This Family of Mine: What It Was Like Growing Up Gotti (31 page)

We all kept our heads held high and smiled in public no matter what was going on behind closed doors, just as our father had taught us.

We continued our weekly Sunday dinners—the tradition my father started when we were still in diapers—just for the sake of pleasing him. Even the grandchildren sensed a profound disruption in their daily lives. Once the cameras stopped rolling, the flashbulbs stopped popping, and each of us was locked safely behind the doors and walls of our homes, we needed to let our guard down and embrace the uncertainty. The media frenzy continued, with each trial day being played out later on the evening news and then again in the next day’s papers. It seemed the agony was a constant twenty-four hours a day. There was little left that was considered private.

We each dealt with our own fears and grief in our own way. I chose to lock myself in my home most of the time, writing to keep
my sanity. I was working on my first novel at the time. My father was an important figure in my life and there seemed to be a giant void without him. From ordinary mundane problems to monumental ones, Dad always had the right answer. He had the solution to make every situation right again. Without him, we all seemed lost. I know I was.

The only happiness I could find was in my children.

Between the boys and my father’s legal problems I was always busy, but to make matters worse I was also trapped in a bad marriage with a man I had little in common with, just as Dad had predicted years earlier. Things got so bad at home between my husband and me that I found it nearly impossible to hide my disappointment and unhappiness. After Justine’s death, I went into a state of depression. It didn’t help matters when Carmine constantly reminded me it was my fault. He blamed our daughter’s death on me. Often when we argued, he would spit the devastatingly hurtful words at me. Also, I didn’t have many close friends; my husband saw to that early on. His jealousy had extended to anyone in my life that really cared about me. This unnatural jealousy even extended to our children. Carmine became obsessed with my close maternal relationship with our sons. It seemed to bother him that I devoted most of my time to the boys. It also irked him that I was very close to my family, mainly my father.

His resentment became more heightened during my father’s trial. Without my father home, my husband became happier overnight, it seemed. Carmine didn’t try and hide this from me either. The day the verdict was expected, I didn’t call my husband. I knew he would feign concern and disappointment that was not genuine. Instead, I remained at my parents’ house, with my mother and siblings, waiting for the verdict.

“Guilty” on all thirteen counts, read the jury foreman. Again, no surprise. It was Dad against the entire government, and there could
only be one winner. We cried out in disbelief as if someone had died—and in a sense, someone had.

The press coverage outside was astounding. Satellite trucks were set up for blocks. We were held hostage by this insane media frenzy and needed to wait before venturing outside to return to our own homes. When the coast was clear, I grabbed my youngest son Frank and headed to my car. My other children were at home with their father and I needed to get back to them. Just before I reached the door of my car, a bevy of reporters jumped out from behind a parked van. They shoved microphones in my face and threw out question after question.

“Victoria, how do you feel about the verdict?”
I was crushed
.

“Do you think your father had a fair trial?”
No, but did it really matter?
The government had gotten their verdict and now the press wanted their headlines.

“Do you think your father will put in for an appeal?”
Why even bother? When the entire government wants you, they get you, right?
I never supported my father’s lifestyle—and God knows I would have given anything to have a “regular” father. But I didn’t, as life would dictate, and I couldn’t love him any less because of it, either. He was my father—plain and simple. Finally, I could take no more. I turned to face the cameras and spewed, “My father is the last of the Mohicans. They don’t make men like him anymore.” And I meant it.

I
n June 1992 Dad was sent to the federal penitentiary in Marion, Illinois. Sadly, just three days later, Grandpa died after a year-long battle with lung cancer. Dad was not allowed to attend his own father’s wake. The FBI would not allow any obstacles to stand in the way of getting my father to jail. The super-maximum prison was geared to rehabilitate and break terrorists, mostly convicted spies and serial killers. John Gotti was considered “public enemy number one” as far as the FBI was concerned. He was kept locked in a tiny underground cell for twenty-three hours a day, seven days a week. These conditions are more commonly called solitary confinement. He was not allowed human contact by any inmate or guard. He was allowed only one shower a day, while caged and shackled. His mail was rerouted to Washington for inspection
and approval, and his visits were closely monitored using video cameras and recording devices. He was allowed one visit a month with immediate family members only. The visits were grueling and took place in small cubicles, through Plexiglas walls and using old black telephones. The inmates were required to wear bright orange jumpsuits so they were easily distinguishable from the visitors.

We were all subjected to the usual indignities of visiting prison; emptying our pockets, the familiar pat-downs and wand scans. The first time I visited Marion, I was so overwhelmed that I cried. Memories floated in my mind. The difficult trip to the prison, the indignities of being searched, the depressing surroundings and the first glimpse of my father in a bright orange prison jumpsuit brought back all the unpleasantness of my childhood. I hated that my own children would be exposed to the harsh realities that came with that life. Dad would come down to cubicle number six wearing a smile that quickly turned to a confident grin the moment he saw us. It was his way of letting us know he was okay. “Nothing can break me. Not even this!” he would say as he gestured around the room at the dreary, depressing surroundings that were now his home.

He would take a seat behind the Plexiglas booth and reach for the telephone receiver hanging on the right wall. True to form, he would always make a comment about one of the guards giving him a “way too big” jumpsuit. He was sensitive about his weight. He didn’t want anyone thinking he’d lost even a pound. As an added measure of certainty, Dad would often open the top of the orange jumpsuit just enough to let us see he was still in great shape. His six-pack abs were still as tight and sculpted as ever. He believed he had to try hard to alleviate any fears or apprehensions we might have had about his life sentence. Still, I was worried.

M
Y MIND WAS
always racing with crazy and terrifying thoughts. Would the government go as far as killing him, then make it look like a suicide? Or perhaps a murder? Would the government try to poison him? Would the FBI enlist another inmate’s help and attempt an assassination? I believed these scenarios were not as farfetched as one might believe. I put nothing past the government, especially having been through so many trials with my father and my family.

We tried to visit monthly. We took turns flying to St. Louis and then driving another two hours to Marion. The only hotel nearby was a run-down Holiday Inn on Main Street in Carbondale, a neighboring town. The prison received few visitors, and mostly all of them stayed at the Holiday Inn. Usually we would arrive late at night, settle in, and get to bed. Everyone would meet in the lobby early the next morning to grab a quick bite to eat. Most of the visits were five hours long and there was no food or beverages allowed. Not even a simple vending machine filled with candy. Getting processed by prison officials took almost an hour, and by the time we got in to see Dad, it was usually about 10
A.M
.

The visits ran a predictable course: the first hour was usually spent talking about the kids and the grandkids. The next hour was usually reserved for any pressing news or events that required Dad’s advice or intervention. The last hour or two was usually divided up between us, so we could each have a private conversation with Dad. During this time, the rest of us would take turns sitting at a small kids’ table in the back of the visiting room, watching CNN or some other news program playing on an overhead television screen in the corner of the room.

Most of the visits were uneventful yet very productive, as Dad was always the person each of us went to in any time of need. We each craved the few minutes alone with him for one reason or another. Some issues were small or mundane, while others were
serious problems that needed to be addressed in a timely manner. That day, I was excited. A few days earlier, I received a phone call from my literary agent—after six rejections, my first novel,
The Senator’s Daughter
, was going to be published. And it was no easy feat, either—every publisher I met with wanted a tell-all or a memoir about the Gottis. Finally, I had the brilliant idea of soliciting the manuscript under my married name—Agnello—a name I never used legally. And it worked! I couldn’t wait to tell my father. It didn’t help matters that our conversations were all recorded and were usually leaked to the press—it was intrusive and unsettling knowing that someone else was listening in. Because of this, it was difficult to really talk to Dad, but we made the best of it.

One such issue was a recent report claiming that my father had been courting a Manhattan party girl, Lisa Gastineau, just before he was arrested. She was the ex-wife of the New York Jets’ defensive end, Mark Gastineau. The tabloids had a field day with the alleged affair. Published reports claimed Dad had taken an interest in the woman and escorted her to a few late-night dinners. The
New York Post
even stated that Dad had showered Gastineau with trinkets of gold and diamonds. It all supposedly ended with my dad’s 1990 arrest. According to the tabloids, my father was scheduled to take Gastineau to a Sinatra concert and then to a lavish dinner. The relationship was never consummated because Dad was arrested—according to the tabloids.

First of all, my father hated Sinatra and wouldn’t dare attend a concert of his. In fact, Dad never attended a concert in his life. He disliked them. He said they were “too loud” and “a breeding ground for trouble.” Also the way my father was being watched in those days by the FBI and the media would have made a public rendezvous with another woman virtually impossible. One report even suggested the two were set to have their first tryst
at the Barbizon Hotel in Manhattan. Dad would not have been caught dead in the Barbizon Hotel. The Pierre, the Waldorf, or even the Helmsley, maybe. But, the Barbizon? Never! It wasn’t his style.

My mother was livid. Not because she believed any of this. She was quite upset because it was the first tabloid report suggesting Dad was cheating on her. She let my father know it in a letter. She demanded his lawyers “fix this lie” and restore her dignity and respect.

A
NOTHER ESPECIALLY MEMORABLE
visit to Marion had to do with my son John. My father had a bevy of pet peeves, and, ironically, celebrity worship was one of them. Dad believed all men were equal, be it a doorman or Fortune 500 CEO. Heaven forbid one of us idolize anyone not worth idolizing. Take pro athletes, for example. His attitude was that if an athlete was a dedicated and talented player, and he leads his team to victory time and again, pay him what he deserves.

But just as passionate as he was about a deserving player, he was more so about those players who used recreational drugs and shot steroids. These included the players who had egos the size of their million-dollar paychecks and spent the better part of their days chasing pretty models and driving fast, expensive cars—the players who paid little attention to the game and could care less about their teammates. These men made Dad see red.

The visit began well, but soon escalated to an argument when Dad asked my son John, “What do you want to be when you grow up, son?” John replied, “A baseball player or a basketball player.”

Dad began to lecture John about what it took to be a successful ballplayer and land a seven-figure contract with a pro team: “You
need to be a good liar, a good lowlife. You need to take steroids, and anyone who takes steroids is a garbage pail. You also need to rat out your team the first chance you get.”

John was silent. I was tense, sensing my father’s mood shift from joy to anger.

Dad always got along very well with all the grandkids—he had his own method of communicating with them.

Usually, it always worked, and the kids had a special fondness for Grandpa. But that day was an exception. Sensing there might be a disagreement between my father and my son, I suggested that John go to the washroom and wash his hands. Dad stopped me mid-sentence.

“Leave him—I want to finish speaking to him.”

I broke out in a cold sweat.

“What do you
really
want to be when you grow up, son?”