"I can't believe that," I said.
"Believe it," Angellino insisted.
I knew Jimmy wasn't lying, and I knew what my father had done. He had played dumb. It had been the right move to make in that situation. In fact, I had set it up that way. But still, it hurt to know that he had done it. He could have taken a stronger stand and told them that everything between us was okay, that everything else was lies. But that wasn't Dad's way, because it wasn't the mob's way.
My father probably went to sleep feeling proud that night. He had obeyed his oath under the most trying circumstances. He had faced death without showing fear. He had done his duty. I wished I could have viewed it the same way. Instead, I felt like a sap, like I was the ultimate sucker. I should never have gone to that house. I should never have risked the future of my children and my future life with Cammy by playing this insane, deadly game. I had violated my own vow by willingly marching into a death chamber. And for what? To stay true to the oath? To justify my life to my "brothers"?
In Dad's own way, there was a measure of courage in what he did, but our family, the bond between him and me, should have come first. He should not have asked his son to go into that house unless he knew all along what the outcome would be. Because of that, I felt a great sense of loss. Although we had escaped with our lives, something had died that night. An insecure little boy had lost the blind hero-worship of his father.
The one positive thing I did take from that evening was the knowledge that I could face death without succumbing to fear. I could maintain my composure enough to survive on my intellect. But the next time, if I did confront death again, I would go out fighting.
A sweetly ironic epitaph to this event is that a few years later, the tables would be turned on Andrew Russo, my chief interrogator. Russo's brother-in-law turned undercover informant and rolled on eight of the top Colombo bosses, including Russo, Carmine Persico, Young "Allie Boy" Persico, and Jerry Langella- sending them all to prison. When Russo was released from prison sometime in the mid-1990s, might he expect to be summoned to an empty room? The truth is that he's back in prison on a new charge, and his sentence this time is heavy.
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By the time the jury began its deliberations, the snow had melted, and the breezes turned from bitter to warm. On the morning of the verdict, Friday, April 19, I stared at Cammy for hours, wanting to burn her image into my brain so that I would never forget it. I wanted to memorize every fleck of color in her eyes, every crease in her lips, every contour of her smooth skin. I felt that the visual information I stored that morning might have to carry me through the rest of my life-a bleak, depressing life spent locked behind bars.
The jury had been deliberating since the previous Monday, and I had told Cammy that they wouldn't come back with a verdict until the following week. That wasn't true. I expected them to reach their decision on Friday. Jurors don't like to be held over the weekend. I had flown Cammy's mother to New York earlier in the week to be with her-just in case the news was bad.
Driving to the courthouse that morning, I talked with Cammy over the car phone the entire way.
"I love you, Cammy, don't ever forget that."
As I sat in the courtroom, awaiting the verdict, all I could do was think of her. I replayed the still fresh memories of Florida, from the first moment I had seen her at the pool.
At last, the verdicts were read. "Count one, Franzese, not guilty."
All seven counts, not guilty.
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I had escaped again. I rushed to a telephone and called Cammy.
"Baby, it's over," I said. "Not guilty!"
"What?"
"Not guilty! Not guilty! Can you believe it? All the Italians were found not guilty!"
She screamed for joy and hugged her mother, and they both bounced up and down on the bed.
When the scorecards were tallied, the result was a split decision. All of the Jewish defendants and their associates were convicted, while all of the alleged mob members were found innocent. For once, I felt, the system had worked perfectly. The jury had somehow managed to wade through the government's misrepresentations and separate the guilty from the innocent.
U. S. District Judge Leonard B. Sand handed down stiff sentences. Hyman and Cooper were each given thirty years and fined $160,000. Hyman rolled over and entered the Witness Protection Program. Cooper escaped from prison and spent nearly two years on the lam before he was recaptured in Florida.
There was one notable exception to the tough prison terms. Judge Sand went easy on the rabbi and gave him only five years' probation and two hundred hours of community service. As I drove home that day, the tension that had built up inside me over so many months was released in a burst of laughter. How ironic! It was the rabbi's money that had helped float the entire operation. The singing rabbi had been Mr. Big. Such is justice, I thought to myself. Anyway, I was a free man, and I was so very happy about that fact.
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In June of 1984, while I had been busy falling in love and filming Knights of the City-in that order-Dad completed his two-year parole violation sentence and was released. I interrupted my activities to present him with a new Mercedes to celebrate the occasion.
I had long given up hope that he would return to his 1960s stature, but it didn't matter much anymore. I had enough money to make kings out of ten thousand fathers. I just wanted him to live out his life in comfort and dignity.
Dad wasn't free long before his other family decided to undermine the second part of my master plan. In an extremely rare decree, Carmine "the Snake" Persico demoted Dad from captain to soldier. The Colombo boss said the move was intended to take pressure off of Dad by easing him into retirement and decreasing the chance that his parole would be violated again. Few believed that story. Persico could have allowed Dad to lay low with his title intact, and most saw the demotion as a direct message to me that regardless of how many millions I was making on Long Island and how large my army was growing, Persico was still the boss.
I was furious because I viewed this latest act as a continuation of the insults heaped upon my father by the "brotherhood" he had sacrificed half his life to protect. He could have made a dozen different deals with the feds to finger them and wipe away his own conviction, but he had always followed the oath and maintained silence.
"Let it go, Michael. Let it go," he told me. "What can you do?"
But it was another broken strand in the fraying rope that bound me to New York and to the mob. My life was now Cammy and California, sunny skies, warmth, and the Pacific Ocean. I stored the disrespect shown to my father in the growing file I kept in my mind detailing the mob's hypocrisy.
Free from the burden of the trial, I quickly got back to the business of settling my life. I worked out a divorce settlement with Maria, giving her the million-dollar Brookville home along with a million-dollar interest-bearing account that paid $10,000 a month for the living expenses of her and the children. We were able to settle the matter ourselves without the intervention of attorneys. I didn't, however, tell Maria about Cammy. Nor did I tell my mother, whom I feared would run to Maria and complicate matters.
Shortly afterward, I arrived at Cammy's condo in Brentwood carting a dozen yellow roses and a big smile.
"My divorce is final," I told her. "Now we can get married."
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Cammy scouted the best hotels in the Los Angeles area for the wedding celebration and decided on the Beverly Hilton because of the stunning ballroom and the professional manner of Lina Kent, the Hilton's director of party planning. She also consulted with Dr. Myron Taylor at Westwood Hills Christian Church and determined that July 25, 1985, would be the best date for him to conduct the ceremony at the church. We had spotted the lovely church and decided that was where we would like to be married.
During the second week of May, Cammy, her mother, and five-year-old sister, Raquel, traveled to Las Vegas to visit her grandfather. I met them on the third day of their stay a
nd joined them at Caesar's Palace. The following day, we took Raquel to Circus Circus, the giant casino-hotel that features a lively indoor circus and circular carnival arcade. As we walked to the arcade, Cammy's mother spotted the Chapel of the Fountain, the hotel's blue-bathed wedding chapel.
"Why don't you two get married now?" she said.
Cammy and I joked that we were both too chicken, but her mother persisted, no doubt motivated by the advancing state of her daughter's six-week pregnancy and the always volatile status of my professional life.
"You two are in love, so why wait?" she pressed. "You should make it right."
"Okay," I said.
"Okay," Cammy agreed.
We approached the chapel and looked inside. It was tiny but attractive. It looked like a miniature church.
"Wait a second," I said. "Let's go back to the hotel and think this over."
Back at the hotel, we teased and goaded each other some more. Finally, I picked up the phone and made the necessary appointment.
"It's set for tomorrow at 3:30," 1 told everyone.
As that hour approached, we eased our nervousness by continuing our strange game of marital chicken.
"I'm getting ready. Are you ready?" I said, searching the closet for my clothes.
"I'm getting ready. Are you?" Cammy parroted.
We repeated the banter with each item of clothing.
"I'm putting my socks on."
"I'm putting on my stockings."
Once dressed-me in black pants and a black-and-gray plaid shirt, Cammy in a white dress with blue flowers-we gathered up Mrs. Garcia and Raquel and made our way to the chapel. My palms became clammy, and my knees buckled a little the moment I entered. Cammy stayed cool until she started walking down the fifteen-foot aisle.
Much to Mrs. Garcia's delight and Raquel's boredom, we made it to the altar and were married. We celebrated by seeing Bill Cosby and Sammy Davis Jr. perform that evening at Caesar's Palace.
After the show, Cammy called her father to give him the good news, but he wasn't pleased.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he protested. "I could have flown down!"
He was not angry that we had gotten married, but that he had been left out of the happenings.
"Don't worry about him," Mrs. Garcia said. "He'll get over it." I was sure he would, but I understood his anger. What father would not like to be at his daughter's wedding? Well, at least we had the official wedding he could look forward to.
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In the days and weeks following the Las Vegas wedding, I had very mixed feelings about what we had done. The $100 ceremony had been so quick and offbeat that it hadn't seemed real. And we had done it more for Cammy's mother than for ourselves. I had been glad to do whatever was necessary to assure her and everyone else involved that my intentions with Cammy were honorable, but now I faced another dilemma.
While the Vegas wedding was legal in the eyes of the law, the July wedding at Westwood Hills Christian Church would be a union in the eyes of God. That thought somehow troubled me. I hadn't given much time to considering God and His place in my life until then. I'd been much too busy for Him.
When I was younger, I had relied upon the Church and the parochial schools I attended to handle that part of my life. But after two decades of Masses, communions, confessions, Lent, ashes on the forehead, priests, nuns, sacraments, dashboard saints, Hail Marys, and rosaries, it seemed that nothing much had taken root in my heart. Then, once my schooling ended and my father stopped driving me to church, religion had faded in importance in my life. There were too many other important things to attend to. Making money and being a good mob soldier had become prime considerations in my daily existence.
Cammy's faith was real, and early in our relationship, she began to water all the dormant spiritual seeds in my soul. Calmly and patiently, she had outlined to me her beliefs and gently pressed me to join her as a believer in Christ. I wasn't so sure I wanted to do that. I listened to her, but mostly out of politenessnothing more.
After all, I reasoned, I was born a Catholic, and I would die a Catholic. I couldn't have told anyone why I was a Catholic, but I was a Catholic nevertheless, and we just didn't change.
As the wedding approached, it became necessary for the two of us to go and sit down with Dr. Taylor for a counseling session. I was a little reluctant, but it seemed that I had no choice in the matter.
Well, okay, I thought. Let's get this over with.
I was surprised to find that I liked Dr. Taylor very much. He was clearly a people person, and he treated us with great respect. I was not offended when he spoke to us of the need for true Christian commitment and abiding faith in Christ, or when he spoke of God's grace being extended to sinners and the need for forgiveness.
In fact, I was so intrigued by what Dr. Taylor was saying that after a while, I found myself wanting to confess to this man everything I had ever done and ask him to help me make things right with God. It was apparent that I was facing a long prison sentence, and that thought had sparked something in my spirit that now surprised me. There was a new tenderness, a spiritual vulnerability that I had never felt before. And I liked it.
I asked Cammy if she would mind leaving the two of us together for a while so that I could speak to the minister alone, and she gladly agreed, going on home. Once Cammy had left, I said to Dr. Taylor, "You talk about forgiveness, but you don't know who I am or what I've done. For God to forgive me would be a real stretch."
Dr. Myron Taylor was not phased at all by this statement.
"Have you heard of the apostle Paul?" he asked.
I indicated that, of course, I had.
"Well," Dr. Taylor said, "he was a murderer. As a devout Pharisee, it fell to him to kill the troublesome Christians. That was his job. Still, God chose to forgive him and save him. God's grace is for everyone."
That was good news indeed, and I was enjoying hearing it so much that Dr. Taylor and I talked for the next several hours.
Eventually, I was convinced that what this man was saying must be true. Cammy had told me before, but it just hadn't sunk in. Now I was beginning to understand. And I was ready to become a real Christian.
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"Okay," I said to Dr. Taylor, "I'm convinced. Now what do I have to do?"
"All you have to do is accept Jesus," he answered.
"Okay," I said, "but what do I have to do?"
He assured me again that all I had to do was accept Jesus as my Savior.
"Well, how do I do that?" I insisted.
"It's very simple," he assured me. "Just invite Him to come into your heart."
This is not going to work, I was telling myself. Its much too easy.
But I listened.
Dr. Taylor opened his Bible and read to me from John 3:16. I remembered seeing that on banners or posters near the end zones at professional football games. Usually when one team kicked an extra point, there would be someone in the crowd behind the goalposts waving a sheet that said "John 3:16." I had wondered what it meant at the time, but I was never curious enough to track down a Bible and look it up. Now I was hearing it for the first time. It said,
For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.
I found this to be a very powerful statement, and it seemed to address me directly.
"Whoever" meant Michael Franzese.
It was immediately clear to me why, of all the verses in the Bible, the football stadium Christians had chosen this one to flash into the nation's consciousness. This was a summation and a confirmation of everything Cammy, and now Dr. Taylor, had been telling me. This was the Christian experience in a few words.
I told Dr. Taylor that I was ready to accept Christ as my Savior and asked him to help me pray. The prayer he led me in that day was very short, but it was also very powerful. It went like this:
Dear God,
I know I'm a sinner and only Jesus can save me. I'm willing t
o turn away from my sin and submit to Your will. I believe that You sent Your Son, Jesus, to die on the cross and shed His blood to pay the price for my sins and that He arose again. I ask You, dear God, to come into my heart and save me. I ask that Jesus Christ become the Lord of my life.
Amen!
There, I'd done it, and I wasn't sure how to feel about it. Michael Franzese was not one to spend time talking with God, but I had just done it.
"Are you sure that's it?" I said. "That's all I have to do?"
It seemed much too simple.
"That's it," Pastor Taylor assured me.
"Isn't there something else I could do?" I asked.
"Well, yes, there is," he explained. "You and your wife both need to be baptized in water."
Ah, finally, I thought to myself. Here's something I can understand, a ritual that I can wrap my arms around. That will surely have more of an effect on me than a simple prayer.
"Yes, let's do that," I said to Dr. Taylor, "at your earliest convenience.
As I drove home that day, I couldn't help comparing what I had just done with the other oath I had taken, with the other time I had been "born again." That oath had been shrouded in ceremony. There had been a half-circle of men, dim lights, blood, and fire. Many wiseguys had waited years for a chance to be inducted into the family, and now my minister was telling me that my name had just been written into the Book of Life and that I would live forever in heaven because of a simple prayer I said in his office. He said that it didn't matter what I had done in the past or how much money I'd stolen.
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