Getting It Through My Thick Skull Read Online Free PDF

press became impossible, and the club was the only respite that we had. Its board—I had been corresponding secretary until I got shot— held a meeting and voted to break through the fence and put a gate up with a lock that only our family had the keys to. This way we didn’t have to go out through the front door and be engulfed by the media fray. Nobody could have asked for better friends and neighbors than the ones that Joey and I had.
    I was home where I belonged, surrounded by family and dear, supportive friends. These people knew me and Joey and our kids and our life. Not a single one believed what they were hearing or reading about Joey and Amy. Michael Rindenow, the attorney who’d assisted us on the closing of our house, offered to act as our family spokesman and accompany me to any meetings with the police and the district attorney’s office. We happily accepted. He and many others stepped in and did their best to stand by me in the eye of the tornado. It was about to get even crazier.

    Amy Fisher was the lead story in every newspaper and television show in the country, and it didn’t take long for worms to start crawling out of the woodwork. It soon came to light that Amy had worked as an escort. Indisputable proof was right there on a homemade videotape, surreptitiously recorded by her client. He pocketed a tidy sum for selling the tape— which was soon broadcast to all of America on A Current Affair .
    The media went absolutely fanatical. It was at this juncture that Amy was dubbed “Long Island Lolita” by the New York Post, and the coverage reached the absolute heights of absurdity. The latest revelation only added fuel to Naiberg’s fire, so the latest spin was that Joey had forced this little schoolgirl into prostitution, given her a beeper, worked as her pimp, made her buy the gun, convinced her to shoot me, and on and on and on.
    In light of this most recent revelation, Fred Klein said, “Describing Amy Fisher as a schoolgirl is like calling John Gotti a businessman,” at Amy’s bail hearing. Though Eric Naiberg argued valiantly that Amy was a lost little girl who needed to be at home with her parents, the judge posted a $2 million bail on Amy—the highest ever in the county’s history for a first-time offender.
    Given the sex tape scandal and the unprecedented bail amount, the press descended like wolves, took up residence on our front lawn, and refused to budge until police intervened, at which point they grudgingly backed up to a legal distance— in the street of our quiet suburban neighborhood.
    Our next-door neighbors had been waiting to relocate to Florida until June so their daughter could finish out her school year. Their house was in escrow when the shooting took place, and putting aside their concern for me, I’m sure they were probably panicking. Who wanted to live next door to the Buttafuocos and the infamous house? I imagine they were worried that the house deal would fall through. Fortunately for them, it didn’t. A young married couple moved in as scheduled and took possession of the house in the middle of the whirlwind.
    Every time Joey escorted me out the front door, we faced yells, taunts, and idiotic questions from the media. In fact, reporters were all over town, banging on our neighbors’ doors, descending on Complete Auto Body, trying to get inside Bilt-more Shores Beach Club next door, anything for a quote. I was forced to walk the gauntlet every day, when Joey faithfully drove me to physical therapy, where I was hooked up to a TENS machine. Small sensors were stuck all over my paralyzed face, neck, and jaw, and then bolts of electricity zapped through the machine. The goal was to shock the paralyzed nerves back to life. It hurt, and the whole process scared me. But it had to be done.
    Joey was my rock. He had taken a leave of absence from his job to stay home full-time and care for the kids and me. Fortunately, it was a family business with my father-in-law at the