Carnage at the courthouse
Donna and Michael in happier times
Saturday 5th January 2008
Can you imagine what it's like to be shot? Of course you can't. After all, it's something that happens in films, not to real people on their way to work. That's exactly what I thought — until the morning of 15 June 2005.
The day had started like any other. After gulping down an orange juice, I got in my van and headed to work. I was a divorce lawyer and, for the past two years, I'd represented Donna Bochicchio, 42. It hadn't been an easy case, and during that time, she and I had become good friends.
Donna and her husband, Michael, 47, were going through a divorce and fighting over everything, from money, to how their property would be divided, plus custody of their two children, Michael, 14, and Karlyn, 12. Michael, a retired police officer, had previously refused to share with Donna any of the cash he'd made from his career, even though they'd been married for 16 years.
But as Donna and I made our way to Middletown Courthouse, Connecticut, at 8.30am, for a hearing, he phoned her mobile, saying he wanted to settle the case.
Donna handed me the phone.
'I'm sorry, it seems the only way we can sort this out, is in court,' I told him, before hanging up.
I knew from experience it was the only way to deal with him. We'd been down this road many times before. He changed his mind at the drop of a hat. Poor Donna. I knew this divorce had been long and painful. With her long, brown hair and perfect make-up, she always looked like she was coping. But I could see dark circles under her eyes, and I knew she was finding it hard. I wanted to get this sorted out as much as she did.
Fifteen minutes later, as I pulled into the court car park, we passed Michael's van.
'He's here,' I said, pulling into a parking space.
I had 10 boxes of paperwork related to the case, and the most important one always seemed to be stuck at the bottom of the pile. It had become a bit of
a joke between us.
'OK, Donna, which box should we unload first?' I smiled.
But before she could reply, I noticed a man behind her. Michael. He didn't say a word as he pointed a 40-calibre Glock handgun at my head. I didn't hear anything. No bang. Nothing. Rooted to the spot in terror as he pulled the trigger, I didn't even feel the bullet hit me. I just looked down and saw blood pouring from my left eye and ear. Hot, wet liquid was pumping out thick and fast, running down my face and chest. What the hell was happening?
Michael was pulling the trigger again and again.
'No,' I gasped.
I felt one bullet hit my left shoulder and the other my left arm, between my elbow and shoulder. It all happened so quickly, I didn't have time to think about the pain. Another bullet hit my left hand. I watched in disbelief as it came out the other side, leaving a huge, gaping hole and ripping through my finger and thumb.
Toppling sideways, I slumped between the two front seats. There was blood everywhere. I could taste it, bitter and metallic in my mouth, and feel it, sticky and warm on the armrest and seats, and congealing on Donna's hair… Dear God. Donna!
She was slumped forward in the passenger seat, silent. Had she been hit, too? Was Michael waiting to strike again? Fighting for breath, I looked at what remained of my left hand. It was like a pile of red spaghetti, with slithers of flesh mingled with blood. And then the pain hit me.
A searing, unbearable pain that made me feel weak. As the blood pumped out, I could feel the life draining from me. My eyelids were heavy… Suddenly, I heard a man's voice.
'They're all dead!' he cried.
It was Charlie Epstein, a marshal at the courthouse. He opened the driver's door of the van.
You've got to show him you're alive, I told myself. If he thought I was dead, he might not call an ambulance. Too weak to speak, using every last bit of strength in my body, I managed to move my left leg. Just a tiny little twitch, but thankfully, it was enough
'She's alive!' Charlie screamed.
Suddenly, I was screaming, too.
'Michael,' I choked, struggling to breathe. 'Where's the gun?'
'Don't worry, an ambulance is on its way,' Charlie said, kneeling down next to me.
As I lay there, still slumped in the van, the lawyer in me took over.
'My name is Julie Porzio,' I said. 'My client is Donna Bochicchio. The man who shot us was Michael, her ex-husband. My husband is Joseph Santopietro…'
Joseph. He was in Ohio on a business trip. I managed to give his number to a policeman.
'Your wife's suffered multiple gunshot wounds,' I heard him say.
By now, there were police and paramedics everywhere.
'What about Donna?' I asked, as a paramedic lifted me out of the car.
'Don't worry,' he said gently. 'I'm looking after you now.'
As I was helped into the ambulance, I saw a paramedic kneeling by Donna, who was slumped in the passenger seat. There was one neat, round hole in the back of her black suit, where a bullet had gone in. Please let her be OK.
During the 20-minute journey to Hartford Hospital, my left hand was wrapped in a bandage. When we arrived at hospital, I was rushed into casualty. While I lay there, dosed up on drugs, a nurse handed me a phone.
'It's your husband,' she said.
'What's happened?' Joseph cried. 'Please tell me you're OK.'
'Hurry up and come home,' I told him, unable to hold back the tears.
I must have been drifting in and out of consciousness, because, the next thing I knew, I was being wheeled into theatre. When I opened my eyes, Joseph was there.
'Hi, love,' he whispered.
'W-what happened?' I murmured.
I couldn't remember.
'You're in intensive care,' he said.
Slowly, I reached up to my face and felt a bandage. Then I saw the dressing on my left hand, felt the dull ache under it, and I remembered. I'd been shot.
'Where's Donna?' I croaked.
'Just concentrate on getting better,' Joseph said.
It wasn't until two days later, that he dropped the bombshell. He held my hand, blinking back the tears.
'Donna was hit by four bullets,' he said. 'She was killed instantly.'
'No!' I screamed, letting out a long, agonised sob.
'Michael aimed four shots at you,' Joseph said. 'And saved the last bullet for himself.'
'Is he dead?' I gasped.
'He didn't die straight away, but was pronounced dead six hours later,' he said. 'You were the only survivor. You're the lucky one.'
I felt anything but lucky.
'Why?' I sobbed. 'Why now?'
I'd thought we were close to resolving the case. I'd never in a million years predicted this.
Later, the doctor came to see me.
'How's my miracle patient?' he asked. He explained three different teams of medics had worked on me. One team had taken a bullet out of my shoulder, while a team of plastic surgeons used 150 stitches to sew up my face where another bullet had ripped open the skin. Finally, a team of orthopaedic surgeons had pinned the shattered bones in my left hand back together.
'It took me an hour to get the strands of Donna's hair out of your wounds,' he said.
My eyes filled with tears again. Poor Donna. Why had I survived and not her? What about her poor kids?
Three days later, her funeral was held at St Paul's Lutheran Church, in Torrington, but I was too ill to go. When I was released from hospital, a week later, I returned to my home in Waterbury, and vowed to find out what had gone wrong. So I spoke to Tom Monahan, a local reporter, and he agreed to investigate.
I couldn't believe it when he told me that, two weeks before the shooting, Michael had flashed a bogus police badge at staff and tried to enter court with a gun. He'd been stopped, but let go because he used to be a policeman. But that wasn't all. On five other occasions, Michael tried to enter court with prohibited items, including a knife. Had he wanted to kill us all long? I'll never know.
More than two years have passed since that awful day. I've had 10 operations on my left hand, had a new knuckle formed on my thumb, and I'm having physiotherapy. Some people have called me a hero. But the true hero of this story is Donna. She stood up for her rights and paid for it with her life.
Michael and Karlyn are being looked after by Michael's family, but I'm adamant their mum's death won't be in vain. So I've launched a campaign for a new law to improve court security, so something like this will never happen again. Nothing will ever bring my friend back, but I'm determined some good will come of this tragedy. For Donna's sake.
Missed an issue of Pick Me Up? Check out these other gripping reads from our Story Library:
Jailed for faking her own rape
The killer in our midst