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Notwithstanding this public declaration of my faith, the months following my release from prison were extremely difficult for both Cammy and me. I had testified in a high-profile case and, in doing so, had openly admitted to my membership in the mob. This placed me under a serious cloud. I was freed and allowed to go to Los Angeles to live, but I would have to live under the threat of death. Cammy lived in constant fear that the next time I went out the door I wouldn't be coming back. I told her not to worry and that I would be fine, but she couldn't be sure. After all, I had been wrong before. And we were often warned by the FBI that my life was in danger.
Because of my parole agreement, I would not be able to make any contact with my former associates, and so, during the coming months, I would remain unemployed (and unemployable). Most of the money I had managed to save in previous years had been spent to support my family while I was in prison, and now I had to find a way to continue to support them and myself. For the first time in my life, I didn't know how I was going to earn a living.
Another complication was the high cost of living in California. Before, I hadn't even noticed it (with all the money I was hauling in), but now it ate at me relentlessly. Because of all of this, things were tense at home.
About a year after my release, I was contacted by two Hollywood film producers who were interested in turning the story of my life into a feature film. Moshe Diamant and Mark Damon had been the successful producing team behind many of kickboxer Jean Claude Van Damme's hit films. Moshe was a straighttalking Israeli whom I was immediately drawn to. He was forever asking me questions about the mob life. My answers would inevitably lead to his telling me what a bad guy I had been when I was a "Mafia don." I found him to be very amusing and actually enjoyed his well-intended criticism.
Through all of this, Moshe and I became good friends. He and his wife Ilana were immediately drawn to Cammy, and our friendship grew. Little did I realize just how important a friendship it would turn out to be for me and my family.
While working together on my film project, Mark Damon approached me about forming a company in partnership with him and Moshe to produce moderately budgeted feature films. I was more than happy to oblige, and the partnership was formed. Unfortunately, my life on parole was much too complicated to allow me to devote the amount of time the project needed. As it turned out, however, my friendship with Moshe and Mark could be considered nothing less than a blessing. Both of them supported me and my family at a time when I desperately needed their help. And they didn't wait for me to ask. Neither of these men are believers, but God used them both to help me get through a crisis, and I am forever grateful to them both.
Along with Moshe and Mark, my ever faithful and loyal friend Robert Schultz was another man who God sent to help me get through what seemed to be my never-ending travails. He worked with me during those dog days of parole and did everything he could to help me get the production company going. I realize now that the company was just not part of the plan God had for my life. But at that moment, a battle was raging in my life, and Bob was yet another ally that God blessed me with to get me through that most difficult period, a period that had only just begun.
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Although I was baptized within months of my release and fully intended to try to live the Christian life, I found that I simply was not able to do it. The idea of having God in control of my life-of me not being in control-was so foreign to my thinking that I couldn't receive it. I was so used to doing everything for myself that I now thought I had to somehow get through my probation period by using my own wits. I would have to earn a living (while starting from scratch), appease the government, and dodge any bullets that came from my former associates. I had always been able to accomplish almost anything I set my mind to, and I figured that this would be no different.
Oh, I knew that God would be there if I needed Him (and I loved Him in my own way), but I couldn't imagine that I would actually require His help. I needed to help myself. That's what I needed.
In short, my intentions were good, but I was far from ready for real life. My faith had not yet matured, and I needed the failure that was to come. And it came-big-time.
The truth was that I simply couldn't cut it. The adjustment from mob guy to good guy was just too difficult for me under those conditions. In Los Angeles, I was like a fish out of water, away from the life that had been so much a part of me. As the saying goes, you can take the boy out of Brooklyn, but you can't take Brooklyn out of the boy. I desperately needed God's help, but I was too self-absorbed to ever turn my situation over to His control.
Because of this, everything I did to pull myself out of the hole only seemed to make matters worse. Mob life was still too much a part of me. It had taught me to make my own way in life, not relying on anyone but myself to survive the brutality and treachery around me.
I remembered the joke Little Jo Jo Vitacco had made the night I was inducted into the family: "Hey boss, should we give them their bag of money now?" It was a joke, but it had sent a deadly serious message. The mob wouldn't be doing anything for me. I had to provide for myself and my family-and for the family. If I got into trouble with the law, I would have to fend for myself. I would have to get myself a lawyer, fight my case, kill some witnesses, or whatever else it took. It was all up to me. It was the same for all family members. It was the mob way.
Oh, I would get help if I needed it, but I must be the architect, the catalyst, the doer. I could not sit around and wait for a wish to be fulfilled. In the mob, my desire was not some prayer that the family was to answer. I had to make my own way in life.
I had thrived and prospered under this policy, earning my own money (and plenty of it) and vigorously defending myself when I was caught up in any legal troubles. I had gone even further than most made men when it came to directing my lawyers. I never sat around and waited for them to act, like Dad had done.
No, I had fought hard and worked hard to make my way up the ranks. Then, through my own wits, I had engineered a deal with the government to get me only ten years in prison instead of life. I had done it so that I could build a new life with Cammy. I had been proactive, and I had accomplished all that I set out to do.
So how could I now turn everything over to God? I simply couldn't do it.
I would continue to work things out myself. Only this time was different. This time, I failed. Maybe this was my first failure ever, but it was a masterful one. I not only failed, I failed miserably. And it landed me right back in prison, where God went to work on me again.
But this time, I would get it right.
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It was the morning of November 13, 1991, and that day would prove to be the most painful of my life. Early that morning, I had spoken with my probation officer from home. He asked me where I would be for the next few hours because, he said, he would need to call me back later in the day to discuss certain matters. I told him I would be going to the bank for about half an hour, then I would return home and wait for his call. He gave me no clue what I could expect to happen next.
I went to the bank at 9:00 A.M. as planned, but as I was leaving the bank, I was surrounded by some fifteen or more state and federal officials and arrested for violations of the terms of my probation. I was handcuffed, placed in a paddy wagon, and taken to Metropolitan Detention Center (MDC) Los Angeles, the federal jail.
I handed the keys to my car to an IRS agent and asked him to drive it to my house and inform Cammy about what was happening. He did. Cammy took the news very hard. She was alone again, this time with three small children. (In 1989, she had presented me with a son, Michael Jr. He was born July 15, two months after I was released from prison the first time. Cammy had become pregnant while I was out on an eight-hour pass.)
At MDC, I was booked and placed in administrative detention-the hole. I still find it very difficult to adequately describe what I was feeling in those moments when I was left alone with my thoughts. What I can say is that I was
hurting as I had never hurt before.
Part of what I was feeling, of course, was the dread of spending more years behind bars and of leaving Cammy and our children. But it was much more than that. I felt like I had let everyone down. Many people had placed their trust in me, and I had failed them all.
I had failed Cammy, and I had failed my children, and that hurt. I can't begin to describe the pain this realization caused me. I hated myself for messing up.
But most of all, I had failed God. A soon-to-be-published book about my life was supposed to have been a wonderful way of showing the world what God had done in my life. It portrayed a man who had been about as lost as any one man could be, but who had been changed by accepting Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior. Now, that testimony was spoiled. I was an embarrassment to myself, to my family and friends, to my associates, and, worst of all, to my God.
As I lay on the cot in that cell, my insides seemed to be bursting. On top of my worry about how Cammy would be handling my latest incarceration and my hatred of myself for failing everyone around me, I was also feeling very sorry for myself. This was something unusual for me, and I struggled with it.
I knew that I needed help, so I asked a guard if he could bring me a Bible. He did.
I started to open the Bible, but just then a wave of anger washed over me. I was not only angry at the system that had put me back in jail, I was angry with God for allowing it to happen. I had a beautiful wife and three small children, and now the arresting officers were telling me that I faced twenty-five more years in prison. I wasn't sure how that was possible, but they assured me that it was.
All my hurt suddenly turned to self-pity, and I grasped the Bible firmly and hurled it against the wall of my cell
"Why, God? Why?" I sobbed in my anguish.
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Within minutes, I realized how foolish it was to be angry with God. It was not His fault that I was back in jail. I had no one to blame but myself. Regardless of whether or not the violation had been warranted, I had put myself in a position to be violated. I should have been smarter, more alert, and much more careful.
And besides, I desperately needed God's help now. I had hit bottom in life, and who could pick me up but Him? And if I didn't turn to Him, who could I turn to?
I suddenly remembered the words of my Uncle Joe, who had died nearly twenty years before, and whom I had loved. A harddrinking forty-year veteran of the merchant marines, Uncle Joe had often told me, "Never feel sorry for yourself. Sympathy is a word you find in the dictionary. Look for it there one time, and don't ever look for it again. Feeling sorry for yourself makes you weak"
I had known instinctively that Uncle Joe was right, and until this point in my life, I had never been guilty of feeling sorry for myself. Now, I vowed that I would never feel sorry for myself again.
Once again composed, I picked up the Bible where it had bounced off of the wall and landed on the floor and began to read it desperately and to pray to God as never before. And as I did, strength began to return to my spirit.
I read the Bible and prayed all night, and, by morning, I was ready to deal with whatever lay ahead. Throughout the night, the Lord had guided me to every possible verse in the Bible that would give me strength. Through His promises, He assured me that He was with me in whatever I faced and that He would never abandon me. I asked Him to forgive me for having blamed Him, however briefly, for what had happened, and I knew that I had been forgiven.
I realized now that I could never have embarrassed God. Never! Overlooking sin was what His grace was all about. Those who made a habit of knocking Christianity because of the behavior of some believers were missing the point. God knew that His children would fail. He knows better than anyone that we are all sinners. Some fall harder than others, but we all fall. Some fall publicly while others fall in private, but we all fall.
What the Bible was showing me was that when we receive Jesus into our hearts, God forgives us for all of our sins-past, present, and future. That's the unique message of the Christian Gospel, and nonbelievers cannot be expected to understand it. This being the case, why should we condemn a perfect Savior because of the actions of His imperfect children?
It was clear to me that God had announced time and time again in His Word that we were all sinners and needed His grace for our salvation. Grace, then, was not meant to make us perfect and without sin, and God never said it would. He, through grace, forgives sin. During that long night in MDC Los Angeles, I began to understand this essential element of the Gospel for the very first time.
It was a very long night, and I'm not sure that I appreciated the great good it was doing me as I was experiencing it. In retrospect, I can say that it was a night crucial to the maturing of my faith. I came to realize that God, who holds all things in His hands, had allowed me to return to jail for a reason, and I sensed that in time I would understand the reason-or reasons.
The reasons were primarily spiritual, of course, but, in time, I realized that my return to prison was probably one of the most important reasons that I was still alive. Judge Nickerson, in sentencing me to four more years in prison (out of a possible five allowed by law), had probably saved my life. My former mob associates had come to fear me because I was publicly renouncing the former life, and they were sure that I would testify against them at some point. Once they (my own father included) realized that I would not be testifying against my former associates, the heat would be off. But it took the thirty-five months I served in prison this second time, most of it in twenty-four-hour lockdown, to cool things off. Whatever the case, I believe it was the Lord's doing.
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That first night was just the beginning of my intensive reading of the Bible over the coming months. I had read it before, but now I read it and reread it and read it some more. And what I read began to make a lot of sense to me.
This was remarkable because I was a very exacting critic. Because of my experience with the mob, I had become skeptical of everyone and everything and had developed what I came to call my "proof" test. If someone or something didn't meet my "proof' test, forget it. I wasn't falling for it. For me, there was no such thing as blind faith. I needed proof based on hard evidence before I would put my faith in anyone or anything.
When I use the word "proof" in this context, I am speaking in a legal sense. The terms "evidence" and "standard of proof" had become all too familiar to me over the years. A lifetime of involvement with organized crime had kept me in and out of courthouses, attorney's offices, and prisons for what seemed like an eternity. Being a constant target of law enforcement compelled me to deal with evidence and the legal standards of "proof beyond a reasonable doubt" and the "preponderance of evidence" in criminal trials and legal proceedings for more than thirty years.
I was a criminal defendant in two federal racketeering indictments, five separate state indictments, five criminal trials, numerous subpoenas and grand jury appearances, bail hearings, parole hearings, and appellate court writs. And the outcome of each proceeding was dependent upon the evidence presented to meet the required standard of proof. During my seven-year stretch in prison, I spent countless hours in the law library preparing legal arguments for other inmates attempting to overturn their convictions based on some aspect of the evidence presented during their trials.
In the process, I experienced evidence of every kind: direct, circumstantial, and corroborating, as well as evidence from eyewitnesses, informants, experts, wiretaps, bugging devices, documents, DNA, ballistics, and videotapes. Many times in the past, my freedom depended on my ability to identify such evidence and, along with my legal team, attempt to either destroy its credibility or prove its reliability to a jury in a criminal trial.
One might consider that a lifetime of experience has qualified me to competently evaluate information offered as evidence and determine whether or not such evidence will stand up under the required legal burden of proof. Evaluating evidence is really all about a search for the truth. Is it
reliable? Does it support your particular position or conclusion? Can it be believed? Now, based on these legal concepts, I began to put the Bible to the test, and I was amazed to find the evidence to be overwhelming that it truly was the Word of God. It was important to know that the Bible was the Word of God because it declared that Jesus is the Savior and the only way to God. Suddenly, I knew the truth of who He was and what He could do.
I found the stories about Jesus' life recorded in the Bible to be powerful and convincing. I had learned through experience that the most effective type of evidence a prosecutor could produce was eyewitness testimony. That was the reason that police officers worked so hard to develop informants. Although many new types of electronic surveillance, DNA evidence, and other breakthroughs in forensic science had changed the face of investigation and trial proceedings, still nothing could prove a crime better than a real person who had witnessed it.
What we had in the Bible were the apostles acting as eyewitnesses, some of them reporting directly what they saw and heard. This, I realized again, was the very best type of evidence available. These men were there. They walked and talked with Jesus. And their testimony was given within a few years of the actual events, while their memories were still fresh. Their testimony was then placed into written form so that it could be preserved as legal testimony for all generations. I later learned, through extensive study and research, that the writings of the disciples were often further authenticated through credible archaeological evidence and that parts of their text were corroborated by the writings of other men who were not even followers of Christ.
I noticed that four strong witnesses had written the life story of Jesus, four men as varied in their temperaments as they had been in their names: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. Still, these four men had been able to corroborate each other's testimony in case after case after case. That was powerful and credible evidence that could have stood up in any court of law. Some two thousand years had now gone by, and no one had been able to refute the teachings of the Bible.
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