This Family of Mine: What It Was Like Growing Up Gotti (41 page)

I felt somewhat responsible about the autopsy for not seeing to it that my father’s last wishes were carried out. My emotions danced between guilt and grief. My family and I imagined the prison officials doing the procedure and tossing Dad’s organs around the room, laughing at the warden’s behest. Believe me, it’s not as far-fetched as it seems either. Months after my father’s death, we learned that a man had somehow gotten hold of Dad’s prison jumpsuit by bribing one of the guards. This same man wrote a book and offered a small swatch of the jumpsuit (he’d cut it to pieces) with the purchase of each book as a means of generating sales.

P
ETER REMAINED IN
Springfield until my father’s body was released. Lewis Kasman arrived within hours of Dad’s death, with Leona Helmsley’s private jet, to take him home. Kasman later told me
Helmsley had called him the moment she’d learned of Dad’s death and offered her services; whether it was her private plane or anything else she could do to help out. The prison released my father’s body in a body bag, no coffin or even a wood box. Peter boarded the plane and couldn’t bear the notion of my father lying in the back of the aircraft like cargo, so he took the first two seats and laid our father’s body across him, resting our father’s head in his lap. He later told me he’d even unzipped the top of the bag, exposing Dad’s face and head. He said he couldn’t bear the thought of our father zipped up in a vinyl bag—not even for a second.

B
ACK IN
N
EW
York, the media’s temperature was just about at the boiling point. Helicopters swirled around the darkening sky, shining bright lights down on their target—a black hearse cruising down the Long Island Expressway at moderate speed. The oversized, black vinyl body bag was unloaded from the jet amid hundreds of reporters from as far away as Rome, all hoping to catch the money shot that would no doubt grace the covers of all the morning newspapers.

I was lying in bed when the live coverage splashed across the television. I tried in vain to erase the disturbing images of the hearse driving along the LIE, but it was on all the channels. I remained still, under the warm goose-down blanket, watching through watery eyes. The coverage bounced back and forth between split-screen aerial views and still shots taken earlier just outside the prison. “Talking heads” described blow-by-blow accounts of my father’s “last journey home.” The helicopters above kept in constant stride with the black hearse, while dozens of reporters on the ground gave chase in cars. On the screen the commentator gave an exact location each time the vehicle passed an exit. It gave me the chills.

I got out from under the blankets—I could no longer bear the intrusion into my family’s private hell. I made my way outside onto the balcony. I needed air. The cool June summer breeze whipped past me and actually calmed my nerves a little. Now, I just felt plain worn out. I had always relished the peace and quiet of this balcony overlooking my manicured lawns. It was my haven for the past fifteen years.

I sat on the ledge and lit a cigarette, a habit I’d given up twenty years earlier and now only indulged in whenever I was stressed beyond my limit. Then I heard the commotion, and in the far distance, over the evergreens and beyond the back of my property, even beyond the service road of the expressway, I saw the caravan of vehicles—hundreds of cars surrounding the hearse that carried my father’s body. Above, the now-deafening roar of the helicopters indicated they were continuing their pursuit. I realized at that moment, from an obscure angle of my house, that I could see the faint trace of the Long Island Expressway and the passing cars without even squinting. Next, what can only be described as an “electrical jolt” coursed through my body. The hair on my arms stood up. It was as if I could actually feel my father passing ahead of me—and I started to cry again.

M
OST OF THE
funeral preparations were arranged by Lewis Kasman—the funeral home, the casket, limos, security, and service. He even decided he would give the eulogy. He would also read a two-page tribute I had written for my father weeks before his death. I was too broken up to read it myself.

In the chapel, at St. John’s Cemetery, Kasman stood before the packed room and rambled on and on about how much he loved my father. He kept repeating the words “The long journey home,” and
openly cried. He told the audience he was grieving the loss of not a friend but a father. Later, he told my mother and me that he had been so upset he had to take a tranquilizer.

After learning there was to be a street gathering along 101st Avenue in Ozone Park, Queens, Kasman instructed the funeral procession to make a detour before heading to the cemetery. Earlier that morning, masses of people had lined the streets of Howard Beach, the neighborhood John Gotti had lived in for nearly thirty years. They held signs and wept; some even tied large banners to trees and streetlamps.

The never-ending line of cars snaked down 101st Avenue, stopping in front of the Bergin Hunt and Fish Club. Neighbors, store owners, and friends filled the streets. The turnout was astounding. Above the train trestle, a twenty-foot by twenty-foot likeness of Dad swayed gently in the wind like a flag. Men, women, and children stood at the curb, holding signs with fond messages for Dad. Some of those signs had the Italian flag on them, others were simple, “We’ll always love you, John.”

One man, with a face I’d recognized, tapped on the window. He was known for playing both sides of the fence. He was a former member of law enforcement, but he had many friends in
the life.
I cracked the window slightly—I was in no mood to talk to anyone. All he said was, “I loved your father. I’m only telling you this because I also respected him. Kasman’s a
rat
. He’s been working for the government for years.”

I closed my eyes and laid my head against the backseat. I couldn’t absorb the man’s words. Often in the past, others had been wrongfully labeled. Yet, this accusation was not one that should be taken lightly. Kasman? The self-proclaimed adopted son? The man parading himself all over television in support of Dad, begging for humane treatment of John Gotti?

Leaning down against the slightly opened window the man continued, “All the while he was fighting the BOP [Bureau of Prisons] to have John Gotti moved out of Marion—he was secretly telling the FBI that John Gotti is
still
the boss and
still
running the Gambino Family. Kasman is the reason your father was kept in that hellhole for ten years.” The man stepped away from the car, waved good-bye, and receded into the crowd of onlookers. I closed the window and took one last look at the Bergin Hunt and Fish Club. A last look—as I knew I’d never again have reason to see it, not with Dad gone. I thought about Kasman—about him being a rat, and it made sense to me. The FBI seemed to always be one step ahead of my father—they seemed to always know intimate and private details about my family, unimportant things like silly gossip and family business. Someone was filling them in. I didn’t want to believe it was Kasman. I couldn’t. The mere notion would have destroyed my father. Unlike Sammy, Lewis and Dad had a more personal relationship. It had little to do with
the life
and all to do with love, trust, and family. Dad never
really
knew Sammy—but he
did
know Lewis (or so he thought, anyway) and he trusted him.

But I couldn’t think about Kasman then—my father was dead and I tried so hard to concentrate on him. The camera in my mind flashed to familiar images. Memories that took me back in time, back to Brooklyn: Angel and I were playing jacks on the front steps of the old, dilapidated apartment building. John and I raced up and down Eighth Street looking for cardboard boxes to make a clubhouse. John and John Ruggiero holding hands while crossing Knickerbocker Avenue; Frankie with his beautiful, thick curls and innocent, dazzling smile, giggling, gleefully from the old, handeddown pram as Mom wheeled him up and down Eighth Street. I saw visions of Mom and Dad in war and in love. Memories of Dad and Uncle Angelo, young and handsome, standing in front of the social club in Brooklyn.

We never had enough money and poverty was all we knew as young kids. Maybe it was the age, perhaps the innocence but, despite the depressing surroundings, I remember being happy. Having Dad safe and at home was the only time I wanted to remember. As the years passed and the money came and our living conditions improved, there was never the same amount of happiness or enthusiasm. Dad went off to jail, many times. Mom walked around unhappy and depressed. It seemed with the more material things we acquired, the less we enjoyed. When we had nothing, life was much easier. We had each other and that was enough.

The years when our family was whole, with Frankie Boy and Dad at home, seemed like a complete closed circle. Now that circle was open and exposed. I missed my brother. I ached for my father. I was terrified of what the future could hold. I opened my eyes and looked over at each of my sons, three fine young men.

I see a new generation, a new lineage. I see promise and hope where there was once poverty and abuse. With Carmine, my oldest son, I see promise of creativity. An artist? Maybe even a musician. With John, a scholar, perhaps a successful career in law? With Frankie, my youngest, I see ambition and effort—an accomplished businessman? Most of all, I see hope. Hope for a changed world for the new generation of Gotti men. I see a new code of ethics, morals, and integrity. This is the
real
legacy John Gotti left in his wake: “In the end, family is all anyone really has.” To have his sons and grandsons pay for the “sins of the father” was never his intention. He
really
believed that his sins, his ambitions, and his way of life would die with him. Instead, they were passed on to his children. Let’s hope it dies here, and the new legacy of Gotti men will produce promise. I mourn the loss of a man, but not the loss of
the life
. I fight many demons trying to distinguish my father from his choice of lifestyle. I loved him. But I loathed the lifestyle he chose. And God knows, I have tried to understand—tried
to make sense of it all. Then I remember my father’s own words:

“My life dictated that I take each course I took. I didn’t have any multiple choices. Listen to me carefully. You’ll never see another guy like me if you live to be five thousand.”

Like it or not, he was right.

Sunday Dinners

After the divorce, my first instinct was to put the house up for sale, as there were only bad memories left. But I thought of the kids and decided that another disruption in their lives would wreak more havoc on them. At the time, I could hardly afford to keep them in private school, let alone the ridiculous monthly house maintenance. After my job at the
Post
ended, I took a much more lucrative one at
Star
magazine. The increase in salary bought me some time, enough to figure out what I wanted to do and where I wanted to go.

Judith Regan and Bill Stanton approached me. They had a crazy idea about doing a show—a show revolving around me and my daily life as a celebrity journalist, author, socialite, and mother. I thought it was a joke and blew both of them off. After many meetings, the pair managed to convince me to do it. I didn’t expect anything to come of the show except perhaps low ratings once it premiered. Imagine my surprise—no, shock—when
Growing Up
Gotti
debuted to record-breaking audiences across the country! The
New York Times
called the show one of the Top 10 of 2004.

With the praise came the insults. There were those who believed I did the show to exploit the family name and myself. In truth, I did it to show the world I was anything but a “Mafia Princess.” I was a single mother with three kids to raise on my own. I also did it for the money, for their college funds. Regrets? Yes, I have a few, as the song goes. Radio and television pundits talked about the premiere episode for days. Of course the main topic was the high ratings, while others poked fun of my three sons—of how badly behaved they were. And that was exactly what the network had hoped for. It was their own private publicity tool to generate buzz. The scene in which the boys seemed rambunctious was used in five more episodes in one season alone. But it was steady, high-paying employment, especially since my other job at
Star
had come to an end. I resigned after I became ill—more trouble with my breasts. I kept this very quiet, and I didn’t tell my kids. They’d lost their father to prison and always feared they would lose me to heart disease.

During the third season of
Growing Up Gotti,
we went to Italy for a family vacation. The trip was put together by the network and used as a premise for the season premiere. Before we left, I made the mistake of confiding in someone about my recent medical troubles. I told the husband of someone familiar with the disease, whose wife had a history of cancer. He and his wife were members of the press. He asked me about rumors he had heard about me being very sick. We got to talking and one thing led to another. By the end of the night, he asked if he could print what I had discussed with him. I said, “No!” I let him know I wanted my medical stuff kept separate from everything else in my life that always managed to find its way into the press. I also let him know that my family, my own children, did not know.

I was in Italy for three weeks when I got the message. It was my
friend’s wife, the news reporter. She’d called to tell me my “secret was out.” She went on to say something about another reporter shopping the story to her editor—and blah, blah, blah. I wasn’t listening after that. The initial shock was too much to bear. I managed to call her later that afternoon. She begged me to let her tell the story. I still refused. When we returned home a short time later, I was bombarded with more messages from her. She was doing the story “with or without” my help. I had to tell my family—my mother and my sons, mostly. I spent the entire night convincing them I was now fine. It was the cover story the following morning for the New York
Daily News
. It was the eve of the Season Three premiere of
Growing Up Gotti
—but my illness was all anyone in the media talked about. As with any season premiere, I had a rigorous schedule of television, radio, and print interviews lined up for the entire week. Imagine my shock when I received a call from my press rep, Tammy Brooks, telling me that the
New York Post
had called and deemed my illness a fraud. Someone had called in and told them it was a publicity scam. That
someone
was a disgruntled press rep who had worked on the show and was recently fired by the network. I was livid! He had based his accusation on the fact that he’d watched an interview earlier in the day—an appearance I had made on
The Big Idea with Donny Deutsch
—in which I stated, “I am fine. It was just a scare.” The disgruntled press rep took this as a denial from me and set the press blitz in motion. Some press outlets claimed I never had the illness and others claimed I did—but it was not a serious condition. They said I had overdramatized the not-so-serious condition for the purpose of added publicity for my show. It took enormous amounts of damage control to get the situation in hand. Network heads worked day and night. Finally I was forced to do the unthinkable—bare my breasts and the horrific scars (left over from nearly a hundred stitches and numerous reconstructive surgeries) to a reporter. I also proffered
my medical records, under the condition the names of the hospitals and doctors not be printed. Some of the press outlets started to backpedal. Especially when the American Cancer Society came out with a statement that the disease intraductular carcinoma in citu (IDCS) was in fact cancerous and serious and afflicted millions of women each year.