The Naked Truth: The Real Story Behind the Real Housewife of New Jersey--In Her Own Words (10 page)

Jorge was a businessman, who would only occasionally crack a smile. Because he had a dimple on one side of his face,
his smile was kind of crooked, which I thought was cute and endearing. He didn’t show that smile to anyone other than me, and it made me feel that I was really adored by him. I know he really loved me as I did him.

I kept working at September’s for a while longer after meeting Jorge, but shortly thereafter there was no need to continue. Jorge was not comfortable with my working there and he was happy to support me. He wanted me all to himself and felt that he could concentrate better on his business that way. I was present for some of his business meetings—often the only woman at the table—but I never asked questions (besides, his associates usually didn’t speak English; they spoke Spanish, which I don’t understand all that well). Despite the language barrier, I learned a lot of life lessons from being there. I am smart enough always to keep my mouth shut, especially when I’m under verbal attack. Being around Jorge taught me that.

When people say, “Do you know who I know?” I laugh to myself and think,
No, I don’t. I don’t even think you know who you know!
Nobody I was ever around who was part of Jorge’s world
ever
talked about whom they knew. Nobody whom I have been around in the past forty-seven years of my life who was
really
connected
ever
had to brag about whom they knew. It was just understood. In that world, you don’t have to name-drop. These guys don’t threaten people. There is no reason to—they are all doers, not talkers.

It didn’t matter to me what business Jorge was in, I just loved him and felt safe when I was with him. He could have
been selling vacuums for all I cared. Our relationship did not merely consist of partying and doing superficial things together; we had a relationship of substance. Jorge and I had a baby together, but unfortunately the baby did not survive. As anyone would agree, it is difficult to lose a child. I think it was especially difficult for me because I was adopted; it would have been my first chance at a real family. But it wasn’t meant to be. It was another one of those lessons that I had to learn the hard and painful way. Now I understand that this was a part of my journey, and today I am so grateful for my two beautiful daughters and I know my son will always be watching from above.

Another great lesson Jorge taught me was to observe what is going on around me at all times and have presence of mind—
always.
The day I was arrested, I was clearly not paying attention to the vital life lessons that Jorge had taught me.

On June 23, 1986, I returned from modeling at a photo shoot hopeful to see my boyfriend, but to no avail. When I walked into the place where I was eventually arrested, to my surprise I saw one of my neighbors, who appeared to be beaten up and high on cocaine.

One night at a club a few months prior, I had introduced my neighbor to a few acquaintances of mine. In the hot Miami nights, everybody is friends with everybody, so I introduced them as my friends. It wasn’t meant to be an introduction for business purposes, but it unfortunately ended up that way, and now I was caught right in the middle. My neighbor was
obviously involved in a drug deal gone bad, and to assess the damage, I tried to get some answers out of him.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“They stole the shit, man. The Jamaicans stole it, all of it!” he said.

“What shit? What Jamaicans? And what are you talking about?”

“The coke.”

“What?! Please tell me you paid these people. If they don’t get their money, they are not going to be happy.” “That’s why I’m here.”

“That’s why you got the shit kicked out of you, too. This is not good. I introduced you to them and now it looks like you’ve robbed them. Are you a fucking idiot? Don’t tell me you robbed these people.”

He didn’t answer.

I tried to quickly piece the story together. From what I gathered, my neighbor had been given drugs to deliver. He was to collect $24,000 for the goods and bring the money back to the supplier. However, he claimed to have been robbed by some Jamaicans along the way. The whole story didn’t add up. I wasn’t buying it and, more important, neither was anyone else. The bottom line is that, with these people, you don’t take what isn’t yours.

My neighbor appeared to have been roughed up. However, he didn’t seem to have been kidnapped. He wasn’t tied up or
restrained in any way; on the contrary, he was sitting comfortably in an easy chair snorting coke. I determined from the fast-food wrappers strewn all over the place that he wasn’t being starved, either. It didn’t appear that anybody was keeping him there against his will. I assumed he didn’t ask if he could leave because that would be sure to piss off his new enemies.

I knew that the reason he probably was able to walk out with the drugs in the first place without paying for them was because he had claimed to be an acquaintance of mine. He had clearly used me and used my name. Yes, I had introduced him to those guys, but what they did from that point on should have been none of my business. However, because he had screwed them over, it
became
my business.

My neighbor tried to dupe them and made me look really bad. If I left, the guys he’d stolen from would probably have thought that I was involved. The more I think about it over the years, the more I believe that he was hoping they would blame me and hurt me for his misdeeds. What a coward! But what he didn’t count on was that I had already built trust with them, so while I had introduced them to a bad business partner, I wasn’t going to take the fall for his stupid actions.

After I’d pieced together the info I got out of him, his father called. I had a brief conversation with him about the $24,000 debt that his son owed and that needed to be paid in full immediately. I believe that phone conversation was taped by the authorities, making me an accessory.

Moments later, I heard some loud sounds of complete chaos outside the house. Voices over megaphones began shouting orders: “Come out with your hands up!”

I immediately began to panic. I had no idea who was issuing the orders or why. I didn’t even know if they were talking to me. The house phone rang and I answered reluctantly. A voice on the other end of the line told me to come outside.

I could feel every fiber of my being tremble as my heart beat out of my chest. I could hear it pounding in my ears.

“Just come out of the house and everything will be okay,” said a man who turned out to be a federal agent.

I eventually came out of the house, still shocked and totally unaware of what was happening. However, I was positive that it was not a good situation and I had no idea how to handle it. After all, I thought things like this only existed in the movies.

I went out the front door, and unlike what I had seen in the movies, the feds didn’t tackle me to the ground. Instead, they matter-of-factly asked me to put my hands where they could see them. In my fear and confusion I did just that, and everything else they asked me to do, while shaking uncontrollably. The federal agents asked if any weapons were in the house, and I answered, “No, not that I’m aware of.” They asked if I had any weapons on me, despite the fact that I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt and clearly couldn’t have concealed anything bigger than a toothpick. However, I didn’t want to point out the obvious (I wanted the authorities to see the little girl in me who was genuinely afraid), so I simply said no. They searched me
and quickly found out that I was telling the truth. Then they read me my rights and handcuffed me, and I was put in the back of a police car.

As I sat in the back of the car with one of the FBI agents, a SWAT team and various federal agents systematically went in and out of the house, carrying boxes of stuff, and I saw a lot of smoke drifting out of the house. I didn’t know what they were doing or what any of it meant. As I watched, several questions ran through my mind:
What are they going to ask me? What is this about? How am I going to answer their questions?
I wished there were someone I could call and ask what the hell I was supposed to do. However, I wasn’t so confused that I didn’t know something major was going on, although I suspected what it might be about. One thing was for sure: I didn’t know the true gravity of the situation, which would unfold in the days to come.

Time seemed to be standing still, and the events taking place appeared to be happening in slow motion. I felt as if I were in a bad dream. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a dream at all.

I was finally taken down to the local FBI headquarters, where they interrogated me for the better part of three days. I was put into a cell for the nights and removed in the mornings for more shitty food and endless questioning.

Eventually I was transported to a Florida penitentiary where I would await my arraignment. I made the three-hour trip accompanied by FBI agents in their car. They told me that I was being driven by them, instead of my going on the prison
bus, because it was safer for me since I was a high-profile arrest. I never fully understood what they meant by that.

Going through the prison gates and seeing the buses pull up filled with prisoners was a wake-up call that I will always remember. Once I was inside, they made me strip naked for a body search, and they were not delicate about it. As I walked handcuffed through the prison, I saw myself on the news on a television. It was a shattering sight.

I was put into cell block C. Thirty cells were in the block, with two women in each cell. Many of the women were gang members. I could immediately tell I didn’t belong there— inmates were there doing major time for serious crimes. We were in a state penitentiary, and the feeling was in the air that nobody was going anywhere, ever. I was slated to be there for three weeks pending an arraignment in front of a judge.

At lockdown, I went into my assigned cell inside the block, which was pretty scary. I didn’t have to share a cell with anyone; apparently that was to protect me. The cell was tiny—it fit two bunks and a toilet that was close to the ground. That was it. I suffered from claustrophobia, but I had to get over that real quick.

The first nights I spent in prison I didn’t get a lot of sleep. I lay in my bed and began to think that if I continued living the destructive lifestyle I was living, I would die young. I started to actually appreciate getting arrested. Once and for all, I had to make changes in my life, and this was the swift kick in the ass I needed to do so. I also realized that there must be
something important that I was supposed to live for, a bigger purpose. I began thinking about having children, and as I lay on my prison bunk, I wondered what my kids would look like. I thought about what had happened between Billy and me. I got really sad thinking about my horrible family life and all my brothers who had died. Being in prison gave me time to reflect on everything and everybody that had had an impact on my life.

The day after I arrived at the penitentiary, Norman Elliott Kent, my attorney, came to see me. Jorge had arranged for him to represent me. Norman wore crisp tailored suits and was incredibly focused. He was a big-shot attorney in Dade County whose forte was bad boys, and I was certainly a bad boy—or rather, a bad girl. I had no clue how the system worked or how this process was going to go. This bad girl was crying and scared. Norman calmed me down and began to advise me both legally and personally.

During our first meeting Norman advised me not to show my emotions. It was a sign of weakness to the other prisoners. He told me that they prey upon weakness in these places and I already stood out enough as it was. Then he advised me not to take a shower—it was too dangerous. He said everyone would see me naked and I could get raped.
I can’t take a shower for three weeks? Okay, wonderful,
I thought. Luckily, later that day, my girlfriend Alex brought me deodorant, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and commissary money. She also brought me my favorite red velvet Fila sweat suit, which was popular and fashionable
at that time in Miami. I remember feeling particularly grateful that she’d brought that warm-up suit because wearing it made me feel safe and gave me a sense of home.

A few days later I was sitting at a table near a group of other inmates who began to pick on me. They were starting to mark their territory, and one of the girls wanted me to be her “bitch.” Clearly, this situation was going to turn really bad, really fast.

As I was starting to panic, a black woman named Sister Sue came along. She resided in the first cell of the block, near the pay phone. Now, let me explain the importance of this in prison life. When you live inside a cell block and the phone is right outside your cell, that sends a message. You don’t get to pick your cell as if prison were a summer camp. There’s no “Oh, I want that bunk!” Her cell location was a clear sign that Sister Sue had a lot of respect and authority within cell block C.

Sister Sue’s meth lab had exploded, and that was why she got arrested and ended up in prison. Sue looked as if she had been doing her fair share of meth. She had missing teeth and her skin was weathered and I believe she might have been in her thirties, but she looked much older.