Getting It Through My Thick Skull Page 4

  The wheels of justice continued to grind behind the scenes. I was living for my day in court. I couldn’t wait for Amy’s case to be tried and tell the world what had really happened that day. No struggle, no argument, no accident—this girl had tried to murder me, and I was ready, willing, and able to testify to that at her trial. But the police and district attorney had no intention of letting all the details of the sloppy police work come out in a public trial. In a desperate attempt at a Cover Your Ass Move, Assistant District Attorney Klein broke the news to me in a personal meeting that “for my sake” they were going to let Amy plead out to a much lesser charge. They were arranging this so I wouldn’t be put through an exhausting trial. How nice of them.

  They were offering Amy a deal: five to fifteen years in return for pleading guilty to one count of aggravated assault. Aggravated assault? She tried to assassinate me in front of my own home! Were they crazy? Here was the kicker: as part of her deal, she agreed to testify that Joey had sex with her when she was still sixteen. They had to get that in there somehow, of course. They couldn’t just punish her for the crime she’d committed; they were determined to get Joey, too.

  “Are we still on that bullshit?” I screamed at Fred Klein. “She’s a liar—she’s lied about everything! She’s crazy—she tried to kill me! She’d been trying for months! She was a working call girl—this is no innocent kid! How can you do this to me and my family?” I stood up shakily and slammed my hands down on the desk.

  Michael Rindenow tried to calm me down. “Take it easy, Mary Jo,” he said, and reached over to guide me back down to my seat.

  “I won’t take it easy! What part of ‘This girl is a dangerous nut job’ don’t you guys get? You’re going to take the word of this little lunatic that they had sex when she was sixteen? Didn’t you watch that tape? You should be taking care of me, not going after Joe! I need my husband home helping me!”

  I fell back down in my seat, emotionally distraught and weak with exhaustion. In the four months since she put that bullet in the side of my head, I hadn’t had one minute of peace or healing. Everything was always about Joey and Amy. The attorneys were unmoved by my outburst and looked at me stone-faced. Hey, they were doing this for me. By having Amy plead guilty to an assault charge, they explained, I could collect a sizable settlement from her parents’ homeowner’s insurance policy. But I knew better. This was a political decision based entirely on their colossal mishandling of the entire case against Amy Fisher. All I wanted was my day in court. But what I wanted or needed was never a part of the equation—and never would be.

  As the district attorney’s office hammered out the fine points of a plea bargain with Eric Naiberg, I did my best to calm my seething anger at what I saw as the continued harassment of my husband. Though I certainly tried, I couldn’t ignore the incessant news coverage or the latest bulletins from the cops. They were now officially claiming that Joey and Amy had first had sex in her house on July 2, 1991. Records showed that her car had been brought in for service that day. Amy left it at the shop, and Joey drove her home. According to Amy, she invited Joey into the house where they had sex for the first time. Her parents obviously weren’t home.

  Now, was that a feasible scenario? Yes. But driving customers home was part of Joe’s job. When people dropped off their cars to be repaired, sometimes Complete arranged for a rental car, and sometimes they drove the customer home. Joey had driven hundreds of customers home over the years. There was nothing suspicious about that. “Of course I drove her home, Mary Jo! But I didn’t go into that house. I did not have sex with her. I came back to the shop!”

  Matters looked a little more serious when police claimed they had a receipt, signed by Joe, from a local motel he had allegedly visited with Amy. “They forged it,” was his ready answer. “Like I’d be stupid enough to register under my own name! Look at that handwriting—it’s not even mine.” Joey had a reasonable explanation for everything that came up. Certainly, some excuses were easier to swallow than others, but Amy and the cops were making so many outlandish claims— and I’d already been betrayed by both—that any “evidence” they uncovered against Joe was easy to dismiss.

  I was firmly on Joey’s side; that wasn’t even a question. One night I got a phone call at home. Michael Rindenow was so excited he could hardly speak. “You’re not going to believe this, Mary Jo! There’s a tape of Amy Fisher talking about how she’s going to make money off this and get a Ferrari . . . I’m telling you, you won’t believe it!”

  It turned out that the previous night—the day before she headed for court—Amy had violated the terms of her bail and sneaked out of her house after curfew. She met up with Paul Makely, a former boyfriend, at a local gym he owned. He had hidden a camera in the gym, which recorded every minute of their meeting. On the tape, Amy was seen acting as if going to prison was just an annoyance. “For all my aggravation, when I get out I’m going to get a Ferrari, because I’m famous now!” she told him. “Eric says I’m only going to have to serve two years and nine months.” She didn’t appear too worried. She spent a lot of time asking him about conjugal visits and hanging all over him.

  She made a routine appearance in court the next morning and entered her plea bargain, as planned. The judge granted her six weeks’ time to live at home and get her affairs in order before reporting to be sentenced, but all hell broke loose that afternoon when news of the tape became public. The release of that hidden tape of Amy and Paul on Hard Copy was the happiest day I had had since I’d been shot. The real Amy was finally out there for the world to see. Her behavior vindicated everything Joey and I had been saying for months: she was cunning, manipulative, and out for herself.

  Hard Copy was calling, frantically—they were desperate to get an interview with me to run the night after this huge scoop. For a change, I was happy to oblige. The show sent a camera crew to my house, where I sat for my very first national interview in my living room. I felt vindicated, relieved, triumphant— even smug. I did my best to speak coolly and evenly and stress that Amy was a very disturbed, dangerous girl. I thought I’d pulled this off fairly well, and Joe and I decided to get out of town as soon as that was over. We took the kids and headed to Pennsylvania to visit friends. As we relaxed at their house, the phone rang with some shocking news.

  My friend answered the phone and said, “Mary Jo, Michael needs to speak with you. It’s an emergency.”

  “Amy tried to commit suicide,” Michael said with no preamble.

  “Tried?” I asked, my heart beating faster. I hoped with all my heart she had succeeded.

  “She’s going to live, Mary Jo. They pumped her stomach in the emergency room.”

  Paul Makely had coldly sold Amy out for $10,000; his betrayal and the immediate harsh backlash from the press and public at large devastated her. She had taken an overdose of sleeping pills. Once she was out of any immediate danger, Amy was sent to the psychiatric ward, where she spent the five weeks prior to starting her sentence under close observation.

  I didn’t have a whole lot of sympathy for her. In fact, I wished that she had succeeded in her attempt. My anger was still at full boil. She had destroyed my health, my hearing, my peace of mind, my husband’s reputation, my kids’ peace of mind, my anonymity and entire life as I knew it. I would be delighted if she was no longer on this earth.

  The tide really turned with the airing of that tape; the public opinion of her hardened. A week or so after the tape was broadcast, while Amy was hospitalized, I got a call notifying me that the district attorney’s office wanted to meet with me again. As usual, there was always a big buzz in the halls when I came in: Ooohhh, Mary Jo Buttafuoco’s here! I couldn’t wait to hear what they had to say now.

  Michael Rindenow and I sat down with Fred Klein in his office. I knew this was going to be good. “Based on recent evidence that has come forth, we have decided not to pursue any charges against your husband. We don’t deem Amy Fisher credible enough to appear in front of a grand jury,�
�� he said stiffly.

  I had a smug look on my face, and it was clear what I was thinking: No shit! Told you so! I didn’t actually say the words, but my expression was easy to read. I was standing by my husband, I believed what he told me, and they were simply confirming that I was right to do so.

  Fred Klein looked directly at me. “But, Mary Jo, you need to know this. He did have an affair with her.”

  My stomach twisted, my head got hot. Something in my body sensed the truth of this statement. But I immediately pushed that feeling down. After all, Fred had proven his callousness and political intentions before, so why would he care about me now? I had too much to be happy about: Joey was getting off the hook. Amy had shown very clearly what she was made of, and she would soon be put away for a good long time, even without me getting my much-wanted day in court. The authorities were going to leave Joe alone and stop trying to pin things on him. The two of us could go home where I would continue to recover. We could return to our regular lives.

  “Well, that’s what you think,” I replied. I walked out of that office ready to get on with my life, and deeply buried that tiny seed of doubt. My ongoing experience with the justice system and unwanted infamy gave me every reason to feel abused and exploited. The manner in which my criminal case was handled was insult on top of grievous injury. My anger at the way that I, the victim of a violent crime, was being treated by cops, lawyers, and the media lay just under the surface, and frequently boiled over when it came to what I saw as the vendetta against my husband. The only upside was that this same rage propelled me out of bed each morning and through an arduous rehabilitation. I absolutely refused to let the action of some crazy, lying teenager destroy the family and home I treasured above all else. I deserved to have my idyllic life back. I’d fought hard for it.

  CHAPTER 3

  A MATCH MADE IN

  MASSAPEQUA

  Joey and I had been together for twenty years on the day Amy Fisher showed up on my porch. I was sure I knew him inside and out: he was a great guy, the most gregarious and amiable person you could ever hope to meet. This is not to say he couldn’t be a lot of trouble—he was. I knew that the minute I met him—in a hot, stuffy classroom on Long Island during the summer of sophomore year 1971, when, due to alphabetical seating order in summer school, we wound up sitting right next to each other. This Joey kid was funny, a real smart-ass. He’d make sarcastic remarks under his breath every time the teacher ordered us to take out our books or prepare for a test, and get the entire class laughing. “Oh, everything’s fine, Mr. Coliccio,” he’d say very winningly when the teacher called him on it. It was clear that Joey was just a rascal, but lovable—even the teacher couldn’t stay mad at him for long.

  As the long weeks of summer school wore on, we started to talk before and after class and eventually became buddies. I had a boyfriend, he had a girlfriend, and I never gave him another thought once summer school ended.

  That fall we both entered tenth grade. On the first day of school, as everybody piled out of their classrooms after homeroom, I spotted the guy from summer school across the hall. “Hey, Joey!” I shouted. “Hey, Mary Jo!” he called back. Then we rushed off in separate directions. After that we’d greet each other every time we passed in the hallway. He was a pal, the nice guy I saw around during breaks between classes. Joey was a very well-liked, popular student, not because he was a big jock or because he was the brainy head of the debate team, but because he was an all-around good guy.

  The Buttafuocos were a fairly well-known family in Massapequa. Joey’s father had founded and run a successful auto body business for years. Joey’s mother had died of cancer when he was only eleven, and a couple of years later his father remarried. Willie Mae was a widow who owned a famous local attraction: Freeport Stadium, a racetrack on Long Island where demolition derbies and car races were held every Friday and Saturday night. Their marriage was a merger of companies as well as a blending of two families. Joey got a stepmother and a pretty cool job for a teenage boy: lap counter at the track on the weekends.

  On the first day of eleventh grade, something surprising happened. I saw Joey Buttafuoco in the hall, and he looked different. He was bigger, taller, beefier, and actually handsome. I suddenly saw him in a new light. Not just a fun, friendly guy.

  He’s cute . . . he’s really cute! I realized. I made it my mission to “get” him.

  It took a couple of months of campaigning, because he was a little slow to catch on. He considered me a pal, a buddy, so I had to really work it. He came around soon enough and proved to be the ideal boyfriend. Joey treated me like a queen and was wonderful to my mom and dad: friendly, respectful, always ready to lend a hand. My parents thought he was perfect; he fit right into our family.

  A few months into our new relationship, Joey dropped by one night to visit. We wound up sitting in front of the living room fireplace talking, as my father read the newspaper in the kitchen and my mother chased my sisters around upstairs, trying to get them into bed. It had been easy, casual fun. I was having a fine time dating Mr. Good Times, the life of the party. But that night Joey opened up to me for the first time about his mother’s death.

  Her long illness and death had been devastating to the entire Buttafuoco family, but Joey had taken it especially hard. His anger had turned into rebellion, and he became one of those kids who was always shooting BB guns at lights, TPing mailboxes, and engaging in juvenile pranks. Nothing too serious, but he definitely gained an early reputation as a troublemaker. Tears welled up in Joey’s eyes as he talked haltingly about his mother and the years following her death. It was clear that he’d been deeply affected, and for the first time I really considered how traumatized he was. The Joey I knew was constantly kidding and joking around, but for the first time he had let me witness the tears of the clown. I fell in love with Joey Buttafuoco that night. At seventeen, my destiny was sealed: I would spend the next thirty years trying to fill the void in Joey that I had glimpsed.

  Growing up in a family full of girls, I had always wished for brothers. Girls were expected to behave properly—at least in my house—and my father insisted on a quiet, orderly home. The first time Joey brought me home to meet his family, I saw an entirely different kind of household. The Buttafuoco house was aggressively full of life—long-haired boys playing drums in the basement rec room, Led Zeppelin blaring on the stereo, girls with coffee cans in their hair, lots of teasing, and running up and down the stairs and yelling. It was a noisy household, full of nonstop action, and the vibe was chaotic fun. There was no telling what would happen next in that house. The older brothers and sisters all drove cool cars (a perk of having a father who owned an auto body shop). I liked Joey a lot, but his family sealed the deal. Not only did I have a cool boyfriend, I got two big brothers too. The Buttafuocos welcomed me into their boisterous, loving Italian family, and I was soon spending every spare moment at their huge split-level home.

  By the time we graduated from high school, it was understood that Joey and I would get married someday. Both families were in favor of the match. His family approved of me because I was a nice, practical girl who kept Joey grounded. My family loved Joey because he so clearly adored me, was good to me, and also did a great deal to help them, from fixing our cars to moving furniture. Life in our neighborhood was very simple and clear-cut. You grew up, found a good job, made some money, paid your bills, got married, had children, and raised a nice Catholic family. My parents had married young; we were just following in their footsteps.

  I took an office job in the credit department at a large bank in the Huntington Quadrangle on Long Island. Apart from a few supervisors, everyone in the office was my age—early twenties, just starting out in life. There were all kinds of company events to attend: ski trips, softball games, company picnics. Joey accompanied me to every one, smiling, making friends, and drumming up plenty of business for Complete Auto Body along the way. Credit or banking wasn’t my life; I wasn’t looking to climb the ladder or b
egin a career in finance. My goal was very clear: live at home, save money, buy a house. I liked my job—the social aspects more than anything else— but it was only a means to an end. Joey and I must have attended ten weddings the first couple of years I worked there. I couldn’t wait for it to be my turn. In fact, I bugged Joey all the time about setting a date. I was burning to get out of my parents’ house and start my own life.

  Joey’s father, Cass, saw a listing for a house in the local Pennysaver and advised us to drive over and take a look. It was love at first sight when I saw the tiny little dollhouse, only three rooms and a porch, but set on a large private one-acre lot. The place definitely had potential. Next to the house was a detached garage where Joey could work on side jobs. Best of all, the cottage was conveniently located in the nearby town of Baldwin, less than four miles from Complete Auto Body, and the price was right. Things just fell into place.

  I walked down the aisle at St. Rose of Lima Church in Mas-sapequa on September 4, 1977, after a five-year courtship. Holding my father’s arm as I headed toward the priest and Joey, I knew this marriage was the absolute right thing to do. There were no qualms or second thoughts. I had the calm, happy sense of beginning my adult life and doing the right thing. I had given my devoutly Catholic, straitlaced parents quite a hard time during my teenage years, when flower power was in full swing and I was in adolescent rebellion mode. Certainly, I always knew they loved me, but they could be very critical. From childhood, I couldn’t escape the nagging sense that I was continually disappointing them and failing to live up to their expectations. Marriage, buying a house, and raising a family— now those were life choices they understood and fully approved of. Joey and I beamed at each other as we danced our first dance to Carly Simon’s “The Right Thing to Do.”