This Family of Mine: What It Was Like Growing Up Gotti (39 page)

We spent two days in Fort Lauderdale and Mom had two emotional visits with her father. On the third day we flew home and landed at LaGuardia Airport around midnight. After I put Mom in a cab headed to Howard Beach, I hailed one for myself. Just as I was climbing into the backseat, a
New York Post
delivery truck pulled up and tossed a pile of newspapers to the curb. There, on the front page, was a picture of me and Carmine and an inset photo of the secretary, with the headline “
DIVORCE FOR AUTHOR, GOTTI
.”

T
he hardest part of divorce is deciding whether or not to actually do it. Anyone who has ever been married knows how hard it is to finally say good-bye, especially when there are children involved. I went into a temporary state of denial. But it was now or never. With Carmine locked away in jail, it was the perfect opportunity. I didn’t want to believe Carmine was having an affair. I also couldn’t believe I’d allowed him to clean out my savings account—or that I had let him get away with half of the shit he pulled in recent months, like putting a gun to my head, joke or no joke, sick or not. Most of all, I couldn’t believe I was about to become a single mom with three sons to raise. The most important man in my life was dying thousands of miles away and there was little I could do. I felt alone and helpless.

The first thing I did was visit Dad. He told me what I already knew. There was no other option but to divorce Carmine. Dad was against divorce; he was too old-fashioned to accept it. But given the ugly publicity attached to the scandal, he realized there was no other way for me to hold on to my self-respect.

“I only hope you are able to weather the storm, and bounce back from all the ugliness,” he’d said.

The nights that followed were long and difficult. I walked the floors, thinking, unable to sleep. During the day, I wandered the gardens and yard aimlessly, unable to eat or do anything productive.

But, Carmine called often and most of the time I didn’t accept the collect calls. When I did, all he would do was beg and cry. He even went as far as to offer me money and diamonds if I stayed married to him.

“I’ll pay you five thousand dollars a week, tax-free. I’ll also order you the most magnificent, ten-carat diamond in the world. Just tell me you won’t leave me!”

I wasn’t even tempted. My self-respect was worth a hell of a lot more than that. Besides, his offer of money was insulting. My mind was made up. I contacted a local lawyer with a great reputation. Lewis Kasman was summoned to escort me, given the fact that my brother John was in jail. I went for the initial consultation and listened to Stephen Gassman as he went through the process of divorce. All of it was surreal. I don’t believe I heard a word he said that day. All I knew was Carmine would be served in jail.

He called me later that night. I wouldn’t accept the call. He redialed and spoke to the children. He begged them to make “Mommy stop hurting Daddy.”

When they came crying to me, I was crushed. Carmine had made me out to be a monster. I was the bad guy. I was now the reason why our family was breaking up. It took me months to make
the children understand what had happened. It didn’t help that reporters continued writing articles about the ordeal almost daily. One article claimed that the secretary had a tattoo on her lower back, with Carmine’s face on the body of a bulldog, and his name in script across the bottom of the tattoo. Because the criminal case was work-related, some of my husband’s employees were arrested as well. The secretary was one of them—and I can’t say I didn’t get a dose of happiness and a dash of revenge when that happened. After she was arrested and strip searched, news of the tattoo surfaced.

I later learned Carmine had bought the woman a small home in New Hyde Park and would often stop there after work at night. The secretary made numerous threats to him to tell me about the affair if Carmine didn’t put her up in a lifestyle that was at least “comfortable.” The house was only a few minutes away from our home in Old Westbury. How convenient for Carmine. I even learned she was driving a brand-new, candy-apple red Camaro that was purchased by my husband’s company.

Besides being taunted by the press with daily articles of my failed marriage, law enforcement was also determined to see to it that Carmine and I broke up, for good. Two FBI agents came to my house with a picture of the secretary and Carmine standing in front of the recycling plant, looking as if they were arguing. The agent went on and on about their relationship and said he was sorry I had to go through such “an embarrassing ordeal.” The other agent chimed in and asked, “How does John senior feel about this? He can’t be too happy?” That’s when I slammed the door.

Even after going to such great lengths to make sure I found out about the affair, law enforcement then had the nerve to later accuse me of staging a “fake divorce” to try to save assets they were trying to confiscate from Carmine as part of the criminal proceedings. I realized then that members of law enforcement would stop at nothing to win a case, even if it meant destroying lives.

I
threw myself into my work, writing my weekly column for the
Post
and working on a new novel. I needed the money now more than ever. I had three children in private school and Carmine refused to pay child support. My lawyer went to the judge and requested “emergency relief.” The judge, Ira Raab, granted the request and ordered Carmine to pay child support plus all “arrears monies” that were owed. This included money for the children’s school. I was awarded $12,500 a month for alimony and $12,500 for child support. Carmine was also ordered to pay all school costs as well as health insurance, life insurance, and maintenance on the marital home. The monthly payments were to come out of rents Carmine was collecting from nearly thirty commercial pieces of property we both owned. He paid nothing. My attorney went back
into court. This time the judge was losing patience with Carmine, but what could he do? Throw him in jail? Carmine was already in jail.

The newspapers got wind of the judge’s order and printed the motion in its entirety. Dad was livid.

On the next visit, he and I had an argument. He scolded me and said, “You are not to take one dime from that piece of shit. Do you understand? Any money you need, I will provide. Let Carmine keep his money and choke on it.” Dad was most upset by the revelation Carmine had turned over all the commercial properties we owned to the government in exchange for a nine-year prison sentence on the racketeering charge and a $10 million fine. How generous. Especially since half of the assets were mine! All of these properties were supposed to be in both of our names and in trust for the children. They were not. This shocked me. Did he really believe his own children would steal from him?

Dad was also angry about the money Carmine had “stolen” from me, which he had claimed he’d needed for the shredder he was building. I later learned the FBI had confiscated three bank accounts when he was arrested, one of which was an account in a St. Louis bank that had nearly $2 million in it. He never needed my money—he just didn’t want me to have it. Dad said Carmine wanted to “subjugate” me, and he ordered my uncle Pete (Dad’s older brother) to get “back what was rightfully mine.” On the visit, he’d turned to Uncle Pete and said, “He can keep his money and choke on it. But what’s hers is hers! She earned that money without his help. Get it back!”

A month or so later, I was on a plane heading to Marion to visit Dad again. Uncle Pete turned to me and said, “Vicki, there is no reason to tell your father I haven’t been able to get your money back from Carmine yet.”

I just stared back at him. He continued, “It’s just that Carmine
is in jail and it’s very hard to get to him. I’ll take care of the situation, but let your father think it’s already been taken care of.”

I told my uncle I wouldn’t lie. Uncle Pete was not happy with my answer. I would never lie to my father—for anyone. I also wondered if getting to Carmine would be so hard if the money were my uncle’s? Probably not.

My uncle Pete and I discussed some pressing news—Sammy “the Bull” Gravano was being investigated again, this time for drug trafficking. Apparently, Gravano had managed to build one of the biggest Ecstasy rings in the West, using his wife, son, daughter, and his daughter’s boyfriend to push the pills to college kids in some town in Arizona. How ironic, since Sammy was the one who questioned my father’s decision allowing John to be inducted into the life. Gravano, much to law enforcement’s dismay, went on to write a book, do television interviews, and launch his own publicity campaign in an effort to create some level of celebrity status for himself. Gravano wrote in his memoirs that he could never understand how any father could ever allow his son to be a part of that world. Yet, Gravano did even worse. He’d built a drug business and allowed not only his son, Gerard, to get involved, but even his wife
and
pregnant daughter. See what I mean about these witnesses? Gravano also managed to put together his own crew and was suspected of hiding an entire arsenal of weapons in a bunker in his backyard. Another investigation concerning Gravano had to do with a detective he was suspected of murdering—a murder he did not reveal when he had agreed to become a federal witness. Before the government can accept a witness into the program, he or she must come clean about every criminal act they’d ever committed—mostly because the prosecutors never want to be caught with their pants down during a trial when the witness is cross-examined by a defense attorney. The cop killing was never disclosed by Sammy, making his government application to become a rat null and void.
Gravano and his entire family was later arrested and charged. No surprise. The aftermath caused many future witnesses to deem Sammy’s testimony against John Gotti nothing but lies. The ironic results also embarrassed a lot of law enforcement types—like former prosecutor John Gleeson. According to news reports, the two became quite chummy during and after Dad’s trial. Gleeson and Gravano reportedly stayed in close touch with each other for years after the trial. Today, Gleeson is a judge. He was handed the promotion after Dad was convicted. I wonder how Gleeson and many, many others feel about the ironic outcome of their “star witness”—the guy the FBI swore was reformed and had turned into a pillar of the community?

Uncle Pete and I discussed how we would present the news about Gravano to Dad. Both of us wondered if he’d be angry or happy. But knowing that all the members of law enforcement finally discovered that Gravano was a liar and a fraud pleased Dad. The FBI may have believed Sammy, as did the prosecutors and the jury, but who knew better than Dad what a cowardly liar Gravano was?

D
AD DID ASK
me about the money on that visit—and I didn’t answer. I walked to the bathroom and left the two men alone. When I returned, Dad did not look happy. He said something to Uncle Pete, about making “sure he handled the situation the exact way he was told to.” Then he changed the subject.

I could tell Dad was upset with the intrusive press and media coverage surrounding the divorce as well. So I called the lawyers the minute I returned home. The next day my attorney went before the judge and requested the divorce be “sealed.” Normally, it’s very difficult to get an order to seal a divorce. It’s supposed to be of public record. In my case, the judge made an exception. The seal would
mean there would be no more “leaks” about intimate and embarrassing details of our marriage.

A month later, I visited Dad again. This time, he seemed calmer when the subject of my divorce came up. But he asked why it was taking so long. It was as if he’d wanted me severed from Carmine as quickly as possible. Dad even asked about my social life, and why I wasn’t dating yet. I was surprised, given how old-fashioned he was. He let me know it was “time to move on, time to get on with my life.” He suggested I get my “party dress out of the closet and go dancing. You’ll never meet anyone sitting on the the couch,” he said. I started going out, attending premieres and parties. The gossip columns had a field day. The reporters couldn’t wait to link me with someone.

There was an article saying I was dating baseball player Mike Piazza, and actors Vin Diesel and Jack Scalia. If I was seen talking to a man, it was assumed we were “dating.” These articles reached Carmine and he blew up. It came as no surprise one day when I received a call from Bruce Cutler. He said a DA in Chicago had contacted him. The DA passed along some news. A man recently convicted of robbery and manslaughter had called his office looking to make a deal. The man claimed Carmine had asked him to put a “contract out on my life.” The man claimed my soon-to-be-ex had offered to pay him fifty thousand dollars, and said he would testify against Carmine if it would get him out of jail. The DA refused the offer, but as a matter of law he contacted Cutler.

I received the call from Cutler toward the end of the day as I was getting ready to leave my office at the
Post
. Bruce tried to sound calm. He even downplayed the incident by saying, “Young Victoria, I don’t believe the man. Obviously he’s desperate and looking to get out of jail. I don’t believe Carmine would go that far.”

I was not so sure.

There was a doctor, a female psychologist, who was working with Carmine just before he went to jail. She called and asked me to meet her. I dropped by her office the next day.

“Look,” she said, “my visits with my patients are confidential. But if they tell me something that indicates they could harm themselves or someone else, I am obligated by law to report it.” I continued to listen.

“It’s none of my business what goes on between you and your husband. However, when a man tells me he has ‘thoughts of killing his wife,’ I have to take them seriously.” She went on to tell me she knew who my father was. She asked me why I hadn’t gone to Dad with this problem? I told her the truth. My father was sick with cancer and besides, if I jumped the gun and something happened to Carmine as a result, I would have to live with that for the rest of my life. How could I face my kids? Carmine never hit me during our marriage. Mostly because he knew I would never tolerate it, and also, because he was afraid of my father—no matter how much he’d pretended he wasn’t. I believed the recent threats were related to his mental illness. The doctor’s observations, combined with the phone call from Cutler, made me wonder whether Carmine was capable of making good on his threats.