11
Let the Sun Shine In

My father returned from Memphis—after a two-and-half month absence—to an empty house. He set his bags just inside the front door, gazed around the living room, and let out a sigh of relief. He noticed that nothing in the house seemed to have changed. His life was just as he had left it.

“Anthony!” my mother called out a few minutes later as she opened the front door. “Are you home?”

Holding my hand, she guided me inside.

“I’m here!” my father said happily, rushing into the living room.

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” I squealed, jumping up and down. “You’re home!”

“How are you, little girl?” he said, picking me up and hugging me like always.

“I’m fine, Daddy.”

“You look taller.”

“I didn’t realize you’d be here this afternoon,” my mother said, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

“I’m so glad to be home,” he said.

She smiled. “It’s nice to have you back.” Although her voice was metered and her body tense, my mother was truly pleased that my father was home. But she had grown accustomed to his absence and would now have to get used to his presence.

In many ways, for both of my parents, this was a homecoming with little to celebrate. The guilty verdict meant we were still awaiting sentencing as well as an appeal. Things could easily go from bad to worse.

*

While we waited for my father’s sentencing, decisions in other high-profile obscenity cases—which were being prosecuted simultaneously all over the country—were rapidly changing the legal landscape around pornography. This would ultimately impact the Deep Throat case.

For example, in July 1976, Robert Bork, the US Solicitor General from the Sixth Circuit Court in Cincinnati, asked the Supreme Court on behalf of the Justice Department and was granted a new trial in a Kentucky obscenity case (Marx versus the United States). This case convicted theater owners in Kentucky for showing Deep Throat. Bork believed, and the Justice Department brief stated, that the convictions in Kentucky had been unfair because the “offenses” had occurred before the obscenity law was changed with the 1973 Supreme Court ruling in Miller versus California, which granted local communities the right to determine obscenity standards. Also in 1973, the definition of obscenity had changed from “utterly without redeeming social value” to “lacks serious literary, artistic, political, or scientific value.” The Kentucky case was similar to the Memphis case, so it was believed that what happened there might lead to a new trial for those convicted in Memphis.

About this development, Larry Parrish was quoted in a UPI article as saying, “To think the US Solicitor General would even entertain such a thought is the most deplorable thing I can imagine.”

*

“The sentencing is delayed at least until September, which will also push back any new trial for us,” Phillip Kuhn said in a phone call with my father a few months after the conclusion of the Memphis trial. “Everyone is waiting for the Supreme Court to weigh in on the Bork brief from the justice department on the Kentucky case. Whatever that decision, it will impact us.”

“That’s good news, right?” my father asked.

“Absolutely. But even with a new trial, if we can’t change the venue, it’s very possible we’ll end up with the same verdict as before.”

My father digested the mixed news. Finally he said, “But the longer this is delayed, the better, right?”

“Well, as things change over time . . . yes, a delay might help.”

“I understand,” said Dad, his voice both hopeful and somewhat somber. “Well, that’s something.”

“One problem,” Phillip went on. “Larry Parrish is still pushing for the defendants to pay the government for the cost of the trial. They’re estimating at about $500,000 for the whole trial but we still have to press for more detail here. It’s a ridiculous cost assessment.”

My father laughed heartlessly. “Jesus, they’re just not going to stop, are they?”

“No, they won’t. But it seems to me that this whole case is taking another turn. Really. We have reason to be optimistic.”

There were many delays as the Bork brief on the Kentucky case awaited a Supreme Court decision. They finally weighed in on March 2, 1977, and overturned the Kentucky convictions. As a result, in April 1977, Harry Reems’s conviction in Memphis was overturned by US Attorney Mike Cody, who had taken over for Larry Parrish when he left the US Attorney’s office earlier that year but was retained as a special prosecutor. Cody had agreed with the Bork brief on the Kentucky case that the obscenity standards established by the 1973 Supreme Court ruling should not have been used in the Deep Throat case in Memphis against Reems.

But while Reems enjoyed a mighty victory, the convictions for everyone else in the case (including my father) were upheld.

On April 29, 1977, about a year after the verdicts were reached in the trial, my father was sentenced to four months in prison and given a $4,000 fine, while Tony Arnone was sentenced to five months in prison and a $6,000 fine. Both were put on probation and barred from dealing with obscene material. Appeals were filed. A mistrial decision for the distributors’ conviction was still possible due to some discovered error in the instruction of the jury, according to my father’s lawyers, but it was not at all assured.

Everyone just waited.

*

I didn’t realized until I was older that Deep Throat was the reason we had moved from Philadelphia to Fort Lauderdale in the summer of 1977, when I was six years old. By the time of my father’s sentencing, he had acquired interests in three adult movie theaters in Florida, in addition to still running the Golden 33 in Philadelphia. The Golden 33 had been open for three years, and while it was still flourishing, my parents’ marriage had suffered. My father was ready to leave the club behind and make a bold move for our family.

“It’s beautiful down here today,” my father said cheerfully to my mother on the phone. He was on another business trip to Florida for the theaters, which had become more frequent in the past year. “Eighty degrees and sunny, just like it is every day.”

“Oh, sounds nice,” my mother cooed back happily. “I wish Philly was that warm.”

“If we move here, Frannie, you could be warm all year round. And you’d never have to shovel snow again.”

My mother wasn’t quite convinced. “I just don’t know, Anthony. I might miss the change of seasons. And what about our families?”

“I know, Frannie. I have some hesitations about moving, too. But my business is here.”

My mother agreed.

“The Arnones have lived down here a while. They love it. Pat, Tony’s wife, could tell you all about it,” my father offered.

“Sure, I could talk to Pat.”

“I think Florida might give us the fresh start we deserve.”

“A fresh start sounds nice.”

“Yes, it does. We can talk about this when I get home.”

When my mother hung up the phone that day, she started daydreaming about sunny blue skies, pools, and sandy beaches. Living near the beach sounded like being on vacation all year round.

And most enticing of all was that moving to Florida meant my father would leave the Golden 33.

But just as she allowed herself to entertain the idea of moving to Florida, she immediately felt guilty, even terrified, about leaving Philadelphia. She didn’t want to move away from her parents. And she knew that living in a brand new place, after a lifetime spent in her hometown, would be difficult.

“Anthony called today from Florida and he still wants to move there,” Mom told Grandma Maria on the phone. Then she added hesitantly, “I don’t think moving would be a bad idea.”

“Well,” Grandma Maria said, “I’ve been thinking, since the last time you mentioned it, maybe moving to Florida would be okay.” She had put the turmoil of the past behind her and honored her daughter’s commitment to her marriage. Grandma Maria also understood the draw of an unconventional business since her own father had been a bootlegger.

My mother was stunned. “Really?” she said. “But you have said that you didn’t want us to go. What changed your mind?”

“Well, honey, Anthony needs to get away from the club. He can’t run that business forever. And he has the theaters in Florida. It just seems to make sense.”

Mom agreed, though she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“But if you decide to move,” Grandma Maria said, her voice beginning to shake, “I’ll miss you and Kristin terribly.”

When they hung up, Grandma Maria wept. To encourage her youngest daughter to move more than a thousand miles away felt ludicrous. She couldn’t believe she’d just done it. But, unbeknownst to my mother, my father had visited Grandma Maria a few weeks earlier and had broached the subject.

“Thanks for seeing me,” my father had said on that visit. The two of them were sipping coffee at Grandma Maria’s kitchen table. In the last year, they had gotten along fairly well. They held an odd mutual respect for each other and a deep love for me and my mother that forced them to both accept each other as family. In the end, she always liked my father despite their rocky relationship.

“Of course, Anthony. What’s on your mind?”

“I’m sure Frannie has mentioned that we’re considering moving to Florida.”

Grandma Maria eyed her son-in-law closely. “It’s too far away, Anthony. You both should be around family.”

“I know it’s far, Mom. And I don’t want to leave my family either. But I have no other business opportunities here. None.”

“Well, I can appreciate that, but . . .”

“And I’d like to get away from the club, Mom. I don’t want that kind of life . . . working nights, the chaos,” my father said bluntly. “And I know Frannie hates it. I really think Florida might be a chance for a better life.”

Grandma Maria looked at him skeptically but she couldn’t deny the seriousness in his eyes. She also realized there were bigger things to consider, things over which she had no control—like how my father had chosen to earn a living. It had been more than a year since the Memphis trial and over the past few months my parents had been getting along better.

“Leaving the club would be a good thing,” she said in a resigned tone.

“But Frannie is not going to move unless you’re okay with it,” my father said. “I’m asking for your support here.”

“Okay . . .” Grandma Maria said with a heavy sigh. Then her tone turned more serious: “But, if anything bad happens to my daughter and my granddaughter in Florida, I’ll kill you.”

My father smiled. Then he stood, walked around the kitchen table, and hugged Grandma Maria.

“Okay, Mom,” he said laughing. “And I know you mean that, too.”

*

“Okay, let’s move to Florida,” my mother said one day, completely out of the blue. Her voice was a little giddy

“Really?” said Dad.

“Yes. Really, let’s go!”

Dad hugged her. “Frannie, we’re going to get a new house with a pool. You’ll see. This is going to be a great move for us.”

“I think so, too.”

Now that my mother was on board, it became her job to prepare me for the move.

“Where’s Florida?” I remember asking her one evening.

“It’s where Disney World is.”

“Disney World!” I said, and I immediately pictured myself prancing around the Magic Kingdom. It was the happiest I had been in a while.

“That’s right.”

“Are Grandma and Grandpa coming, too?”

“No, they aren’t. But they’ll visit us soon and then we’ll all go to Disney World.”

I thought carefully about what my mother had said. “But I don’t want to go unless they’re going.”

“Come here. Let me show you something.” On the living room carpet, my mother rolled out a large blueprint of our new house. I got down on my hands and knees next to her and I studied it with amazement.

“Here’s your new room,” said Mom. She pointed to a large square drawn at the front of the house. It looked much bigger in comparison to the other rooms.

“And here is the family room off the patio,” she went on. “And the best part is, we’ll have our own swimming pool.”

“Really?”

“Yes!”

I looked at the blueprint again. “This is a pretty house!” I said in amazement.

But as our moving date drew closer, my parents grew more conflicted about leaving their hometown. Pat and Geno’s cheesesteaks, their favorite Italian stores, and, most importantly, family and friends would soon be far away. My father hoped that we might return to Philadelphia once the case was over; a few years down the line, he would be in a better position to get back into the stockbroker’s business without a federal trial hanging over his head.

Our house sold quickly and packing became a heart wrenching endeavor as we willingly upended our lives.

*

A few weeks before the move, my mother was drinking coffee and reading through the Sunday edition of the Philadelphia Inquirer at the kitchen table. The kitchen was in a state of disarray, with cabinets emptied and dishware packed into boxes that scattered the floor. In the newspaper, she found the Today Magazine insert, and, as she had every Sunday for the past few weeks, she searched for an article by reporter Jack Smith. Smith had interviewed my father months before and it had taken a long time for his article to be published. That day my mother came across the headline, STOCKBROKER TO PORNBROKER, and saw my father’s name in the paragraphs below.

Hopefully the article isn’t as racy as the title, she thought. “Anthony! That article in Today Magazine was published!” she announced.

My father appeared in the doorway. “Let’s take a look,” he said.

They took turns reading the article at the kitchen table.

“Geez, Anthony. He makes you seem like the porn king of Philadelphia,” said my mother when they were finished reading.

“Well, I’m not really. It’s just that I’m just a pornbroker with an unlikely background.”

“It’s all because of the Memphis trial. It’s been so highly publicized.”

“I guess so. Interesting quote: ‘The only difference between selling stock and smut is I don’t have to wear a tie.’” My father looked at my mother and chuckled.

“Funny,” my mother said half-heartedly.

In the end, my father was unimpressed with the article but my mother read it several more times to absorb every word. There was one mention of “young girls” hanging out in the office at the Golden 33 and quotes from my father about how the government was on a witch hunt—all of which gave my mother a more comprehensive glimpse into my father’s work life and his legal troubles than she’d ever had before. He’d never described these things to her in such vivid detail—but he didn’t seem to mind describing them to some reporter, and to the entire world.

It also pained her, perhaps most of all, to read about how my father said he didn’t have enough time with his family.

After absorbing the article, my mother had an overwhelming feeling that she was ready to leave Philadelphia. Maybe in Florida, they could start over, forget the past, and make up for lost time.

*

“Well this is it,” my father said as he put his arm around my mother’s shoulder. We were standing in the living room and taking one last look around our empty home. The moving vans had taken away all of our furniture and the big boxes, leaving us with only a few suitcases.

“I remember bringing Kristin home from the hospital here like it was yesterday,” my mother said wistfully.

My father nodded. “The last seven years have gone by so fast.”

I silently said goodbye to my room, to the swing set in the backyard, and to the dogwood tree in front of the house as Dad locked the front door for the last time. I was sad but excited about Florida. We piled into the Thunderbird and pulled out of the driveway. As we left, my mother cried.

“At least you’ll never have to deal with the cold weather again,” my father said soothingly. “You’ll love the weather in Florida. You’ll love all of it. I promise.”

My mother dabbed her eyes with a tissue and shook her head; she was getting tired of all the reminders about Florida’s amazing weather.

That evening, we stayed at Grandma Emma’s house, then left early the next morning to begin our road trip to Florida. Grandma Emma put on a brave face while standing outside to see us off, but her sorrow about our departure was betrayed by how she kept wringing her handkerchief with both hands. “I guess we won’t be having our Sunday dinners for a while,” Grandma Emma said as she began to cry softly.

“We’ll visit, Mom,” my father said, giving her a hug. He was worried about moving so far away. She had had a few terrible asthma attacks and increasing difficulties in breathing. These symptoms had left doctors puzzled.

Grandpa Antonio shook my father’s hand. Grandma Emma squeezed me in a tight hug. My grandmother even gave my mother a hug, despite the fact they had never gotten along that well.

I looked out the back window as we left, and I saw that Grandma Emma’s entire body was shaking with sobs.

*

My mother hated long drives, mainly because my father was so strict with our schedule. He insisted on waking up at dawn to beat the traffic and he only liked to stop for short bathroom and meal breaks. I shared the back seat with our luggage, which left me squished to one side. To pass the time, I waved at people in other cars, read Highlight magazines, and slept.

We stopped overnight at a small hotel in North Carolina. After a cozy night’s sleep, we left at dawn the next morning, my mother hastily gathering our things and rushing to the car so I could go back to sleep in the back seat. It wasn’t until two hours later that I awoke and realized that my Bunny was missing.

“Mom, do you know where Bunny is?” I asked nervously. Bunny was my most prized possession—a pink and white rabbit with a wind-up music box inside of it that played lullaby songs. I took Bunny with me everywhere and I couldn’t sleep without him.

“You don’t have it?” my mother said. She was annoyed.

“No, he’s not here.” I started to cry. I’d looked under the car seat and in my bag with the magazines and activity books. Bunny was gone. He’s never going to see Florida, I thought.

“I’m so sorry, honey,” my father said, glancing at me from the driver’s seat with a concerned look on his face. “We should go back to the hotel to look for Bunny, don’t you think?”

“Are you crazy?” my mother said. “We left over two hours ago.” She turned to look at me. “Kristin,” she pleaded, “we’ll get you any kind of stuffed animal you want.” Then she turned back to my father. “We’ve driven over a hundred miles. We can’t go back now.”

“I don’t want another animal!” I wailed, “I want Bunny!”

Without further discussion, my father pulled off at the next exit and turned around to drive back to the hotel.

“We’ll find Bunny,” he said calmly, his eyes focused on the road. “Don’t worry.”

My mother sulked and I remember feeling guilty that she was mad. But I also didn’t care. I was relieved to be rescuing Bunny. We made it back to the hotel. Luckily the housekeeping staff hadn’t cleaned the room yet and I found Bunny tangled in the sheets of the bed I had slept in the night before. I hugged Bunny tightly, near tears, exuberant to have him back.

“I hope you’re happy now,” my mother said to my father, half-annoyed, half-relieved.

Bunny would make the move to Florida much easier for me, as my father knew that he would.

*

After two days of driving, we finally arrived at our new ranch style house in Plantation, a suburb of Fort Lauderdale. The neighborhood was packed with newly constructed homes, most of which had swimming pools as well as tropical plants sturdy enough to survive the intense Florida sun.

My mother climbed out of the car and smoothed her hand over her hair to push it into place. The humidity was making it frizzy. She straightened out her clothes, then walked slowly into the house. My father and I followed behind her, eager to see our new home.

“I love it, Anthony!” my mother finally said as she walked over the new shiny linoleum floors in the kitchen.

“I think we’ll be happy here,” my father said. He sounded relieved and he flashed her a grin.

We examined every room of the house, which was sunny, and we turned on every faucet and opened every closet door. My room had a bright yellow carpet, which I loved. Later, we gathered on the patio to stare at the crystal blue pool encased by a screen dome that had a view of the canal behind our house. I felt like we were rich. No one we knew in Philadelphia had a pool.

“Kristin doesn’t know how to swim,” my mother said, glancing at my father nervously. “She’ll have to take lessons.”

“Of course,” he replied. “You know, I heard there are alligators in that canal.”

“What? I don’t like the sound of that,” Mom said.

“If we leave them alone, hopefully they’ll leave us alone, too.”

It seemed like we had moved into the jungle. But of course we would quickly learn how to cohabitate with all the insects, gators, snakes, lizards, and other Florida critters, and our house on West Plantation Circle would very soon feel like home.

The next day we visited the Arnone family, who lived about five minutes away.

“Welcome to Florida!” said Pat Arnone, Tony’s wife. She looked like a happy Floridian—she was slightly tanned, wore bright clothing, and her brown hair was cut short with bangs that swept across her forehead.

“Hi, Pat,” my mother said, giving her a big hug. In the last few months, Pat and my mother had spoken frequently over the phone about living in Florida and they had become good friends.

“You finally made it!” Tony Arnone said, appearing in the doorway beside his wife. He shook my father’s hand and laughed heartily.

The Arnone family had moved from Red Bank, New Jersey, to Fort Lauderdale several years before. Theirs was a large Italian family with six children, the youngest of whom was Linda. That afternoon, Linda came whirling around the corner, her blue eyes wide and twinkly, and her thick blond hair bouncing in all directions on the top of her head. She quickly pulled me inside the house. We were both six years old.

“Come on, let’s go!” she said in a stage whisper. “I want to show you my room!”

This pretty girl who would become my new best friend quickly yanked me inside the house and began pulling me down a long hallway. I was barely able to keep up with her.

“Linda, don’t yank on Kristin like that!” Pat said. “Slow down!”

“Okay, Mom,” Linda yelled back, but we were gone in a flash.

Linda showed me her room, the playroom, the pool, and the backyard. “Here’s a little duck,” she said as she picked up a baby duckling near the canal in her backyard. A moment later, the mother duck was in an absolute frenzy, honking at us like we were predators.

“Oh, how cute!” I said, flabbergasted by Linda’s boldness.

“Put that duck down, Linda!”

It was Pat again, screaming from the patio.

“Okay, Mom!” Linda called back. Then she whispered to me, “Come on, let’s go.”

I happily followed along to continue our adventure.

Linda and I quickly became inseparable. There were sleepovers, birthday parties, play dates, and much, much more. From that moment on, Pat and Tony Arnone became “Aunt Pat” and “Uncle Tony” to me and I considered all the Arnone children to be my cousins. I spent lots of time at their house, and for the only time in my life, I felt—just a little—what it was like to have sisters and brothers. When they fought with each other, I was glad to be an only child, but the fun times the Arnone kids shared made me wish I had siblings.

*

There were lots of other young children who lived on our street and everyone in our neighborhood seemed to be transplants from the Northeast. That summer, my evenings were spent playing tag, riding bikes, or swimming until dark. Our next-door neighbors, Hans and Aggie Mueller, were an older German couple. They were excellent neighbors and they frequently offered my mother advice as we settled into our new home.

“Hans and I noticed how nice it was that your friends pick up your garbage,” Aggie said one day on the phone with my mother.

“I’m sorry?” my mother said, her voice puzzled.

“But don’t buy the City of Plantation garbage bags if you’ve got someone else picking up your trash. That’s a waste of money.”

“Oh yeah . . . that’s a good point, Aggie. Thanks.”

“Are you okay?” Aggie said.

“I’m fine. I think it’s too hot . . . I need some water. Thanks for calling.”

“Have a dip in the pool, love! You’ll feel better!”

My mother hung up and immediately called Pat.

“So my neighbor just called to tell me that someone is picking up our garbage.”

“What?” Pat said. “You sure it wasn’t the lawn service?”

“I’m sure. Aggie mentioned something specifically about the Plantation garbage bags.”

“Gosh, Frannie. That sounds strange.”

“Really strange,” my mother said, unable to keep the fear and confusion out of her voice.

“Well, don’t panic,” Pat said. “I’ll come over on the next garbage day and we’ll watch to see who picks it up.”

“Have you noticed anything like this going on at your house?”

“No. Not at all.”

On the next garbage day, Pat and my mother hid behind the drapes of our living room window and watched the curb. In the early afternoon, just before the normal city pick-up time, they watched a dark sedan pull up. A man in a black suit and sunglasses jumped out and quickly tossed our trash bags into the trunk of the car.

My mother gasped. The man glanced back at the house. Pat and my mother both hit the carpet.

“Oh . . . my . . . God,” Pat said slowly. “Frannie, maybe it’s the FBI.”

“But why? What do they want with my trash?”

“I don’t know.”

“If we’re being watched, they must be watching your family, too,” my mother said.

Pat’s eyes widened.

After a few minutes, they’d recovered from what they had witnessed and they talked at the kitchen table over coffee.

“What are we going to do?” my mother asked.

“We just need to tell Anthony and Tony what we saw.”

“You know, I’ve heard clicking sounds on the phone. I bet they tapped the line, too.”

“What?” said Pat, shaking her head and frowning. “Now I am going to be paranoid on the phone, too!”

“I heard the same type of clicking on our phone line in Philly,” my mother reported to Pat.

“So this must have been going on for a while.”

“Yes,” my mother said. Then, completely out of nowhere, but unable to resist, she asked, “What do you think happened to Bobby DeSalvo?”

Pat stared at her blankly. “I don’t know, Fran. But his disappearance was strange.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I talked to his wife, Janice, about it. She said he went to England on business and they spoke once when he arrived there. Everything seemed fine. And then she never heard from him again.”

My mother buried her face in her hands. “That’s awful,” she muttered.

“Janice was so distraught,” Pat said. “It was tragic.”

“Do you think . . . uh . . . maybe he left her?”

“I don’t know.”

“Or was kidnapped? Murdered?” My mother’s voice was growing unsteady.

“I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it.”

“So maybe he was whacked?”

Pat winced. “Please don’t, Fran. No one knows for sure.”

My mother sat in silence, covering her mouth with her hand. She didn’t know what to say.

“Tony used to be really involved with the Perainos,” Pat said. “It was only for a short time and nothing like Bobby. But it’s still scary. Those short Italian men all look like the mob to me.”

“The mob? I can believe it. Once, at this event I went to at the Plaza Hotel when the Perainos were promoting some other film, they all looked like they could be in The Godfather.”

Pat shook her head in disgust.

“I liked Bobby,” my mother went on. “He was a funny guy. Anthony liked him, too. I don’t know why anyone would want to . . .” but her voice trailed off.

“He was a nice man,” Pat agreed, but her voice was cold and empty.

Later that afternoon, my father arrived home from his trip to visit the Premier Theater in Orlando. He traveled frequently to Orlando, Tampa, and Lakeland to oversee the operations of the theaters and meet with other business partners.

“Anthony!” my mother said impatiently. “You’re never going to believe what I saw today!”

She told him quickly about the man in the dark suit who had stolen the garbage.

“Our garbage? Who would take our garbage?”

“Maybe . . . the CIA? FBI? I don’t know. The guy just looked really serious and he was in a hurry.”

My father listened attentively as Mom recounted what she and Pat had witnessed and slowly the gravity of what she was saying began to sink in. When she was finished, he looked her in the eyes and said calmly, “Frannie, the FBI might be watching us.”

She nodded slowly.

“Be careful what you say on the phone. And the trash can in my office? Don’t ever empty it.”

“Oh, gosh,” my mother said—she was starting to feel nauseated. “Are they following us?”

“I don’t know. But don’t worry.”

“How long do you think this has been going on?”

My father broke eye contact with her and looked down at his hands. “Maybe a few months? Maybe a few years?”

“Years?!” my mother muttered, her mind racing. “So I guess the FBI knows I have a very boring life.”

That evening my father then called Tony Arnone. “I think we have a problem,” he said.

*

For a time, we were much happier in Florida—but our boxes were barely unpacked when on August 31, 1977, my father was indicted by a grand jury in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, by a special taskforce on obscenity. The local taskforce, in coordination with the FBI, had linked my father to the Spectrum Design Company, which was a film warehouse in Fort Lauderdale where the films for the Florida theaters were stored and where 245 porn films were seized. Evidence from our trash had connected my father to Spectrum and local law enforcement officers claimed that Dad was setting up accounts to distribute the films in Philadelphia.

A warrant was issued for my father’s arrest in Broward County. He turned himself in that day and he was quickly released on $10,050 bond. Larry Parrish—from his office in Memphis—attempted to have my father’s bond revoked, but Judge Wellford denied Parrish’s motion in September 1977.

“Anthony Battista was in violation of his probation,” Parrish said to a Press-Scimitar reporter in reaction to Wellford’s decision. “The obscenity charges in Broward County indicated he willfully committed a repeat felony and was a danger to the community.”

My mother was taken by surprise by these new charges and felt responsible since she later learned the evidence was collected from our trash. Her compulsive neat-freak tendencies had made things worse, she thought. They had enough to deal with and she was frustrated by this new challenge. My father didn’t hold my mother responsible. He was angrier at the police for wasting their time indicting him.

*

“Kristin is not going to the trial,” my mother said defiantly one evening on the patio where she was sitting with my father.

“Frannie, please. Bob thinks that if the jury sees that I’m a father, it might help sway their opinion.”

“I don’t care, the courtroom is no place for a child.”

“She’ll be fine.”

“No, Anthony. She’s getting a cold and sitting in a chilly courtroom isn’t going to help.”

“Look, I wish we didn’t have to consider it, but Bob thinks it’s my best chance.”

“No,” my mother said in a quiet voice. “This is going too far.”

“I know, Frannie. But we don’t have a choice.”

A few days later, I sat in a courtroom by my mother’s side, watching my father, who sat directly in front of us. Bob Smith, who was Tony Arnone’s attorney during the Memphis trial, acted as my father’s attorney for the Broward County trial, which started in March 1978, and lasted for three weeks. My mother had attended every day of the trial and was even a witness for the defense.

She was called upon to confirm my father’s whereabouts on certain dates the prosecution claimed he was elsewhere distributing adult material. Bob had prepped her extensively before her testimony but she’d still been very nervous even though she portrayed a façade of calm in her khaki safari suit. This local trial was turning out to be much more intense than the Deep Throat proceedings in Memphis, both for my father and for her.

My attendance came near the end of the trial. It was hoped that the jury’s opinion might be softened if the “smut dealer” they were trying to convict had a cute seven-year-old daughter. So, for the first time in my life, I played the part of the innocent pornographer’s daughter. I was dressed in a bright yellow sundress and cardigan sweater. And I did my best to behave, smile at the jurors, and occupy myself with a pile of books.

Before that day’s proceedings, my father turned around and gave me a wink. I waved back at him. After that, I had no idea what was going on for the rest of the day. To me, all the lawyers sounded very mad, and my mother seemed tense as she simply stared straight ahead. Eventually, the hard wooden bench became so uncomfortable that I ended up lying across my mother’s lap and fought being bored.

At some point, there was a break for a few hours and everyone milled about the lobby outside of the courtroom and made friendly conversation. I took the opportunity to stretch my legs.

“Bill, I want you to meet my wife. This is Frannie,” my father said as he introduced my mother to Bill Kelly, who was an FBI agent from the Miami office.

Despite the fact that many people were on opposite sides of this case, some—like Bill Kelly and my father—were actually friendly with each other.

“Hello, there,” Bill said, politely gripping my mother’s hand. “The agents mentioned that your wife was very pretty,” he added, glancing at my father. “Nice meeting you, Mrs. Battista,” he said, and then he walked away.

“Uh . . . nice meeting you too?” my mother said. She looked at my father with wide eyes. How did the agents know what she looked like? Bill was insinuating that other FBI agents had seen her, though she had never met any of them before.

When we returned to the courtroom, I promptly fell asleep. My mother hoped it would lessen my memory of the event. Ultimately, my presence didn’t help; a few days after I attended the trail, the jury found my father guilty.

*

“Excuse me,” said a woman who had approached my mother in the supermarket one afternoon. The woman was short, with a round figure, and her visor and white outfit looked like she had just come off the tennis courts. Her cart happened to be right next to my mother’s in the cereal aisle.

“Oh,” Mom said, startled. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“No, but I know you.”

“You do?”

“I was an alternate juror in your husband’s case. And I just have to tell you, I wouldn’t have found your husband guilty.”

“Oh, thanks,” Mom said, dumbstruck. The woman smiled and walked away. A moment later, my mother abandoned her cart and quickly left the store. She was shaken that a complete stranger had approached her with such a statement.

*

The sentencing and possible appeal in the Broward County case was delayed for four more years since the Deep Throat convictions were still under consideration to be overturned. The final rulings in the Deep Throat case would affect the Broward County convictions. On July 13, 1978, the US Sixth Circuit Court of Appeals reversed the 1976 Deep Throat convictions and ordered a new trial for all eleven defendants, including my father and Tony Arnone. An error in the instruction to the federal grand jury to include children, when it should only be applied to adults, in their application of the community standard law was cited as the reason for the reversal. This also nullified any attempts by the prosecution to force the defendants to pay the costs, finally assessed at $50,000, of the first trial. While this all seemed like good news at first, attempts to change the venue of the trial to federal court in the Eastern District of New York had failed. My father knew the new trial would be an uphill battle.

Then, in August 1978, his mother passed away from lung and asthma complications. Grandma Emma had been in and out of the hospital for the past year with various breathing issues. It was a shock and a stressful time for everyone, and as we laid Grandma Emma to rest, my father felt pulled in so many directions, with many things weighing on his mind. He still had to contend with the next impending Memphis trial, let alone his conviction in Florida. My mother tried to remain calm, like my father, and became used to the duration of these indictments. She was almost numb to the latest legal wrangling and tired of worrying about the future. To support the household expenses, since the legal bills were mounting, and to focus on something positive, she had taken a full-time job as a receptionist at the Fenster and Farber law firm in September 1978. I went to the Wee-Care daycare center after school and later that year begged my mother to let me become a latchkey kid. After a year, she allowed me to come home alone. I was mature for my age and desperately wanted the independence and to come home to a peaceful and empty house. I never felt scared or lonely during my after-school hours.

The second Deep Throat trial began on November 11, 1978, and again my father and Tony Arnone moved to Memphis for five weeks. This time, Bob Smith was my father’s attorney. Philip Kuhn represented Lou, Anthony, and Joe Peraino, and he and my father parted ways amicably. Tony Arnone, on the other hand, represented himself, which was a clever tactic that he and my father had thought up to save on attorney’s fees. Bob was perfectly fine with the plan and would use it to his advantage in court.

“Is this a ploy to create more problems for the court?” Judge Wellford asked Tony Arnone angrily in regards to the drama he was creating by representing himself.

“No, your honor,” Tony said, standing before the judge. “I simply don’t believe an attorney can present my case as well as I can to the jury. The Supreme Court gives me the right to act as my own counsel.”

In the end, Judge Wellford ruled that Bob Smith should act as Tony’s adviser throughout the proceedings. But this, unfortunately, was the last victory my father and Tony would enjoy in Memphis.

*

On December 28, 1978, my father was convicted yet again by a Memphis jury. Then, on March 3 of the following year, he was fined $2,000 and sentenced to two years in prison, with all but four months suspended. My father and Tony Arnone would appeal the decision to the Supreme Court (in Battista and Arnone versus the United States), but on November 9, 1981, the court, in a 7-2 vote, refused to review the case, thus upholding the convictions. The Supreme Court felt they had already debated and decided upon the obscenity issue. Justices William J. Brennan, Jr. and Thurgood Marshall dissented, saying that if the case had come to trial, they would have reversed the convictions.

In January 1982, a mitigation hearing on the Memphis and Broward County convictions for my father was held in Fort Lauderdale. His original sentence for the local convictions—which had been whittled down to one year in county jail—combined with the Memphis convictions was changed to probation and two months in a halfway house. By June 1984, my father’s probation had ended.

The Deep Throat and Broward County trials were finally over but they had left a lasting legacy for our family. It had been nearly ten years since my father was arrested for distributing Deep Throat and I was fourteen years old when his probation ended. This saga had dragged on most of my childhood and for the majority of my parent’s marriage.