Un-Kept Secrets: From the Streets of Organized Crime... to the Streets of Evangelism

• PROLOGUE •

The federal agents fastened the bullet proof vests onto the upper part of our torsos as we boarded the van. My four children remained in an out-of-state secure location in the custody of a U.S. Marshal as Vinny and I made our way from the airport to the courthouse to testify in one of the largest criminal trials in the nation. We were escorted through the crowd that gathered on the streets. Once inside the building, we were placed in a private waiting room. When it was Vinny’s time to take the stand, Federal Agent Danny Granger ushered him through twisted corridors and into the courtroom where he would turn state’s evidence against three infamous mob bosses and five subordinates.

The hands on my watch seemed to freeze until it was my time to testify. Facing the eight men on trial, my body quivered as I took the witness seat. The eyes of acquaintances and strangers alike penetrated mine. The defense attorneys were seated behind the table to my right. A short stout gentleman with balding white hair slowly stood and walked in my direction.

My name is Peter Gasko, attorney for the defense, he said. Please speak clearly into the microphone and state your name.

My mouth opened, but nothing came out. This is really happening, I thought. This isn’t something out of a book or a movie. This is for real.

The guard handed me a glass of water and my voice cracked. I took a sip and said, My name is Sarah O’Connor-Grimaldo.

***

Ephesians 6:10-11 Finally, my brethren, be strong in the Lord and in the power of His might. Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.

***

My testimony against the defendants was short and ambiguous. I can’t tell you detailed specifics about each defendant, but I can tell you about my husband, Vinny Grimaldo. He was a loan shark, an abuser, and an adulterer who received immunity in exchange for his testimony. He was the snow that flurried on top of the mountain, convincing the jury to return with a verdict of guilty.

Every seat in the courtroom was filled. The street crowd hastened to the steps of the courthouse to hear the jury’s decision. The defendants were found guilty on all racketeering acts and related charges of extortion, labor payoffs, and loan-sharking. They were incarcerated and given a future date to return for sentencing. Vinny’s testimony was icy enough to send us coiling into the twister that ripped us from our roots and into hiding in the Witness Protection Program.

It wasn’t just about Vinny and me. The look of trepidation on the faces of my children was etched in my mind as we told them we were moving. Being the new kid in town isn’t easy, but they weren’t just being uprooted and planted in some strange city. The demand infringed upon them to alter their identities while leaving family and friends behind, never to see or speak to them again, was devastating.

Who am I? How did I get here? When did I lose my ability to make decisions?

PART I:

From the Streets of

Organized Crime...

• Chapter 1 •

Boarding School Blues

Boarding school was like boot camp— up at dawn, bathroom privileges weren’t nearly long enough. There was barely time to spit out the toothpaste before having to throw on that ugly burgundy uniform. I did, on the upside, master the art of tucking in ruffled sheets and the old gray wool blanket that comforted me throughout many a night. Seizing my books, I ventured to the cafeteria. Yuk! I wasn’t a cereal fan. I hated milk, even to this day. And the thought of the alternative— A runny yellow yolk dripping from a silver spoon as I attempted to bring the substance to my lips made my eyes cross and my nose crumple. So I opted to wash down a slice of under-toasted, buttered bread with a mouthful of juice and scoot off to class.

I lived with my mom, Julia, and my Nana Bea in a large metropolitan city. Mom waited tables at a diner in the downtown fur district of town. At the age of five, I was shipped off to a Roman Catholic boarding school that became my primary home for the next seven years. A two-hour multiple bus and ferry boat ride away, my mom arrived every Friday evening to pick me up, and I was returned to the establishment every Sunday night. Scarcely a day went by that my eyes remained dry. I remember when...

Sister Bernadette asked, Where’s your homework?

No matter how hard I tried, arithmetic failed to wiggle its way into my heart. I scrambled through pieces of numbered puzzles for answers to assignments. But I couldn’t decipher one from another and complete disarray fogged my head. Unless I sought help, the assignments were left undone.

The dog ate it, I said, my teeth clattering as my face turned the color of a ripe persimmon. My stomach twisted into a mass of knots and I wanted to throw up. I heard that excuse so often from other kids, it was on the tip of my tongue. And before I could take control, it gushed like a raging river from my mouth. Everyone knew I lived in the dormitory. I didn’t have a dog. So I lowered my head and waited for the nun to toss me into the pit.

My leg burned as Sister Bernadette struck the center of my right calf with the pointer stick and marched me to the left-front corner of the classroom. I stood facing the peelings of green paint on the old plaster walls as my punishment. The whispers of my classmates in the room echoed in my ears and dragged an hour into eternity.

On another occasion…

Sister Mary Ellen’s voice escalated. Sarah O’Connor, what have you done to your hair?

Before I could conjure up an excuse, the flushed-faced nun grabbed my hand and led the way to the girl’s lavatory. It was there she thrust my head into the running water under the faucet of the bathroom sink. I became the center of attention as I returned to class and slumped back into the seat of my desk, my hair hanging limp and wet.

I silently yelled, Stop staring at me. I could hear the muffled giggles and wanted to shout, Shut up.

School policy regarding student coiffures was uncomplicated. Anything beyond ponytails, braids or loose-flowing locks, long or short, were frowned upon. And God help the girl who dared flaunt a bouffant. I hated my fine thin hair. And that morning I decided to give it a boost with a quick backcomb and a few spurts of hairspray. I broke the rules and suffered the consequences.

***

The classrooms buzzed with excitement at the sound of the 3:00 p.m. bell. The daytime students hurried down the lengthy cracked cement walkway to the parking lot. I often watched as they boarded the buses that drove them beyond the high wrought iron gates to the sanctity of their homes. As for the boarders, they trampled across the back lawn, past the grotto and through the creaking old doors into the large brown stone building where they resided. Dark oak trimmed walls and solid wooden staircases, in spite of the well lit interior, dimmed the atmosphere.

Going from the classroom to the girl’s dormitory was the pits. I couldn’t go home and tell my mom what the teacher did. So I held it in and sucked it up.

Playground activities were limited to an hour a day. Homework was worked on in the study hall, and then it was off to the cafeteria for dinner. The recreation room TV was available to the girls who completed their assignments. When all was done and darkness reigned, I tucked myself into bed.

Weekends at home were good, but they didn’t make up for the boarding school blues. How do you explain to a child why they’re loved on weekends, but they’re not the priority of your life during the week? Night after night I tossed and turned, wondering if my mom missed me as I missed her.

After five years of being barred, I planned to break out. Up at midnight and dressed for my journey, I pulled my suitcase from within my locker. Standing on the threshold of freedom, I suddenly realized that I had no place to go. The drawbacks of my young age were stumbling blocks I didn’t account for, until now. I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t get a job. I wouldn’t even be a teenager for three more years. So I tip-toed back to my sleeping quarters, hopped into bed, and cried myself to sleep. I knew I was doomed to spend the rest of my childhood within the hard stone walls that encased me.

I didn’t realize it then, but my dream of an independent life was extinguished. I was stripped of my identity. The inability to think for myself and to act on my own was snatched from me by the nuns at the boarding school. As an adult, it was inadvertently brought to my attention during a college art class. I was painting with acrylics, trying to replicate the image of a nude model onto canvas. Gazing at my work, the instructor voiced an educated opinion. You must have led a very restricted childhood. You need to loosen up. Let your imagination flow, she said, uncrossing her arms and waving her hands in small circles as they moved from her bosom to above her head.

Wow! How did she know that? I thought. And I passively swept her observation back into my subconscious.

***

My parents were divorced a few months after I was born. I never had the opportunity to meet my birth dad. Nana Bea told me stories of his drunken stupors and abusive behavior.

Throwing him out was the best thing your mom ever did, she said.

Nine years later she remarried. Eli was a pharmacist by trade. God knew my need and placed Eli in my life, if even for a season. I am blessed with precious memories of the man I am proud to call my pop, which is the way I will refer to him throughout the chapters that follow. It wasn’t love at first sight. He’s okay, I thought. But he had to prove he was worthy of taking on the role as head of our family.

My parents were married about three months when Pop and I had our first huge blow-up. The out of proportion argument took place during one of my usual weekend visits home. The topic of the disagreement is insignificant, as I have no memory of the subject today. I can only recall the words and actions that left a lasting impression on my heart, the same way the ink of a permanent tattoo embeds your skin.

You’re not my father, I said, my voice escalating as I stamped my foot on the floor. Don’t tell me what to do.

With his lips tucked inward, he lowered his head and a tear rolled down his cheek. When I looked beyond— I saw love. Silence whispered in the warm breeze that crept through the open window of the living room. That was the beginning of our real father-daughter relationship.

In spite of our rapport, I was still stuck in that awful school. Then the day I thought would never come finally arrived. It was shortly after my twelfth birthday and the boarding school blues were about to end. I traveled four roundtrip hours a day, to and from school, loving every minute of it. But the impact that the past seven years had on my life stuck to me like a block of dry ice on bare skin.

• Chapter 2 •

Rapes, Unveiled

They held me as I twisted, kicked and yanked my body to be free from the clutches of their arms. My voice was stifled by a broad hand that masked my mouth and thunderous screams transformed into muted squeals for help. In the dimness of the night in that old abandoned building, there was no sun, and no one came. Tears laced my cheeks as my innocence was snatched from me by a group of young teenage boys who I once believed were my best friends.

Crisp was the autumn air as November crept into view. A week had passed since I celebrated my fourteenth birthday, the day before the witches and goblins knocked on doorsteps; the day before Halloween. Brian asked me out— Me— Sarah— Sarah O’Connor. He was eighteen and six-feet tall with hair the color of coal. And when the light reflected on his eyes, they transformed from smoky gray to the deepest blue. I stumbled into my favorite dress and applied a layer of makeup to my face as if I was painting a masterpiece. As I gazed at the finished work of art in my bedroom mirror, Brian rang the doorbell. It was our first date. We walked hand-in-hand and arrived just on time at the theater for the 7:00 p.m. feature of West Side Story. We shared a bag of popcorn and sipped on a couple of Cokes. That night, George Chakiris, Russ Tamblyn, and Richard Beymer shot to the top of my all-time favorite movie star list. Brian brought out the adolescence in me. My gait staggered and laughter poured from my lips as Brian attempted to sing Somewhere, totally out of tune. Taking a short cut home, we left the well-lit shopping and entertainment district, and ventured along the darkened, desolate back streets and alleys. I never walked this way alone, but I felt safe with Brian by my side.

A group of teenage boys leaped out from the shadows. I flinched in fear ‘til I saw their faces and recognized a few as friends, belonging to a neighborhood clique I often hung-out with. As I caught my breath, they encircled me, clenching my arms. Brian silenced my screams with his hand. I could hear the splitting of the wood as they tore apart the old boarded up door, and shoved me through the opening into the rat-infested room of a building that was doomed to be demolished. I blocked the boys from sight by shutting my eyes, but their voices raged in my ears. That night, the course of my life would be forever altered. One boy lifted my head, but my vision was blinded by the blazing glare of a flashlight another boy aimed at my face. Brian’s voice was soft, Sarah... sweet, sweet Sarah. You really are an innocent kid, aren’t you? He said. You never did this before.

Brian called off the gang bang. Was that supposed to console me? But it was too late for remorse, and the boys were fully aware of the crime that had just taken place. Warned to keep my mouth shut, or else— I did just that. It remained our secret— the rapist, the witnesses and me. I was filled with guilt and shame, but I didn’t know why. I didn’t do anything wrong. Or did I? I didn’t want anyone to find out, least of all my parents. They wouldn’t understand. Maybe they would think it was my fault. We argued earlier that week. They were against my dating an older boy; a boy who was already a man. Please. Please. Please, I pleaded. I’ll come right home after the movie. You know you can trust me. I’ll wash the dishes for an entire week. I’ll even take out the garbage. My eyes conjured up tears. I’ll never be able to face anyone again. How will I ever explain why I can’t go on a date? I’ll be a laughing stock. I wailed as my mother’s voice interrupted my cries. Okay. You can go, she said. But if you’re not in this house by 10:00 p.m., you’re grounded for a month. I sprang into her arms. Thank you. Thank you, I squealed, over and over. You can trust me. I’ll be home by ten.

In keeping the promise of silence to the perpetrators, I fell prey one more time that same year to another teenage boy from a nearby neighborhood. Words distort and travel quickly from loosed tongues within teenage cliques.

***

I lived a sheltered existence in that boarding school and was oblivious to the immorality and violence that surrounded the little safe haven that was created for me, until I was set free into the real world. My parents showered me with all the love and understanding they knew how to give, but they neglected to tell me about the personal relationship I could have had with Jesus, because it was void in their life. My mom and my nana were devout Catholics and tried their best to follow the rules. My pop, on the other hand, would joke about going to St. Mattress’s every Sunday morning. That was his day to sleep in. Being an only child wasn’t a crème-de- la-crème existence. I longed for the companionship of a sister or brother in whom I could confide in. I envied my friends who sometimes bragged, and sometimes griped about their siblings. I wished we could have traded lives. I would have welcomed it all, the good and the bad.

What’s wrong with me? I’m not a bad girl, I thought while lying in the solitary of my room. I read fashion magazines, romantic suspense novels, and poetry. I go to church on Sundays and follow the Mass with my missal. I believe that Jesus died on the cross and rose again from the dead, but I never read the Bible. So how could I have known that Jesus took away my pain, my guilt and my shame, and that I was covered by the blood of the Lamb? Had I known, I would have understood that I was like the first snowflake of the season that falls weightless and white on a naked tree. But I was like an icicle. As time passed, the weight of my burdens increased and the branches beneath me sagged, until they snapped. My self-worth spiraled down the drain as I tried to scrub myself clean in the bathtub, but I couldn’t remove the stains. My grades revealed the extent of my anguish, and soon after my sixteenth birthday, I was a high school dropout.

• Chapter 3 •

The Dawn of Love

Joey inscribed my name in black paint on the door of his gypsy red 1955 Bel Air. He held my hand and opened doors for me. His arm drew me near, embracing my shoulder and my head found rest on his. We sat in the old Chevy convertible, watching the seagulls fly over the bay. He whispered, I love you, with no sex-strings attached. He was nineteen and I was sixteen, at the time.

Joey came from a middle class family of Italian heritage. His mother was American born to Italian immigrants. His father was nineteen years old when he left his family behind in Sicily and traveled to America by boat. Settling in a quaint Italian neighborhood on the Atlantic coast, Fabiano found work as a longshoreman, moving cargo to and from the ships that docked at the port. And when he clocked out in the early morning hours, stopping at a nearby bakery for his daily dose of fresh baked semolina bread, became a daily ritual. That’s where his eyes fell upon Rosemarie, and it was love at first sight. Placing his coins into her hand, his fingers touched her palm. Hesitating for a moment, he envisioned himself reaching across the counter, taking her into his arms, and smothering her lips with his. But it remained a blissful aspiration, temporarily, that is. After four months of customer reliance, he stuttered his desire to date Rosemarie. They courted for two years before taking their vows as husband and wife. And in the year that followed their wedding, Fabiano and Rosemarie welcomed Joseph Anthony into the world. Three years later, Gabriella made her grand-entrance into the family.

Goosebumps invaded my arms when Joey brought me home to meet his parents for the first time,. The house was a typical two-story brownstone with railroad rooms. The family gathered in the first floor dining area for Sunday’s feast. I was Lithuanian and Irish, uneducated in Italian customs and traditions. We were more the meat, vegetable, and potato clan. Their table cradled platters of spaghetti, meatballs, neck bones, braciole, veal parmesan, eggplant, salad, Italian bread, a seasoned dipping oil filled ramekin, and two bottles of Chianti. Italians believe the way to everyone’s heart, is through their stomach. At least I’ve never been to an Italian household where that theory was proven otherwise. My biggest accomplishment that day was that I mastered the art of eating spaghetti without the assistance of a spoon. That was a misconception I was led to get straight. Italians never, ever, ever eat spaghetti twirled with a fork and a spoon. They only use a spoon if the pasta is in soup. My lesson was learned and accepted.

I was beginning to find some normalcy in my life again. I took a secretarial course and landed a job in the city. My parents bought a house in the suburbs, a one-hour drive from work. I was getting an unblemished start, and transported the secret of