Blood Covenant

by Michael Franzese

  Eleanor thought for a moment then pointed the gun barrel between my eyes. She was squeezing the handle so tightly I was afraid it would go off any second.

  "If you double-cross me," she said, "I'll blow your brains out. Do you understand?"

  "I just want the truth," I replied, fighting to stay calm. "That's all I ask."

  I gave her my number and told her to call me.

  Eleanor called the next day, and we met again. She was less afraid this time, but still armed. To reiterate the importance of her demands, she explained her scars. One weekend her husband, John Cordero, in a particularly mean mood, had mixed sex, drugs, and an axe, alternating between the three. He had fed her tranquilizers, chopped on her with the axe, and then made love to her. He repeated this trio of activities for two days, until she nearly bled to death.

  Eventually, when he told her that he was going to the basement to sharpen the axe so he could chop her up into little pieces, she managed to crawl to the phone and dial 911. The police arrived, arrested her husband, and summoned an ambulance to take her, barely alive, to the hospital. She required more than two thousand stitches to mend her body. Still, her husband had been released, something she attributed to the fact that he had ratted on my father.

  "So I need money and protection," Eleanor repeated. "I can't help you unless I have money and protection."

  What could I say? She had me over a limb.

  38

  For the next seven months, the most miserable months of my life, I baby-sat Eleanor Cordero. I rented an apartment for her in Hempstead, then later moved her to a house in Huntington. I bought her a car and paid the living expenses for her and her twelve-year-old daughter. I even placed myself at her disposal twenty-four hours a day. Soon, she was making sexual advances, and I had to fight her off.

  Time after time, during those months, I felt that I'd about had it with this woman's constant demands, but I couldn't end it. She seemed to be cooperating with the attorneys, giving them everything they needed. They advised me to keep her happy a little longer because they needed her to testify at a hearing.

  I knew that if I was to keep Eleanor happy any longer, I would have to find her a good man, so I desperately flipped names through my mind. Who did I know who could be compatible with this strange woman? I decided to call a friend by the name of Jerry Zimmerman. Jerry, who was six-foot-five and weighed two hundred seventy-five pounds, was a shaggy dog of a guy, a happy-go-lucky con man by trade. Could he be Eleanor's type? As it turned out, Jerry liked Eleanor, Eleanor liked Jerry, and I was thrilled.

  For a time, Eleanor seemed to calm down, but as the months dragged on, she continued to make constant demands for money or other material things.

  If that wasn't bad enough, Mom kept pressing me to meet Eleanor and get involved in the process. I imagined that these two headstrong women would clash like Siamese fighting fish, and I saw no reason to dump them into the same bowl. But Mom was so persistent that I eventually relented.

  As I had predicted, the two women instantly despised each other, and after Mom's visits, all Eleanor could talk about was how my mother drove a Cadillac, wore expensive clothes and jewelry, and lived in a big house. And then she began demanding similar clothing, transportation, and accommodations.

  Despite the insanity and misery of putting up with this woman, in the end, she came through for us. She swore out affidavits, outlining everything she knew about my father's case and swearing that he had been framed. She even introduced me to Charles Zaher, another one of the bank robbers. After being released early from his bank robbery conviction, Zaher had gone straight and was working for a phone company. He was uneasy about meeting me but eventually agreed. What he said backed up Eleanor's claims, and he agreed to cooperate with our defense lawyers, too.

  I was also able to get my hands on a letter it had long been rumored that Zaher had written to his wife from prison, a letter that admitted he and his partners were planning to frame my father. Things were beginning to take shape. As horrid as my experience of baby-sitting Eleanor had been, it appeared to be paying off.

  39

  The afternoon prior to the hearing in which Eleanor was to testify, I was at a body shop I owned in Deer Park, Long Island, when I spotted legendary FBI mob hunter Bernie Welsh lumbering toward me. Welsh, a giant of a man whose size and girth contrasted with his baby face and friendly demeanor, was an old-style Untouchables-type agent who liked to go toe-to-toe with the toughest mob enforcers. Far from just shadowing his targets, he sometimes hounded them in an exaggerated fashion. For instance, he'd go to a mob hangout, spot a made man or two, and make a big show of shaking their hands and offering to buy them drinks. Sometimes, he'd try to sit down and have dinner with them. The men involved always hated this act. It killed their conversation and made them look like informers. Invari ably, mobsters would disappear into dark corners at the first sight of Bernie.

  Welsh loved being an agent, and he loved the mob beat. As annoying as he was, he was respected because he was a straight shooter. When he busted a guy, he did it by the book.

  "I'm gonna get Joey Brancato, and I'm going to get him honest," he'd tell me, alluding to his long battle to turn or convict my father's associate.

  "That's a switch," I'd shoot back. "After you guys framed my father, now you're going to start doing things honestly?"

  Welsh would just shake his head and laugh, never confirming or denying the setup.

  "Michael, come on out. We gotta talk," Welsh shouted from the front of the body shop that afternoon.

  "No way, Bernie," I said, in no mood for the agent's games.

  He persisted, and I reluctantly walked over to meet him. Welsh immediately went into his theatrics. He slowly shook his head and peered at me like a high school principal looking at a truant student.

  "You're getting out of hand, Michael. You've been doing some bad, bad things."

  "What now?" I said, figuring it was another famous Welsh stunt.

  "We've received information that you were at a meeting and that you ordered the kidnapping of Judge's Mishler's daughter."

  "What?" I shouted, my blood heating. "I didn't even know he had a daughter. What kind of nonsense is this?"

  Then it struck me. "Did you tell the judge this?"

  "We had to," Welsh said, shrugging like he hated to do it but was duty-bound.

  "A day before the hearing you tell the judge I'm gonna kidnap his daughter? You jerks never let up, do you?"

  I called our attorney, who contacted Judge Mishler. The judge confirmed that the allegation had been brought to his attention. Our attorney quoted the judge as saying that he hadn't necessarily believed the story but neither could he discount it.

  What effect the FBI's underhanded tactics had on the subsequent decision is impossible to determine. Under the law, judges are ordered to remove themselves from a trial or hearing if they believe a threat, or even an unconfirmed report of a threat, may cloud their judgment. In practice, however, judges rarely take this step. What is known is that my family received a devastating lesson in the law. We entered the hearing with what we confidently felt was an open-and-shut case-recanted testimony, sworn affidavits, a critical piece of written evidence that spoke of the plot to frame my father before the fact. How could we lose?

  As it turned out, it was easy to lose. Eleanor had demanded and received too much from me, and therefore the judge felt that she wasn't credible, especially after the state produced a witness who claimed Eleanor had bragged that she was selling her testimony. Regarding Zaher, a witness reversing prior statements holds little weight in the eyes of the law. Except for rare instances, the only thing that matters is what is said during the trial. Plus, there were three other witnesses who had not yet recanted their testimony. Since the Zaher letter hadn't been mentioned during the trial, a legal loophole held that it was insignificant. Besides, the judge felt that there was some debate over the meaning of the word "frame" in the letter.

  The bottom line was t
hat the government felt the Franzese family was too powerful, and our image too menacing, for anyone to believe that we hadn't frightened, coerced, or bought the testimony of the witnesses. So the appeal was rejected.

  To say that we were shattered doesn't quite capture our feelings that afternoon. The time, the money, and the agonizing effort spent baby-sitting Eleanor had all gone for nothing.

  As usual, Maria was right there, comforting me, calming my mother, encouraging us to go on, and assuring us, in her cheerfully innocent way, that the truth would eventually prevail. I wasn't so sure, but I also wasn't yet ready to give up trying.

  40

  Despite these personal reverses, things were going well for me on at least one front. The auto-leasing business in West Hempstead was expanding so rapidly that I decided to seek a larger line of credit to float more cars. Our original deal had topped off at $500,000, but we wanted to fly higher.

  A friend introduced me to a banker who was being strangled by a mountain of medical bills because of a paraplegic son, and I was given to understand that if I took care of the banker, he would feel obligated to push through my credit application. Strangely, all the banker required, initially at least, was for me to purchase from him a $2,500 mink jacket he claimed to have won in a church raffle. I figured it was a small price to pay for a $2 million line of credit.

  I was wrong. That fur coat would haunt me for the next two years, leading to my arrest, three trials, and the destruction of my entire business structure. It would also forever brand me as a mobster-a distinction I had until then escaped.

  I didn't know anything about furs, but fortunately I shared a roof with an expert-my mother. She loved mink coats and was excited to hear that I was buying one, and she wanted it. She assured me that the coat was worth the price.

  I was having a hectic day at work when my friend Vinnie arrived with the coat. After waiting around as I took one phone call after another, Vinnie signaled that he would just hang the fur on the door. I indicated that I understood. As the day proceeded, I forgot all about the coat. At 5:30 that afternoon, I locked up the office and drove home, leaving the mink hanging on the door exactly where Vinnie had left it.

  The instant I set foot in the house, Mom greeted me by saying, "Where's the coat?" When I told her that I had forgotten it, she ordered me to go right back and get it. Exhausted from the activities of the day and in no mood for another long round-trip through traffic, I tried to refuse, but she was persistent. She simply wasn't willing to wait another twenty-four hours for her mink. I finally called an associate and asked him to pick up the coat and bring it over.

  When the man arrived at the office, he couldn't find the coat, so he called me and relayed this information. Figuring that someone had put it in a closet or somewhere else, I told him not to worry about it.

  "We'll find it tomorrow," I assured him.

  A thorough search of the office the following morning failed to locate the mink, and then I knew that something was amiss. I suspected a young mechanic who we believed had been taking things from the shop for months, so I called the man in, confronted him, and after some tense moments, he confessed. He said that he had already moved the fur on the black market, and I advised him that he'd better "move" it back. He promised to try.

  When the man said that he needed his Camaro, a beat-up car he had been working on in the shop for more than a week, it made me think that he was about to disappear like the coat. I decided to hold the Camaro and its registration as collateral until the fur had been returned.

  During the confrontation with the mechanic, an old friend and business associate of my father's, Philly Vizzari, had been in the office. A few days passed, and the mechanic called me. He had changed his story. He hadn't taken the coat after all, he said. I reminded him that he had already confessed to taking the coat, so if he would just tell me who he sold it to I would get it back. In the meantime, I was holding the car.

  The next day, I was out of the office, and at one point, I called to check for messages. I was told that the place was swarming with cops. They had impounded the Camaro and were looking for the registration!

  I asked to speak to the lead detective. I told the officer that I had the registration with me and would bring it. I arrived a half-hour later, peeled it out of my wallet, and handed it over. The detective grabbed it and ordered the troops to retreat.

  The next morning, a Friday, I received a call from a local used-car dealer.

  "The cops were over here asking if you tried to sell me some beat-up Camaro. What's this all about?"

  What it was about was that the police were trying to build a case against me.

  I called my attorney, John Sutter, and made an appointment to see him.

  "Don't worry about it," he said when I explained to him the whole matter. "It's nothing. I'll take care of it."

  I wasn't so sure.

  41

  I drove from Sutter's office back to mine, a ten-minute drive, and the phone was ringing when I walked in. It was Mom. She said there were cops all around the house, searching for me, and she advised me to make myself scarce. As those words left her mouth, the door of my office was crashed open, and a squad of cops, guns drawn, burst inside.

  "Get away, quick!" my mother repeated on the phone. "They'll be there any minute."

  "Too late, Mom" I said.

  I was arrested and charged with conspiracy, grand larceny, and two counts of possession of stolen property (the police viewed the car and the registration as separate entities). The charges, altogether, were punishable by up to ten years in prison. Tony Morano was also arrested.

  It was a strange arrest. Because of nothing more than an in-house employee/management hassle, I had been slapped with serious felonies. The newspapers and television stations covered it as big news. I was Sonny's son-a Franzese-so I had to be a mobster. Enhancing that image was the fact that Philly Vizzari, the mildly interested observer, was also arrested under the same charges. Philly drove a long Cadillac, smoked a fat stogie, and fancied himself a modern-day Al Capone. He was not the kind of guy with whom a college premed student wants to get arrested.

  What didn't help, and what no doubt led to the Gestapo-like police action, was the fact that a parade of mobsters and organized crime associates had been observed coming in and out of the leasing office for months. Aside from those hanging around, many of my father's old friends figured they could at least get a good deal on an auto lease from me. Street guys have a difficult time getting credit, so I accommodated them-a kindness that proved to be a massive headache.

  More times than not, these men lapsed on their payments, or made no payments at all. Included among these scofflaws was Philly, who I had always called Uncle Philly. Not only did Uncle Philly beat me out of a car, but he also tried to make a deal with Tony Morano behind my back to create a competing leasing company in a neighboring town.

  These experiences taught me a lesson I would never forget: friendship and business don't mix, at least not when it came to Dad's friends. On top of the aggravation, my association with the mob soldiers had also brought the police down on me. Monday, after being forced to spend the weekend in jail, I was released on bail.

  42

  A week after my arrest, another Friday, I entered my office and came upon an ugly incident in the making. Morano was having a heated argument with two "bruisers," John "Big Chubby" Verrastro, thirty-four, and his brother Robert "Little Chubby" Verrastro, twenty-nine. Big Chubby was six-three and weighed three hundred pounds, and Little Chubby was six-four and weighed three hundred fifty pounds. Standing behind them was a third mobster, Albert Strauss, thirty-one, six feet tall and weighing two hundred ten pounds. A fourth man, Oscar Teitelbaum, twenty-nine, six-two, and a tightly muscled two hundred thirty pounds, waited outside in the car. The "Chubby Brothers" were threatening to tear Morano apart. At issue was an old man's car: Morano had sold it on consignment and then decided to keep the money, and the Chubbys and crew had come to collect.

/>   I learned what the problem was, did my best to resolve it, and then withdrew into my inner office. Inside, I put my feet up on the desk, settled back, and called Maria.

  Then suddenly, Boom! The door slammed open again, and the office filled with men carrying shotguns. I didn't know what to think. Was it a hit? A robbery? What now?

  "Freeze!" one of the men shouted. "You're under arrest."

  The words came as a relief. Of all the possibilities, cops were the best. There were fifteen to twenty police officers this time, twice as many as before. They were inside, outside, in plainclothes and in uniforms. They swept up everyone in sight-me, Morano, the Chubby Brothers, Al Strauss, Oscar Teitelbaum in the car, and two of my employees who chose the wrong time to be hanging around, Jerry Zimmerman and Peter "Apollo" Frappolo.

  I was handcuffed to Big Chubby, who was acting like a caged bull. The big man yelled and cursed the cops and dragged me around like a rag doll. I yelled at him to mellow out, but Big Chubby continued his frantic act all through the ride to the police station.

  Once there, I heard the familiar voice of one of the officers. "You need anything, Michael?"

  "Yeah," I answered. "Get me away from this maniac!"

  The officer smiled and uncuffed me.

  It took five hours for the police to come up with their charges, and I figured I was in the clear. All I had done was pass through the office where an argument was in session. I didn't even know some of these men.

  When the charges were sorted out, an officer read them: "Conspiracy, grand larceny, extortion, and coercion, against Franzese." I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

  At the arraignment the next day, I stood in the middle, completely dwarfed by the monstrous gang. Aside from the Chubby Brothers and their crew, Zimmerman was six-five, two hundred seventy-five pounds, and Frappolo was five-eleven, two hundred forty pounds. In the middle of the prosecutor's impassioned reading of the charges, he stopped, turned with dramatic flourish, pointed at me, and blared, "And that one in the middle-Michael Franzese-he's the ringleader!"