Blood Covenant

by Michael Franzese

  I loved that kind of testimony because it helped me a lot.

  106

  As with most long trials, there were ups and downs in this one. After a bad day in court, I would be in as dark a mood as Cammy had ever seen. After one such day, I said to her, "I'm worried about you, Cammy. I'm afraid for you. I don't know how this is going to come out. And if I'm convicted, what then? Sometimes I think I should let you go. I'll take care of you, and I'll give you a good start on a new life. I just don't want to hurt you."

  "Please, don't make me go home," Cammy begged. "I don't care what happens. I'm not going to leave you. I don't care what you say. If you have to go away, we'll survive. Just give me a child. I want to have something of you to remember for the rest of my life, something to keep with me. Just give me a child, and I'll wait for you forever."

  I resisted. Why ruin her life? Why drag a beautiful young woman down with me?

  She was unbending.

  "I want to marry you, but not with this hanging over our heads," I said. "But if you really want a child, we'll try."

  I hardly had time to weigh the ramifications of her request before she made the point moot by becoming pregnant. When I saw a pair of baby shoes in a little box on my bed-Cammy's way of announcing the pregnancy-all my doubts vanished. I also wanted something lasting to spring from our love.

  I decided to have the official engagement party a few weeks before the verdict. The rationale was that if I was convicted, I'd at least have one last happy memory in my life. The event was scheduled for April 6 at the Hotel Bel Air in Los Angeles.

  Complicating matters was Cammy's rough pregnancy. The severe stress of the trial was tearing her up inside and making her hemorrhage. Her doctors feared she'd lose the child.

  On the morning of the engagement party, we woke to find the bed covered with blood. She phoned a doctor and made an appointment for 11:00 A.M. Cammy's luck was with her that morning. The doctor said that, despite the hemorrhaging, the baby was unharmed. If she took it easy she'd make it.

  That evening, as two hundred people mingled at the Hotel Bel Air and congratulated us, she stayed in her seat. Despite the energetic music and the exhilaration of the event, she fought the urge to dance.

  I put up a solid front, never letting on to Cammy how much I was dying inside. I wanted it to be a memorable event for her, especially if it was going to be our last. I knew her emotions rode with mine. If I let my defenses down and displayed my nervousness over the verdict, her shields would dissolve and she might suffer a miscarriage. I had to keep smiling, keep confident. I had to continue to make her believe that I was invincible.

  Behind my smiling mask, I was hurting. I had developed two ulcers from the stress of the trial combined with the fear of losing Cammy. As I had feared all along, I had chosen the worst possible time to fall in love, and I was feeling the consequences. The future appeared darker than ever. If I was convicted on any one of the seven counts in the loan-sharking/racketeering case, I would go away for thirty years.

  And surely I would not get off scot-free this time. The law had been after me for too long for me to expect a reasonable sentence. Even if I was acquitted, the Eastern District/Michael Franzese Task Force indictment was sure to follow. And there was now no longer any doubt that lorizzo had turned. Not only was the fat man ratting, he was lying. They had marched him out during the loanshark trial as a practice run for his future appearances.

  I was also deeply worried about my children. I knew what it was like to lose a father to prison, and the last thing I wanted to do was leave my kids without a father. I loved my children dearly and wanted them to know it. No matter what happened in the future, I wanted them to know me and be proud of me.

  107

  Something happened before the end of the trial that, for a few harrowing hours, made the pending verdict, Cammy's rocky pregnancy, and every other problem seem insignificant. It caused me, for the first time in my life, to openly challenge my father, and it had a profound effect on our future relationship. It started with a call from Jimmy Angellino.

  "The Boss wants you to come in for a meeting at 9:00 P.M."

  "What's this about?" I asked, fearing the answer.

  "The Boss wants you in," was all he would say.

  But his voice was as lifeless as I had ever heard it.

  I immediately called my father, who was again out on parole. As I expected, he had just received a similar call, only his sitdown was scheduled for 7:30 P.M.

  "We need to talk, Dad," I said. "I'll be right over."

  "No, I'll come there," he said.

  As I waited for Dad, I thought about what had gone wrong. My operation was generating an immense amount of money, which in turn resulted in a rapid expansion of my crew. That brought unwanted notoriety. Those elements combined to make my mob associates uncomfortable. There was talk-inflamed by the federal government and local television news reports-that I had broken away from the Colombos and had become the head of my own family. At the heart of these rumors was the mistaken belief that I was making more money than I was telling the bosses in Brooklyn and was holding back millions of dollars.

  Complicating this were the actions of my parents. Although Dad applauded my success, Mom was unable to accept the changing of the guard. She seemed to resent my lifestyle, and that of my wife, and that we had created our own identities. From her perspective, when my father had been jailed, her status had also fallen. She hounded Dad about this, demanding to know why he wasn't in charge of my operation and why they were not reaping the benefit of the wealth I was now generating. She was relentless and drove him to question my men about the amount of money we were making.

  Dad even quizzed Markowitz and the Russians, who were all terrified of him. They reported back to me, and I confronted my father. I told him that he was telegraphing to Brooklyn that there was a rift between us. Plus, if my own father suspected me of hiding money, what were the mob bosses to think?

  "Dad, what are you doing?" I demanded. "You're going to get us both killed."

  108

  Dad vehemently denied that he had confronted my men, claiming that they had misread his intentions. As much as I wanted to believe him, I knew better.

  Angellino's call had now confirmed my worst fears: both my father and I were in serious trouble. We knew about these calls. It was part of the life. You walk into a meeting like that, and they carry you out.

  My senses had suddenly become so sharp, so pumped with adrenaline, that the whole world looked different. Colors were brighter. Sounds and smells were more intense. I could see everything around me in greater detail. My entire body was powering up for a fight to the death.

  And that was my problem. Instead of Dad and me banding together and going out in a blaze of gunfire, I knew that he would want us to walk into that room at our scheduled times like lambs to the slaughter and passively accept whatever fate awaited us. Of all the aspects of the mob I had grown to despise, the legendary death summons was the worst. I had long ago vowed never to willfully walk into a room where someone was waiting to take my life.

  This was the conflict I now faced with my father. We would engage in a verbal life-or-death struggle that pitted the old mob values of strict adherence to the code against the saner interpretation held by America's second generation of mobsters. I wondered what argument, beyond blind military-like allegiance, Dad could use to support his position. His way had brought nothing but decades of grief, hardship, and heartache to himself and his family.

  When he arrived, we talked in the driveway of my home in Brookville. It was late afternoon, and the air was chilly. As the sun set, I was reminded of all those hours we had bounced that rubber ball off of my grandfather's chimney, each of us fiercely determined to win our makeshift game. We had a different battle facing us now, and this time, the stakes were much higher-our very lives.

  "I have a bad feeling about this, Dad. I don't like it. `You in first and then me.' This isn't right."

  "Micha
el, this is our life. We've been given an order, and we must obey."

  "Dad, do you hear what you're saying? Do you understand? We have families. We both have wives and children to support. There are things that are more important than our oath. All of this is over money.

  "You should never have started questioning the Russians about our activities. Now they [the family] believe something's up, that we're making billions. You know the rumor's out there. So now, they're calling us in, and you know what's going to happen."

  "I don't think so," he said.

  "Neither one of us is sure, though," I said, "so why should we do this? Why risk our lives?"

  His answer was, "This is our way. Whatever happens tonight, happens."

  This shook me, and I responded, "Are you kidding?"

  For a moment, Dad was shocked. I had never taken that tone with him, and the air was suddenly silent.

  He just stood there like a rock, saying nothing, feeling nothing, determined to live by the code right to the end. I could see it.

  "Okay, Dad. Okay. I know how you are. I know this is our life and we believe in it. I know what the oath says-if they call us, we have to drop everything and go. Okay. But let's go together. Me and you, together. We shouldn't let anyone separate us."

  "We can't do that," he said. "That's not how they want it. We can't change it, and we can't show fear."

  "Fear? Is that what this is about? Showing fear? You're going to walk in there and let them stick a gun to the back of your head and blow your brains out so you won't be accused by some punk of showing fear? You're going to let them kill me, your son, just because you don't want to show fear?"

  "This is the life we chose," he repeated.

  "Dad, you know, I always envisioned it would be me and you, side by side, taking on the world. Me and you, back-to-back, going down like warriors. If we're going to die tonight, let's do it that way. Give me that respect. Give yourself that respect. Let's go out together, fighting."

  He looked down and stared at the pavement, but I grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to look at me. I could feel the power in his body, but I could not feel the will. It was gone.

  "Dad, let's do it together."

  "That's not our way, Michael. We will go separately, the way they asked. And whatever happens, happens."

  He walked to his car and opened the door. "It's the right thing, Michael," he said, standing there with the door open. "We live by the oath. The oath and the life are more important than any two individuals. I'm going to go. And you must follow. You must!"

  With that, he got into his car and disappeared into the night.

  109

  After Dad had pulled away, I paced the driveway then walked around the grounds of my home. My senses were even more intense than before, but now my mind began to rationalize, desperately trying to make sense of the primal signals my body was sending out. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe my father was so bravely following his beliefs because he knew something I didn't. Or maybe he knew that he wasn't the one on the spot, that he could disavow any detailed knowledge of my operation. That would be easy because I had specifically kept him distanced to protect him from being violated and having to go back to prison. Now he could use that to his advantage. So what should I do?

  The time drew near, and I had no clearer answer than before. I was sure that I should not go, but if I failed to show, I could be sentencing my own father to death. That was my answer. I got into my car and drove to Brooklyn.

  I parked on the street and walked to the luncheonette where Jimmy Angellino was scheduled to pick me up. This was telling. Instead of being told where the meeting would take place and being allowed to drive there myself, I was to be driven to an unknown location by another family member.

  Jimmy was cold and distant as we drove. We had been made together and had remained close friends. I felt shaky and empty inside but fought the urge to question him.

  We drove in silence for about ten minutes. Then Jimmy pulled up to a large, dark house in Brooklyn, a house I had never seen before. It was a perfect place for a hit. I expected the meet would be held downstairs in a soundproof basement.

  At that point, I would face two possibilities. If I opened the door and found the room empty, I was dead. I'd be clocked before I could turn my head. If there were people in the room, that might mean that they were giving me the respect of a hearing first. In that situation, I expected acting boss Andrew Russo (Persico was in jail) and the entire family hierarchy to be sitting around a table.

  There would also be a young soldier, a man who didn't belong at such a high-level meeting. He would be stationed on my side, but set back so I couldn't see him if he got up. This person would be my assassin.

  I walked down a narrow stairway, took a deep breath, and opened the door. There were people in the room. I found everything exactly as I envisioned it in my second scenario. It was as if I had seen that table, those men-and my death-in forgotten dreams buried somewhere in my subconscious.

  The assassin was just as I had imagined-a young, hardlooking man sitting alone at the end of the table on my side. I saw a bead of sweat on his temple.

  I knew that Russo-my first captain when I had been a recruit-would give the signal, and I knew that whatever it was, no matter how secret or cloaked the acting boss tried to make it, I would recognize it as clear as a flashing billboard. It would be my last thought.

  110

  "We want to ask you about your business," Russo opened as I sat down in the chair to his right.

  "Go ahead," I said.

  For the next two hours, Russo and other members of the family grilled me on my operation. I answered them firmly in a strong, unwavering voice. I had decided that if I couldn't go out shooting, at least I could wage this war with my wits.

  "Ask me all your questions," I told them. "I've held nothing back. If you think I'm making more than I've said, show me the facts and figures. Bring in my accusers, and let me confront them. You're attacking me with speculation, rumors, and conjecture. I've given you the exact percentage I promised. I've generated this money myself, and I've generously shared it. You're listening to lies and reading false stories in newspapers.

  "And you're taking Larry lorizzo's wild statements on their face. He's exaggerating the income to build up his importance as a government witness. It's a routine move by someone desperate to stay out of prison."

  Russo grilled me hard about lorizzo. The fat man had rolled, and he was my responsibility. If Larry fingered even a single one of the other made men, it would cost me my life.

  "I've sheltered everyone in our family from lorizzo," I answered. "He's my responsibility, and he won't be able to take down anyone but me. I doubt that he can even do that. I followed the rules, I've kept my oath, and I've protected the family."

  "But your father said...," Russo began.

  I had been expecting this move, and I understood it. Like a trial attorney or a homicide detective, Russo was trying to trap me with something I had said that didn't match Dad's story. And he and his associates were also going to put words into my father's mouth to see if they could get me to falter or stumble.

  "Don't tell me what my father said," I countered. "Don't play that game with me. Don't put me in that position. I'm not going to go for it. You should never have gotten my father involved in this. He doesn't know my operation. I've protected him for his own good. I've kept him clean. I fought all my life to get him out of jail, and I'm fighting now to keep him out of jail. If you wanted to speak to us, you should have brought us in here together. And if he's going to say something, let him say it in front of me. My father and I are together on this. We've always been together. Don't believe anyone who tells you differently. If you have questions, you ask me. You don't ask him."

  With that, the tenseness in the room reached a crescendo, and Russo suddenly gave a signal.

  It wasn't the signal I'd been expecting. Instead, Russo motioned for someone to serve the wine. My explanation ha
d been accepted-at least for now.

  I turned and subtly glanced at the assassin. He looked relieved.

  The wine tasted sharp and bitter. My body had been on such a razor's edge that it had altered my internal chemistry. My "brothers" walked around the room and chatted with me and talked among themselves, but I couldn't concentrate on their words. They were trying to act like everything was back to normal, but it wasn't. Just moments before, they had been about to sentence me to death. I would never forget it, even though I would have done the same thing if I had been in their position. It was the way things worked in the life. It would never be the same for me-not with this family or my own.

  111

  "Jimmy, if they were going to kill me, would you have told me?" I asked as he drove me back to my car.

  "What would you expect?" he countered.

  "I'd expect you to tell me!"

  As I said it, the truth drained from the words, and Jimmy picked up on it.

  "If they were going to kill me, would you tell me, Michael?"

  "No," I said. "That's sick, isn't it, Jimmy? What kind of friends are we? What kind of life is this?"

  "It's our life, Michael, the life we chose. We knew what we were getting into. You especially. You've lived with it from the day you were born."

  That was true. Who better than me to understand the life? My father had acted just as anyone would have predicted-in absolute, blind adherence to the code.

  "I tell ya' something, Michael," Angellino said. "You got some courage. If I were in your shoes, I don't know if I could have taken it. You were ice. Man, you were ice. You sat in this car like you were going to dinner."

  "Don't think my heart wasn't pounding," I admitted.

  Before I got out of the car that day, Jimmy made a rare and unexpected confession. "I wouldn't have told you if you were a dead man tonight, but I can tell you now that you had a serious problem. Both you and your dad. You somehow talked your way out of it. Brilliant performance. But I'll tell you something, and this is between you and me. It goes to the grave with us. Your father.. .he didn't help you in there tonight."