I met the notorious Gil Fernandez for the first time at the main jail in downtown Fort Lauderdale. Since Vince had just finished singing his praises, I was primed to meet an altogether different guy than the killer in the newspapers. Plus, his family had already humanized him quite a bit in my mind. If he was anything like his family, I knew I'd like him.
The jail was built after I left my job as a prosecutor in the State Attorney's Office in 1986. The same developer that built the Marriott at Harbor Beach built the Broward County jail—for a mere $47 million. But there were a lot less amenities than at the Marriott. From the beginning, there were complaints about it being noisy and cold. I could attest to both. The pervasive cold cut like a knife and damn near froze everything you touched, despite whatever sunshine managed to sneak through the thin-stripe windows that lined the jail's facade. The windows also doubled as a tortured reminder to inmates of just how much they were missing.
Escape from this jail was made nearly impossible because the windows were only six inches wide and several feet long. John Fogelman, a convicted rapist, was the only person who ever tried to escape by way of one of these windows. This sickie was alleged to have been released from an earlier rape sentence, only to get out and rape the same woman again. When he was returned to the jail, he managed to starve himself, allowing his body to become so emaciated that he was able to contort it through one of the vertical openings. But as justice would have it, a knot in his tied-together bed sheets had come undone and he plummeted to his richly deserved death. No one had to worry about Gil escaping by one of these windows. He would have been lucky to get just one arm through.
To get into the jail, I had to go through the usual variety of elaborate security checks and procedures. As I waited, I set a gift for Gil on the counter of the guard's desk. Neli had told me that at the time he was arrested, “The Hulk,” as Gil was nicknamed, had a maroon leather briefcase in his car that contained his Bible, his last will and testament and a letter he wrote about his conversion to Christianity. These items were confiscated by the police, which left Gil without a Bible. From what I had heard about him, I knew it would be important for him to have one. So, I bought a nice one and wrote a personal message in it.
I scribbled answers to the almost illegible questions typed by BSO on several 10th-generation photocopies of forms that visiting attorneys were obligated to complete. When I was through, I grabbed my accordion file and the Bible, and stepped back from the desk.
“Sir, you can't bring that in.”
“Why not?” I asked the jail deputy. “It's just a Bible.”
“It's got a hard cover. Hard-covered books can't be brought into the jail. Besides, the chaplain gives ‘em Bibles if they ask for ‘em.”
“But I want to give him this Bible because I wrote some stuff in it for him.”
“I'm sorry, but I can't let you do that. If I let you, I gotta let everyone,” the deputy said, apologetically.
“Even though you can search through all the pages and see that…”
“Look, I ain't losing my job over this,” he replied, starting to get irritated.
“I understand.” I made a mental note to bring Gil a soft-cover version as soon as I could.
Gil was brought out of his cell and placed in a small, drab room with an interior glass window that faced the deputies. I was then led down a long hall illuminated by fluorescent lights. As we walked, a succession of doors were locked and unlocked by a variety of guards.
Finally, I was allowed to join Gil in the room. I couldn't help but notice that he moved slowly, deliberately and with grace as he walked into the room. He was nothing like the scary looking guy I had seen and read about in the Herald and heard about from others. On the contrary, he smiled and looked as if he could be anyone's polite and gentle big brother. The personnel who transported him actually seemed to be more deferential to Gil than to the other inmates. They treated him with a kind of respect I hadn't seen before between guards and a prisoner.
Gil managed to walk with fluidity, even though he had shackles constricting him. His feet were bound with just enough slack in the metal chains to allow for short steps, and his hands were cuffed behind him. Separate chains linked the handcuffs and waist chains with the leg shackles. Chains also extended down the back of his legs from his waist area and made a clinking sound when he walked. Despite this Harry Houdini get-up, Gil still moved like a stallion. He was built like an Arnold Schwarzenegger and yet he moved with the grace of a Mikhail Baryshnikov. And if that were not enough to make someone stop and stare, he was also blessed with those ruggedly handsome and chiseled Latin features. There was no disputing that he was an incredible sight.
Although from all appearances Gil seemed to be quite gentle, it was easy to surmise why he was shackled. The jail officials understandably were concerned that it would take more than a few deputies to restrain him if he were ever to attempt an escape. Not that he actually had attempted to escape or been aggressive in any way. They just weren't taking any chances.
When he was safely in the meeting room with me, however, the guard disconnected the handcuffs from the shackles at his waist so he could put his hands in front of him. He was still wearing cuffs, but they were loose enough so that he could move his hands somewhat freely.
“You must be my lawyer, Mr. Contini,” Gil said with a smile, as he reached out and shook my hand.
“That's me, my friend.”
“My wife and parents said you were tall,” he said. “They were right about that. They also said you knew what you were doing. Let's see if they're right about that, too.”
“There's the challenge,” I thought to myself.
If he were any other inmate or potential client, I might've answered him differently. But with this guy, I simply said, “I know enough to be dangerous. But don't you worry; I plan to be dangerous to the prosecution, not to your cause.” It was my turn to smile.
“You'll soon learn that they say I was armed and dangerous,” he responded. “Whether that used to be true or not, I am armed and dangerous now. I'm armed with the word of God and dangerous to the devil.”
“Cool, I like that,” I said, stroking his ego.
“It's very cool. Come over here,” he said as he sat down at the table and motioned toward the seat across from him. “Let's pray.”
As I sat down, he grabbed my hands and gently pulled me partway across the table so I could be closer to him. Then he lowered his head and began to pray. He held my hands tightly and occasionally pulled me even closer as his voice passionately rose and fell. Eventually, I couldn't get any closer. My mind wandered for a moment as we sat locked together in prayer: “If he's guilty, I'm holding hands with a killer. I wonder what else these hands have done.” But those negative thoughts soon went south. Gil's style of praying was so compelling; there was little room for thoughts of anything else. I had never experienced anything like this passionate prayer that must have lasted for 15 minutes. It was a powerful experience—at least for Gil.
While we prayed together, I found myself peeking to see if any of my colleagues in the jail were watching. It was hard to focus on exactly what he was saying to “Father God,” as he kept calling Him, because I was too embarrassed and preoccupied with what others were thinking of me. I had only been a Christian for a short while, and unless I was in church on Sunday morning, I was a closet Christian at best.
It was a relief when he finally finished and we could move onto less spiritual—and less embarrassing—matters. By contrast, the discussion of his case was predictably guarded. We both knew he had no shot at a bond. A client almost never does in a murder-one case. Of course, there'd be no chance of a bail bond in a case like this with multiple murders and a ton of television and print reporters sniffing around.
After reading the Herald article, I knew the arrest had to be a big scene. I wanted to hear Gil's account of it. Not only because it might affect the case but because I knew it would be an interesting story.
“What was the arrest like?” I asked.
“Someone from BSO called and hung up early in the morning on the third. That's an old cop move; they wanted to make sure I was there. I told my wife, ‘this is it, baby,’ and left the house. I didn't want my family to see what was about to happen, so I got in my car and just started driving.
“As I drove, a helicopter hovered over me. Then a bunch of BSO and Metro-Dade squad cars pulled up behind and all around me. Lights were flashing like crazy, like we were in some kind of parade. I got out of the car and saw the SWAT team, the Organized Crime Division guys, dogs and the whole enchilada. When I stepped out, there were shotguns and machine guns in my face. You would have thought they were arresting John Dillinger. I didn't resist; I just dropped to my knees and surrendered peacefully.”
“Wow,” was all I could say.
We then talked about using the otherwise unfruitful bond hearing to get some early discovery out of the prosecutors. This conversation was boring compared to the image of Gil's arrest that was still sitting vividly in the forefront of my mind. When we got the case details out of the way, we got down to what Gil really wanted to talk about: his conversion to Christianity. He couldn't wait to tell me just how much he had changed when he became a born-again Christian on August 13, 1989, 11 months before his arrest. “The cops hounding me didn't drive me to Jesus,” he said with obvious enthusiasm. “It was that hound of heaven, the Holy Spirit, dogging me relentlessly until I surrendered. Praise God!” he almost shouted.
He then talked lovingly about his pregnant wife Neli and his six-year-old boy, Gillie. He also mentioned his second child, who was going to be born sometime in November. He looked sad as he told me that Neli had told Gillie that his father had taken on a new ministry, working with prison inmates. “He believes his daddy is ministering to people in jail,” Gil said to me sadly. And from all accounts he was—although not because it was his choice to be there.
Seeing he needed to be cheered up, I said quickly, “Before I forget, I want to tell you that your friend, Vince Forzano, met with me earlier and said a lot of nice things about you.”
“Vince, he's good people. But if you believe what he says about me, you're more gullible than I thought,” he joked.
“Seriously, that guy loves you. He wanted me to tell you that. He also wanted me to tell you that he's praying for you.”
“Good, I'm gonna need it,” Gil said, laughing.
Then we got serious again. He went on to tell me how law enforcement had even been dogging him in church. He said they had him under surveillance as he broke bricks with his bare hands during martial-arts demonstrations for various church youth groups. “After performing these demonstrations to get the attention of the kids, I shared my testimony,” he said proudly. But his testimony wasn't of the legal variety; rather, it detailed how his life had been changed by his newfound faith.
“You need to know that more than once I said from the pulpit that I acted like a rabid dog toward people. I also said my previous life of sin was totally horrible and that I used to violently go through people. I'm sure BSO will find a way to use that against me.
“Six weeks ago, I told a youth group at the Miramar Church of God that I had been involved in every crime but murder and pornography. The reason I said it was to let those people know—especially the kids—that God will forgive anything,” he said sadly. “But you know the cops don't care about that. They don't believe I've changed. I wouldn't have either when I was a cop. They just want to see me fry.”
BSO had tapes of this pulpit testimony, so I made a note to file motions to exclude the tapes from evidence. It would be incredibly damaging to have audio recordings of a defendant publicly admitting to how violent he was in the past.
As Gil and I spoke about the old days—the days before his beliefs and behavior changed—he had to make an effort to hold back some very genuine emotion. Seeing tears in the eyes of a mammoth bodybuilder like this was an incongruous sight, to say the least.
“I'm sorry we have to talk about this, Gil,” I said, trying to comfort him.
“No, I understand,” he replied. “You gotta do what you gotta do.”
It was hard for me to tell whether his tears were caused by sadness for the victims of his “rabid dog” behavior, or if he was just experiencing quite understandable grief over the possibility of being separated forever from his parents, and his wife and young children.