contain my anger and disappointment when Joey was eventually allowed to make a call home. What a surprise: it wasn’t his fault. He had a reasonable explanation and plenty of excuses, as usual. He had just been sitting in his car in a parking lot outside a convenience store in Hollywood, minding his own business, according to him. “I’m getting on a plane right now. I’ll be home tonight and explain everything . . . but I didn’t do anything!”
I slammed the phone down. It immediately rang again.
It was Howard Stern, live and on the air at 6:00 AM, already on top of the latest Buttafuoco scandal. He sure caught me at the wrong moment—I didn’t hold back. “That asshole! I can’t believe he did this!” I screamed to America over the airwaves. His whole crew was laughing, joking, egging me on. It was great entertainment for them and their audience, I’m sure. Fortunately, Paul and Jessie slept through the call and my tirade. When I hung up the phone, it hit me. I’ve got to call my parents and tell them. And Joe’s family—and his father is dying!
Of course, I still had to get the kids up and out the door to school and pretend everything was all right, that it was just another day, which I managed somehow. The three of us got ready for school, ate breakfast, and started the day. I didn’t say a word about the phone call, or that their father had been busted again, or anything else. Once they were safely on their way, I called a close friend, broke the news, and arranged for her to keep the kids overnight. Then I fell apart.
By the time Joe came home that night, the press was back in full force—camped out in the yard and in the street, with lights, cameras, and news crews. It was déjà vu in the worst way. I had never spoken to Joe like I did that night—because the kids were at my friend’s house. My words were bitter and terrible, and my behavior nothing I’m proud of. I called him every name in the book. It was no way for husbands or wives to ever speak to each other, but I had been driven beyond my level of tolerance. We had descended into madness.
His story was that a hooker had been leaning up against the outside wall of a convenience store where he had stopped. “Some woman came up to the car, and I rolled down the window. She asked me if I wanted company. I was just joking around and said, ‘You look like you’re worth about thirty dollars!’ We laughed, I drove away, and next thing I know a bunch of police cars surround me and arrest me for soliciting! She was an undercover cop! I didn’t do anything; I didn’t even leave the car!”
“Why did you roll down that window? Why say anything at all? Why can’t you ever shut the fuck up?! When are you going to understand that we are not normal people anymore? That we’re targets?” But I was wasting my breath.
At one point that night, I could not endure it any longer. I stood up right in the middle of something Joey was saying, left him and a couple of family members sitting in the living room, climbed the stairs, entered my bathroom, and looked at all the pills in my medicine cabinet. There were plenty of them. I held all the bottles in my hand and seriously contemplated swallowing every last pill in every last container. I literally did not want to be in this nightmare anymore. I knew I couldn’t live through it again. There is no doubt I would have checked out then and there—I truly wanted to die—but I couldn’t leave my children alone during this mess. So I swallowed a double dose of Xanax, crawled into my bed, and pulled the covers over my head.
I was done, I was tired, I wasn’t moving, and I didn’t care who said what to me. Keeping up appearances was over. All the strength, anger, and resolve that had kept me going for the past three years disappeared, leaving only an empty shell. Forget getting the kids ready for school, driving them places, greeting them when they arrived home in the afternoons, games, schedules, homework, meetings. “You deal with it,” I told my husband. “You figure it out because I am done. Oh
, and find somewhere else to sleep. This room is taken.” The kids came into my room to visit me after school the next day, and when they started telling me what they needed that day, that night, and for school, I just looked at Joe and said, “Figure it out because I am done. Mommy doesn’t feel well.” I rolled over and dived under the covers again.
This was a really alarming development for Joe. I dropped the ball in a big way— I let it all go. After a few days of me refusing to get up, Joe frantically called my closest girlfriends. “You’ve got to come over and talk to her. I’ve never seen her like this.” When they showed up to check on me, and gently and reasonably pointed out, “You can’t just lay here like this forever,” I replied, “I don’t give a shit! The house can burn down for all I care. I’m staying right here.” I wasn’t going to kill myself, but it sure would have been nice to go to sleep and not wake up.
The will to live is actually much stronger than I had ever realized. Eventually, of course, I wanted to clean up. I got hungry. I had to get out of bed, shower, go downstairs, fix something to eat, and resume living—if for no other reason than Cass really was dying. Joe’s help was desperately needed at the shop, and the family needed me at their home. Cass was aware of Joey’s latest “situation,” but he was so heavily medicated that I’m not sure how much he really understood, which was a blessing. My parents, on the other hand, were very much alive and well. And they were pissed!
My father, the most mild-mannered, polite, pleasant banker type you could ever hope to meet, insisted on a family meeting at the senior Buttafuocos’ home. Cass was too weak to even make it downstairs on the appointed night, but my parents and Joe’s sisters, stepmother, brother Bobby, and Joe and I all sat in the living room as my quiet, reserved father tore into Joe. “What are you doing to my daughter and the children? Just what do you think you’re doing to this family? Your actions affect all of us!”
Joe continued to protest that he was set up, he hadn’t done anything wrong, and on and on, but my father, for one, wasn’t listening. Disillusionment had set in for my parents, and they saw the writing on the wall. Joe was remorseful and just sat there, taking my father’s tongue-lashing.
I was stuck. I was up and out of bed, but my spirit was gone. Depression robbed me of the energy it would have taken to pack up and leave Joe. The timing was also dreadful. I loved my father-in-law dearly. I wanted to help however I could, to be at his side during his final days and help my family in their time of need. There were bigger problems going on than Joey’s sideshow; this was literally life and death. I was forced to put my own troubles aside. All my time was taken up with the death vigil. It wasn’t just the family repercussions we had to deal with—it was a legal quagmire. Joe had been on probation at the time of his hooker scandal, and I knew the repercussions would be severe. I was the only one worried about it. Joe was his typical, breezy self about the matter. “What—are you kidding? They’re not going to put me in jail over this!”
“They certainly are!” Here we went again. Sociopaths are simply not frightened by the things others are. That grandiose sense of self does not allow for fear. Rules and regulations are for the rest of the world, not them. Mind you, Joe had already served time. Most people would do whatever it took to stay the hell out of the penal system for the rest of their lives. With typical insouciance, Joe wasn’t worried. That was my job. And sure enough, in June he was officially sentenced to jail for three months, to be served starting in September.
Cass died in August, and very soon afterward Joe went back to jail. It was a blessing that his father didn’t live to see that, and a mercy that he was only fuzzily aware of the entire drama playing out during the last few months of his life. Joe was gone, and I made up my mind. For real, I was leaving. I did not visit Joe one time during those seventy-five days. Nor did I miss him—not one little bit.
I refused all his phone calls, though I allowed the kids to take them. Paul was now fifteen, and he refused to even discuss his father’s current difficulty with me. Jessica was much more upset—by what she saw as the unfairness of it all. Joey had, of course, given the children his version of what had happened and had sworn it was a big misunderstanding, not his fault. She, for one, believed every word. She was 100 percent on his side. I did what I could: hugged them, told them how much I loved them, encouraged them to lean on their family and friends.
It was actually a very peaceful two and a half months in one sense. I was financially secure and knew exactly where my husband was and what he was doing. I had plenty of time to reflect on Joey’s behavior, without his endless justifications and wheedling and joking. I came to the conclusion that there weren’t going to be any more surprises in my life. I steeled myself to break the news to the kids.
I took Paul and Jessica out to dinner one night and said, “Kids, I have to talk to you about something important. When Dad gets out of jail, I am going to ask him for a separation. I am having a very hard time with all this, and I can’t live like this anymore.”
Twelve-year-old Jessica burst into tears. “You can’t do that! Daddy needs us! How can you do this to him? He’s in jail!” Paul didn’t have a visible reaction one way or another, but Jessica was beside herself. She was Daddy’s girl, for sure, and was really suffering because he was away.
“Mom, if you break up with Daddy, I’m going to go live with him!” she said. I tried to reach over and comfort her, but she wouldn’t let me touch her. She was furious with me. I started to backpedal.
“All right, I wanted to bring this up tonight. It’s something to think about,” I said, and then we went home. Jessica absolutely refused to speak to me for the rest of the night and disappeared into her room with the slam of a door. I sat up late that night and realized that I was stuck. I was tired, I was hurt, and I didn’t want to be in this marriage anymore. But my daughter was so hysterical, and Paul was so stoic. I couldn’t do this to them.
When Joe returned home in December, he was chastened and sorry. Again, of course. “You can’t leave me now. I need you more than ever! Dad is dead, and Bobby says I can’t come back to the shop!”
Bobby had apparently gone to see Joe in jail and told him he was not welcome back at work because Joey was bad for business. More bad news—but the holidays were upon us, and we had to get through them somehow. Family tradition dictated that we celebrate Christmas at the Buttafuoco home, but we all needed a change of venue. It would have been too sad a reminder that Cass was gone to gather at Joey’s childhood home just months after his death. I offered to host the family at our house that year. The situation was awkward, to say the least, but I filled the house with friends as well as family so we wouldn’t have to interact too much. All of us were cordial. I was mortified inside, but put on a happy face. I gave gifts to Bobby’s children gifts, of course, and chatted a bit with their parents.
According to Joe, Bobby’s wife Ursula was behind this decision to oust him from the shop. She had put her foot down and told Bobby to make a choice: either his brother or his wife and kids. Joe was enraged; he blamed her completely for this breach. The family business was his birthright, and some outsider was taking it away! Joe, as usual, was quite convincing. And as he ranted endlessly about his treacherous sister-in-law, his anger began to spark mine. How could they do this to us— take away our livelihood just when we needed it most?
Bobby had laid it on the line: Complete Auto Body and Repair was sinking. No one wanted to bring their cars in for service there. The place had become a joke. All that was in the public’s mind was, “Didn’t some guy have sex with a teenage girl there?” Cass’s legacy was going down the tubes, and there was only one reason. Bobby and his wife had young children to support. Bobby, like Joe, had worked there his whole life. Joe was no longer an owner; it was solely Bobby’s business after Cass died. The decision was final: Joe was not allowed to work there anymore. After that Christmas, despite my understanding of the realities of what was happening with the business, I no longer spoke to Bobby or Urs
ula, whom I’d loved for many years.
Joey’s frequent outbursts only added fuel to my fire. Whether or not it was in my mind, or it really happened, I felt people pulling away from us. There was a general sense of those around us backing away. You know, Joey, I made an ass out of myself for years defending you. Then you’re out in L.A. soliciting a hooker? I was in a total state of depressed resignation. On top of that, I felt plenty of shame, fear, and embarrassment. The kids didn’t want me to leave their father, and where was I going to go, anyway? I swallowed some more pills and soldiered on.
I lived for ten years in my dream house. Six of them happy. But it wasn’t my dream house anymore. Friends and neighbors had distanced themselves—the second media onslaught had been a little too much for many of them. The family was fractured over Joe’s firing from his own family business. Clearly, there was nothing left for my family on Long Island. We put the house on the market and hoped for the best. We weren’t sure if its notoriety would make the house an easy sell or an impossible one.
Where do you go to live when you’re infamous and hope just to blend in with the crowd? “I can work in L.A.!” Joe said. “We can start a whole new life there! It’ll be great!” He had created this whole mess, but here was the solution. I had no desire to live in California. I lived exactly where I wanted to live. But even on days when I told myself it wasn’t too late that I could still get out of this marriage, I knew I could never bring myself to let Joe go out to California alone and worry about the kids going back and forth to visit him if we separated. I was going where they were going; I had to stick it out. They’ve been through so much, was the constant refrain in my mind. It was all I could think of. They needed both their mother and their father.
Getting It Through My Thick Skull Page 9
