The Reflective Rudy

The Ex-Mayor Writes His Own Farewell to Donna

5 Times Square
Confidential memo to file from R. Giuliani
July 15, 2002

In one week I bought a new 3100-square-foot Central Park apartment for $5.25 million and dumped Donna for $6.8 million, plus the old apartment, child support, taxes, and legal fees. Not bad for a guy who made a measly $294,000 in 1992—my last year of private employment before becoming mayor. I'll make $8 million this year just for delivering my already oldie but goodie, the stock September 11 speech. Without 9-11, I'd be lucky to get a date at the Guy Molinari Republican Club in Staten Island. As pistol-packin' Papa used to say to the boys at the loan-shark bar—no pain, no gain!

The best part of the settlement with Donna is, I get to keep my list of consulting clients secret. That's a scandal a name. Everybody I gave a contract bonanza to on my way out the door and more—my own personal favor-bank. I defied earlier court orders to disclose the list and settled the day it was due. Hell, the guys who sign up as clients now that the list will never become public may cover half the Donna tab. I'll be richer than Osama!

My company's biggest asset, though, is the rights to 9-11.
photo: Frances M. Roberts
My company's biggest asset, though, is the rights to 9-11.

I was such a private-sector bust in the early '90s that I got drummed out of two law firms. The scorecard at my last firm listed me dead last of all the partners in billable hours, 1740 hours under budget. Steve Hoffenberg, the ex-New York Post owner who's doing 20 years in federal prison, was the biggest corporate client I could bring in, and he wound up implicating one of my partners in his fraud. Now I'm a rainmaker—actually, a tropical-storm maker—drawing corporations the way I used to draw women! And I'm a corporate rescuer, putting out financial fires, a regular NYGD! It's a laugh a minute.

The most fun I had with the divorce settlement was telling the reporters how private it all was, how I had tried to keep my private life private. Remember my own personal May Day procession, when I took my new queen on a Mother's Day weekend walk through the Upper East Side, accompanied by half the press corps, right after I first announced she was a very, very special friend? Remember me taking her to the Inner Circle, the Saint Patty's Day Parade, and the Millennium celebration when she was still a secret? Remember the $3000-a-pop, publicly subsidized weekends in salacious Southampton—with half a dozen cops in Suburbans accompanying me? Remember me claiming I was playing golf with beard Andrew when I was really hot-tailing it out to Judi's summer townhouse? And if I was bold before 9-11, how about putting my mistress in charge of Pier 94, taking care of widows and other survivors? How about putting her on the board of the Twin Towers Fund? How about bringing her to the announcement of Time's Person of the Year award or my knighthood ceremonies in London? Does it get any more public than my flaunting? And isn't it fantastic that I got away with it?

In fact, after all this, it was still me who sued Donna for cruel and unusual punishment. Not only is the world my stage, but I was always the best actor in the family!

I even got Raoul—the only matrimonial lawyer to ever postpone collecting his fee—to go public with my favorite Donna putdowns. Calling her a "stuck pig" was priceless. How about "uncaring mother"? Or how about the War of the Roses parallel, with Raoul claiming we'd have to "take her screaming, scratching, and kicking" out of Gracie Mansion, prying her "off the chandelier to get her out of there"? Almost as hilarious as my stripping her of her First Lady title and duties way back in May of 2000, and firing everybody around her. I let her goddamn mansion go to pot so bad Bloomberg is digging into his own pocket to fix it up.

Of course I never would've given her all that loot if I weren't already running for at least vice president. I never would've given her the satisfaction of a public win. I would have fought the thing out at trial and taken my philandering hits like any proud stud but for the presidential picture. Ever since I delivered my convention acceptance speech in front of my college girlfriend (oh, for one more shot at sweet Kathy Livermore), I've been getting ready to become the first Italian American president. Donna tried to intimidate me with that witness list of hers—throwing Barrett in there as well as Cristyne and every driver and cop who's no longer counting on me to feed his overtime. But I wouldn't have backed down if I wasn't sure I had a real chance at one of the two top jobs in 2004.

If Bush doesn't pick me for Cheney's spot, I might just hook up with McCain. Should we bushwhack the Boy President in the Republican primaries or just go third party? McCain and Giuliani or Giuliani and McCain? The cancer-comeback candidates? Two national war heroes? He was locked down in North Vietnam for years and I was locked down in Gracie Mansion. With his messy history, divorcing a wife after she was mangled in a car crash, even our marital records match.

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