Wow! This was overwhelming. I was now a real Christian.
Book 2
The New Life in Christ
1
So I was now a true Christian believer! Or was I?
Although I had really wanted to receive cleansing from my sins the day I spoke with Dr. Taylor in his office, I was still very skeptical of many things he and Cammy had told me. Before I could make a complete commitment to Christ, I would need to see more evidence. I could not blindly accept someone else's word for it. In the meantime, I would study the Bible and pray to God, but just in case this Christian thing wasn't for real, I would hedge my bets and continue life pretty much as before.
God was certainly doing His part to prove Himself. The morning following my prayer of acceptance of Him as Savior, a very strange thing happened. I was lying in bed with blackout shades drawn, when a bright beam of light suddenly flashed before me. I jumped up and searched for its source, but I couldn't locate it or even surmise how it might have been created. I wanted to believe, however conveniently, that it had been a sign from God to Cammy and me of His continuing love and concern for us, that He was telling us that everything would be okay. That experience buoyed our spirits for weeks, and whenever one of us became depressed, the other mentioned the light. To this day, I can't say for sure if God gave me a sign to comfort me or I just imagined it to be one. Whatever the case, He did touch my spirit that morning. He put it in my heart to search for more evidence, to diligently seek the truth about His Son Jesus.
There was nothing depressing about our church wedding. The wedding and gala reception had been planned for Cammy's family and friends. I invited only a few people from New York, including a brother and a sister of mine, but neither of them was able to attend. The reason for the New York blackout was again my mother. I still didn't feel comfortable telling her about Cammy. I also didn't want the matter to be thrown in Maria's face. I did tell Dad what I was doing and why, and he understood. Since I wasn't inviting Mom, I couldn't invite many others from back East, lest she find out. So, like everything else in New York (aside from my children), I just blotted it out of my mind. I was starting a new life in California, in more ways than one. No need to spoil the moment with any reminders of the past or of potential future troubles in New York. If friends and family members later felt insulted or betrayed, I'd deal with it then. This day was for me and for Cammy. This was our moment.
But I had other worries. Although I had already married Cammy once in Vegas, I was somehow extremely nervous about this second ceremony. I wiped the sweat from my brow and paced up and down the church hallways. The fact that I had no relatives and few friends of my own to talk with only added to my anxiety. Unlike Vegas, this was a real church. And this was a real marriage, one that was certain to change my life forever. I wasn't yet sure what this all meant. All I knew was that I wanted this young woman more than I had ever wanted anything else in life, more than I had ever thought I could want anything.
I shouldn't have worried. The ceremony went off without a hitch. The moment the music started, Cammy floated down the aisle in a $5,000 white wedding dress made of lace, satin, and silk, and dotted with pearls. A ten-foot train trailed behind her like a snowstorm. A pearl and sequined headpiece, specially ordered from Italy, was woven into her long, dark hair. A relative of the Garcias sang "Endless Love" while the rest of the overflowing Garcia clan watched. It was magical.
The reception at the Beverly Hilton's grand ballroom featured caviar, escargot, and separate tables of Italian and Mexican food set under each country's flag. The name of every guest was displayed in Swiss chocolate at the tables, while a basket spilling over with an assortment of rich chocolate served as the centerpiece.
The master of ceremonies that day was Leon Isaac Kennedy. Michael Jackson and Prince impersonators performed, as did a full orchestra. Later in the evening, a disc jockey played dance music as Cammy's brothers and friends entertained the crowd by break-dancing. During the dollar dance, a Mexican tradition, guests pinned dollars to Cammy's dress and danced with her. Female guests similarly paid me a dollar for a dance.
The public celebration over, we honeymooned in Hawaii at the Hilton on Maui. The island paradise reminded us of our days in Fort Lauderdale and Miami. We shopped, swam, danced, ate, loved, and watched glorious sunsets. Even losing a race with a wicked tropical thunderstorm in an open jeep failed to dampen our spirits.
Returning home to California, we were greeted by a court summons. It wasn't as bad as it could have been. It was from the seamstress who had made the bridesmaids' dresses for the wedding. She had sued, claiming she hadn't been paid enough for her services. She would win the suit by default, for by the time the case reached court, my presence was required in a higher court on another coast. This time, the stakes were much higher. Little did I realize then how much I needed God in my corner.
2
During the next three months, I had to split my time between New York and Los Angeles. Despite this hectic schedule, I managed to attend the Thursday night Lamaze natural childbirth classes with Cammy for six straight weeks without missing a session. Sometimes, I'd fly in from New York just for the evening class, then leave that same night on a red-eye flight to get back.
While I was practicing breathing exercises with Cammy, the Michael Franzese Task Force continued its basement meetings in Uniondale, intensifying its efforts to put me away for good. By then, I knew that Ed McDonald of the Eastern District was on my trail, but I still didn't know about the interagency task force muscle he had behind him.
To get closer to its prey, some of the task force meetings were held at the IRS criminal investigation office in Smithtown, Long Island, a few blocks from Peter Raneri's restaurant, where some of my crew, including lorizzo, Markowitz, and the Russians, frequently ate. Agents mounted video cameras in the trees around the restaurant to monitor the activities.
McDonald's investigation was so intense I could feel the heat all the way to California, and most of my energy was directed at preparing for the next indictment. I began constructing my defense long before the arrest came. Although I was 5-0 in trials, I knew that my luck was bound to run out sometime, and I sensed that the moment was nearing.
To evade the forfeiture provisions of the impending racketeering charges, my lawyer advised me to liquidate all my assets, including my boats, jet, and helicopter, and place double and triple mortgages on my real estate holdings. If the government seized them, they'd have to deal with the banks.
I instructed John Jacobs to assure all the investigating bodies that I would voluntarily surrender when the indictments were announced. This included notifying the prosecutors who were investigating me in Florida. There was no need, I had Jacobs explain, to send a storm of troopers to ambush me. I wanted to spare my wife and our California neighbors from the sudden police invasions that had scarred my life as I was growing up.
During one of my New York trips, Frankie Cestaro met me at the airport and said there was an important meeting we needed to attend at Shelly Levine's office on Long Island. Gathered there were Levine, Joe Galizia, Michael Markowitz (free on bail), David Bogatin, and several others in the gasoline business.
I sensed that something was wrong the moment I entered the building. It felt like I was walking into a trap, which I was. Cestaro was unaware that the Long Island Organized Crime Oil Industry Task Force had wired Levine's office for sound and rigged the building's entrance for video. In a battle of espionage and counterespionage technology, the task force had planted state-of-the-art miniature audio receivers in the office that could not be detected by the weekly electronic bug sweeps performed by a retired police detective Levine had hired. They were also not affected by the white-noise emitters installed in the office to jam listening devices.
Instead of going to Levine's office, I anchored myself at a table in the coffee shop downstairs and ordered Cestaro to tell anyone who wanted to see me to meet me there. I advised my associate to return immediately
after delivering the message.
Police detectives and prosecutors, including oil task force spearhead Ray Jermyn, head of the Suffolk County Organized Crime Bureau and a member of the joint task force, listened to the entire meeting. Jermyn dispatched teams of detectives into the building to find out where I was. They spotted me in the coffee shop. Jermyn kept sending in fresh teams to see if I was making any movement toward joining my associates upstairs. The investigators reported back that I was reading the stock market listings in the Wall Street Journal.
By the time the meeting ended, everyone in the room upstairs had made damning admissions of criminal activity. Included among the self incriminated was Frankie Cestaro, who had lingered in Levine's office for more than an hour instead of returning as I had ordered.
As rumors of an indictment swirled, my men began to panic. Two of them came to me one afternoon on Long Island with a request to hit James Feynman, the operator of the Babylon Cove Marina. Feynman had testified against me in the loan-shark case and was expected to give further testimony about a credit card scheme in the pending case.
"We can get to him," they said. "We know where he is. Just give the word, and it'll be one less problem for us."
I was torn. I had an allegiance to my men and to my sworn oath to protect the business of the family. But I thought of the prayer I had said to become a believer, a follower of Christ. Although I still wasn't quite sure about the strength of my convictions, it was an oath I took very seriously, just as I had my previous oath. I knew that God could understand some lapses and failures in the smaller areas as I tried to escape my old life, but how could I order someone's death? I had avoided doing that even before I was a Christian. Feynman certainly might hurt me, but I quickly realized that there was no way I could order the man killed.
"No," I said, shaking my head. "That's never been my way. We can't start killing all the witnesses. It will just create more heat on all of us."
3
Back in California, my first child with Cammy-Miquelle- was born on November 25, 1985, at Cedars Sinai Hospital in Beverly Hills. It was a difficult birth. Cammy was in labor for twenty-two hours, gritting her teeth and sucking on ice cubes and lemon drops. She taped pictures of our wedding on the wall by her bed to provide inspiration and take her mind off the pain. At one point, the agony was so great she began clawing at her face. I told her to tear at me instead. She accepted, and her nails dug into me.
When the child finally arrived, I was allowed to cut the umbilical cord. That evening, I slept in the hospital in a bed next to my wife. Two days later, on Thanksgiving, I cooked the turkey for my wife and infant child, slaving away in the kitchen with a towel draped around my waist. At one point, I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror, holding a large spoon and knife, and wearing a makeshift apron.
"Can you believe this?" I asked Cammy. "I almost don't know myself."
Cammy, who still didn't have the full picture of who I had been, merely laughed. The following day, when Frankie Cestaro called, Cammy explained that I was busy vacuuming.
"Don't tell him that!" I scolded.
"Why? It's the truth," she countered.
The Long Island don had not only become born-again, he had also turned into California's "Mr. Mom." The strange thing was that I was loving every moment of it.
-4
On December 16, 1985, just a few months after my decision to accept Christ, Paul Castellano, boss of the Gambino family, was gunned down in what was believed to be a power play for family leadership, and my flea market rival John Gotti ascended to the Gambino family throne. The New York media ran with the story, soon making it a banner week for mob news. The infamous Gotti would later be convicted of the murder and sentenced to life in prison, where he died tragically of cancer in the summer of 2002.
Three days after Castellano's bloody death, I was awakened at 5:30 A.M. by a call from Frankie Cestaro.
"I have friends at my home," he said.
The "friends" of which he spoke were FBI agents. The joint task force had decided to make their move, and they would be coming for me at any minute. I quickly dressed and left the house. Calling New York from a pay phone, I learned that an army of twenty agents, along with an NBC television crew, had swarmed the Brookville home before dawn looking for me. Maria told them that I no longer lived there, and they accepted her explanation and left.
The feds obviously had ignored my request to come in on my own. They were bent on staging an arrest, preferably in view of network television. I called John Jacobs and told him to inform everyone that I would surrender on January 2, after the holidays. Jacobs argued that the feds weren't about to wait and advised me to come in and post bond. I told him it wasn't going to be that easy this time.
I had gotten wind of investigations concerning old charges, including my alleged death threats against Dad's probation officer. I was certain that the prosecutors were building a case to paint me as "a danger to society" in order to keep me in jail without bond, up to and throughout a trial. They were wary of my past success at ramrodding through my defense, and now they wanted me locked up so I couldn't mount another winning effort. Jacobs disagreed, assuring me that I would be able to make bond.
Cammy met me that afternoon for lunch, and I was cheerful and acted like nothing was wrong. She had an appointment at a local beauty salon to get her hair trimmed, so I offered to drive her there. On the way, the phone beeped in my white Mercedes, and Cammy's heart sank when she heard my end of the conversation.
"Who else was arrested?" I asked without thinking.
When I finished, Cammy forced herself to ask what had happened, hoping that what she suspected was not true.
"The fireworks went off in New York," I said. "Everyone's been arrested. They want me to turn myself in."
"Now?" she asked, incredulous.
"Now," I told her.
"Oh, not again!" she responded, bursting into tears.
The phone rang a second time, and it was Cammy's sister Sabrina. She said that FBI agents had surrounded our Brentwood condo. That scared Cammy even more. Policemen she understood, but FBI agents? That had to mean I had done something really bad.
"Is this the way it's going to be the rest of our lives?" she asked through her tears. "Every six months, FBI agents coming to our home?"
The FBI agents grilled Sabrina, but she clammed up, pretending to be a baby-sitter. I circled the area and explained to Cammy that I had decided to surrender in Florida. I expected that the feds were acting in bad faith, so I would steal their thunder by giving up to the state authorities in Fort Lauderdale instead. I dropped Cammy a block away from our house and told her I was going to the Bel Air Sands Hotel.
"Don't try to come there," I warned. "You'll just lead the FBI to me."
As I had expected, two agents met Cammy at the door when she got home. She told them I had already left for New York. They asked if they could come inside the apartment, and she said sure. The agents questioned her about herself, her marriage, the baby, and anything else they could think of. Cammy played the part of the totally ignorant wife (which wasn't difficult, since I still hadn't told her much about my life). Satisfied, the agents left but continued to stake out the area.
When I learned what Cammy had done, I was angry that she'd let the agents in.
"You never, ever let them inside the house," I said. "You meet them at the door and leave them there."
Meanwhile, Sabrina was standing on the balcony of the first floor condominium chatting with a handsome Italian FBI agent. He asked the pretty, tousled-haired teenager if she was an actress or a model and was a few smiles away from asking her for a date when Cammy had to go out and rescue her.
"I'm sorry we have to do this, Mrs. Franzese," the agent said. "We're just doing our job."
"Yeah, great job!" Cammy snapped, pulling Sabrina inside.
"These guys are here to put my husband in jail," she exclaimed, "and now they're making advances at my sister! I can't believ
e it."
I drove to the Gap clothing store in Westwood and bought a pair of jeans and a striped shirt for the trip to Florida. While I was shopping, Cammy made a test run to Ralph's supermarket on Wilshire Boulevard to see if she would be followed. She was. She noticed that the agents waited outside in the parking lot instead of going into the store, and the wheels began to spin in her mind. She could drive to a mall, go in one end, come out the other, and catch a taxi to get to me. Like me, she had a premonition that this time I wouldn't be coming back.
Returning home, Cammy packed some of my clothes and stuffed them in a garment bag. As the hours wore on, the number of agents surrounding the building dwindled. The Italian outside the balcony had departed. Cammy sent Sabrina out for a walk to survey the situation, and she reported that the remaining agents were staking out the apartment entrance.
Cammy went to the balcony, dropped the garment bag to the grass below, and then climbed down the balcony wall. She braced her feet on a garden hose reel, then jumped the final distance to the grass. She picked up the garment bag, ducked into the parking garage, hopped into the midnight-blue Nissan 300ZX I had bought for her at Thanksgiving and sped out of the building.
5
Cammy drove around for the next hour, darting in and out of traffic, stopping to get gasoline, and weaving across parking lots to determine if she had a tail. As far as she could tell, there was none. She drove to the Bel Air Sands, slipped into the elevator as unobtrusively as possible, and found my room. She tapped on the door.
The knock nearly sent me through the roof.
"Who is it?" I asked.
"Me," she responded.
"Are you alone?"
"Yes."
'Are you sure?"
"Yes, Michael. Yes. Let me in."
Blood Covenant Page 25