Gil's bond hearing was held at 8:30 A.M. sharp in room 970 of the Broward County Courthouse and was presided over by Judge Robert W. Tyson, Jr. The hearing for Bert Christie, who was charged with masterminding the three murders, was held separately.
The courtroom was an unremarkable-looking, square-shaped, drab room. The only thing distinguishing it from any other courtroom in the building was the contingent of TV news cameras, reporters and still photographers on the perimeter of the room.
Though a defendant facing first-degree murder charges is not entitled to bail as a matter of right, he does have the right to request an Arthur hearing, pursuant to State v. Arthur, a Florida Supreme Court decision. After this evidentiary hearing, bond may be denied if, as the ruling dictates, “proof of the defendant's guilt is evident or the presumption is great.”
But Tyson wasn't about to put Gil back out on the street—not with all those TV cameras rolling. There were too many public allegations that Gil was a dirty cop with organized crime connections. Not to mention that almost a dozen dead bodies were at least peripherally connected to the defendants. Under these circumstances, it didn't even matter if Gil was guilty. The appearance of guilt was enough to compel Tyson to rule against the bond.
We wanted the hearing, however, to force the prosecution to cough up all kinds of discovery. This was evidence they'd only get around to releasing much later if we didn't force them to do so now. This heads-up on the expected trial testimony and evidence was needed to mount the best possible defense.
The prosecutor assigned to argue the bond hearing was Cora Cisneros, who was one of the assistant statewide prosecutors from the Office of Statewide Prosecution. Cora was a spitfire Latina who couldn't have been more than five feet tall. She didn't like me very much and didn't seem to have a problem if I knew it. The problem was, she was confident, intelligent, assertive and even attractive. Under any other circumstances, the old John would have thought about hitting on her. But the John I was trying to be had to settle for hating her.
Days before the bond hearing, she sent a letter threatening me with Florida Bar sanctions for alleged violations of the cannons of ethics. The letter condemned my critical comments in the press about the state's star witness, Michael Carbone. She was right; I wasn't shy about telling the media that this five-time felon who claimed to have been present at the murders had sold his testimony for immunity. The fact that this federally protected guest of the witness protection program was willing to “flip” on Gil to save his own hide made anything he had to say highly suspect to me.
Outside the courtroom just before the hearing was scheduled to begin, Cora accused me yet again. “You violated Florida Bar rules by your comments in the newspapers. We'll be seeking an order from the judge…”
“You seek whatever you want to seek,” I said, getting too close to her. She seemed shocked by my aggression, leaning back a bit as she saw the contempt in my face.
“You go ahead and do that, little woman, while I inform the Bar and the judge how you're telling all the witnesses not to speak to the defense.”
“Don't you call me little…”
“I'll call you anything I want, since you're about a millisecond away from felony charges yourself. You know damn well if I had done what you did, I'd be indicted for obstruction of justice or witness tampering. You tell one more witness not to talk to me and I'll drag your sorry little a** before Tyson and the Bar and then we'll see who's sucking wind then.”
Pretending to ignore my last remarks, she stomped off into the courtroom as if she were running to tell daddy on me. If she didn't hate me before, she sure did now.
It was true that I had been beating the drum in the newspapers and on TV, ridiculing Carbone and the fact that he was an immunized felon. My comments were disparaging, to say the least, suggesting that the state had purchased his testimony and that he'd sell out his own mother to escape the electric chair. Carbone gave compelling evidence to the police that he had been present at the murders. This was proof enough to me that he would do anything to get out of this triple murder beef.
The ethics rules of the Florida Bar do proscribe a trial attorney from disseminating public comment about a prospective witness if he intends to affect the outcome of the trial. To my way of thinking, though, an attorney wouldn't be doing his job if he weren't willing to risk a weekend or two in jail on a contempt beef to keep a client out of the electric chair. The Florida Bar would take exception to that position, I'm sure, but that was my position nonetheless.
Cora was already effectively conducting her own media relations campaign. In an effort to deputize the public into signing on as junior G-men, she publicly asked every John Q. Citizen to come forward with new evidence in the case. She not only trumpeted that my client was essentially guilty, she was scaring the daylights out of the good people of South Florida with her histrionic and non-stop references to multiple murders.
It was then that I decided to go with the old adage, “all's fair in love and war.” Two could play that game, I reasoned. So, I began to use the press to my advantage, too. I wasn't about to stand there like a good little lawyer embracing the Florida Bar rules while she poisoned the entire potential jury pool.
Days before the hearing began, the entire courthouse was abuzz with stories of the drama that was about to occur in Tyson's courtroom. Almost everyone who worked in the building was acutely aware of the sensationalized triple-murder trial, and they were working every kind of angle to get in the room so they could watch the drama unfold live, up-close and personal.
Those jockeying for position on the benches included other prosecutors and public defenders, clerks and secretaries, police officers and court deputies, a few judges and their assistants, and curious private citizens. The competition was hot for seats on the limited number of benches behind those that held the media representatives and the victims’ families. Had the court authorized the sale of tickets, someone would have cleaned up.
The victims’ families sat grouped together on the benches nearest the jury, which was a real problem. The hate directed at me from that section was penetrating. The families certainly had a right to their inconsolable grief and venomous anger, but Gil and I were their logical targets and that didn't make my job any easier.
Walter Leahy's sister's hateful stares in particular were unrelenting. She never smiled at anyone, which was understandable under the circumstances. Her pain and rage obviously ran deep. Although I couldn't show it, I really felt for her.
Luana Tringali, the sister of victim Al Tringali, also was there with her family. The shiny dark hair that curled around her pretty face made her actually look quite stunning, though I doubt she felt that way while waiting for the start of the proceedings. I could see and even feel her pain and anger from across the room.
According to police reports, Luana, who once worked for the FBI and later became a paralegal in the county attorney's office, joined the Apollo Gym after the murders to see if she could find out who killed her brother. In a macabre twist of fate, Gil Fernandez became her personal trainer. At that time, she had no idea that Gil was alleged to have been involved with the death of her brother. A gym member said he saw Luana angrily slamming locker doors at the Apollo Gym on the day she learned that Gil was a suspect. And who could blame her.
Adding insult to injury, Luana was later deceived by the state's star witness, Michael Carbone, who claimed to be at the murder site. She met him at the Apollo and dated him, not knowing that he was with her brother at the very moment of his death.
Just before the bond hearing began, Gil was led into the courtroom, shackles and all. He smiled warmly at me as the bailiffs cuffed him to the arm of one of the chairs in the empty jury box. The bailiff let me know I could join him, so I walked over and shook his hand for the first of our many photo ops. Then he lowered his head and began to pray.
Gil was once again passionately and unflinchingly displaying his faith. I cringed because all I could do was think about the eyes in the courtroom that must have been trained on us. In spite of my embarrassment, I bowed my head along with him and even said a short, whispered prayer. I also said a silent prayer that I wouldn't be so embarrassed by this outward demonstration of faith. But I was embarrassed. What made it even worse was my belief that Gil was 100 percent sincere. I felt like such a fraud.
After what seemed like an eternity with our heads bowed, the door from Judge Tyson's chambers opened and he entered the courtroom.
“All rise,” said Mike Ruvolo.
Mike was the court deputy, which is the official name for a bailiff. Mike spoke loudly so he could be heard over the undulating wave of noise that rose and fell from the spectators, which accompanied the sound of audience pews creaking and chairs scraping the floor as everyone in the courtroom stood.
“The Honorable Robert W. Tyson, Jr.,” continued Mike, as Judge Tyson entered from his chambers.
To me, Tyson looked like an odd three-way mutation of Don Knotts, a small Basset hound and Herman Munster after a night of heavy drinking. I'm sure he looked a lot better to other people, but I had to see him as ugly to better prepare myself for how I suspected he would rule. He was known throughout the courthouse as a prosecution-oriented judge and I knew this zebra wasn't going to change his stripes now.
With a grumpy look, he sat down behind the bench and called the bond hearing to order. “Counsel, are we ready to begin?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” we all said in unison.
“Good. Bring in your first witness.”
My first order of business during the bond hearing was to elicit the testimony of Pastor Dominic Avello of the Cornerstone Christian Fellowship, and Pastors Dwight Allen and Harry Keith of the Miramar Church of God. These men had all seen Gil's transformation up-close and even figured prominently in the process.
“Pastor Avello,” I asked, “Are you convinced, as a pastor and man of God, that Gil's public profession of faith is genuine?”
“I have no reason not to,” Pastor Avello replied. “Gil has been attending Cornerstone Christian faithfully for almost a year. He's been very active with our youth group. He often shares his testimony and encourages others.”
The courtroom was quiet, except for the rapid clicking sounds made by cameras capturing tomorrow's wannabe newspaper photos. Legions of still photographers were doing their sniper-like, telephoto-shooting thing, while the TV folks were contorting themselves every-which-way to maneuver their oversized shoulder cameras.
“Pastor Avello, did Gil ever get emotional in front of you, or otherwise communicate some sort of sincerity about his faith?”
“More than once,” the pastor replied. “Gil is an incredibly charismatic speaker and he appears, by all accounts, to be sincere in his walk with the Lord.”
“Can you tell this court about any emotion surrounding Gil's conversion?
I knew most people probably suspected Gil was faking his faith. There had been plenty of prisoners who “found Jesus” at the eleventh hour in jail and left him on the steps on their way out of the courthouse. I felt it was important that everyone know this type of conversion of convenience had nothing to do with Gil and that his professed faith was real, at least as far as I could see.
“Gil's emotion was very real. He appeared to have the degree of brokenness needed to turn his life over to Jesus.”
“Did his family join him there at Cornerstone?” I asked, hoping to paint a warm and inviting visual for the not-so-benevolent dictator on the bench.
“Yes, his wife, Marianela, and their little boy, Gillie, joined them at an altar call last summer. They've been faithfully attending and worshipping with us ever since.”
Pastor Dominic, as Neli called him, glanced at her in the second row of the spectator gallery. Her eyes moist, she smiled back, mouthing the words “thank you.” Emma and Gil Sr. held hands as they leaned against Neli, keeping their own constant vigil throughout the proceeding.
“You mentioned an altar call, Pastor. What is that, in case that's an unfamiliar term to some?”
“We invite those in attendance at the conclusion of the worship service to come forward and publicly profess their faith in Christ.”
“Is this what Gil did last summer?” I asked.
“Yes, I believe it was in August. He came forward, along with his wife and little boy. I'll never forget, actually, because Gil was on crutches and all three of them were lying prostrate on the altar, crying. We laid hands on them and prayed with them. It was a very special time.”
Neli was emotional now and was being comforted by a hug from Emma. She looked over at Gil and tried to smile. Gil gave her a strong thumbs-up and smiled back. His emotional strength at that moment equaled his physical strength, or else he'd have lost it, too.
Pastors Dwight Allen and Harry Keith of the Miramar Church of God testified next. They backed up Pastor Avello's assertion that Gil had become a Christian before his arrest. They both stated that as far as they could see, he had truly changed. Gil would not let me elicit the pastors’ testimony that BSO had informed them months earlier of the fact that he would be arrested for murder. This would have proven the point that he wasn't a flight risk, but Gil declined to use that chip. He was too concerned for the pastors, believing that BSO might entertain the thought of arresting them for obstruction of justice.
Toward the end of the three-and-one-half-hour hearing, I placed Gil on the stand. The courtroom fell silent.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“All right, praise the Lord,” he said.
“Gil, you were aware for over a year that law enforcement had targeted you as their number one suspect, right?”
“Yes, I was.”
“But you never ran from the area when you had plenty of opportunity; isn't that right?”
“I'm not running from this,” he said adamantly.
“Can you assure Judge Tyson that you will be present for any and all court proceedings, if he allows you to have a bond in this case?”
“I'm not guilty,” Gil said as he kept his eyes on Neli. “Hey, they've been trying to get me for years. They ruined my reputation so I couldn't get a job anywhere. I dug ditches for months—and I have a college education!” he said. “But I never ran. I want to be vindicated.”
Gil paused for a moment and then said quietly, “Let's get this over with.”
Ordinarily, an attorney would never put the defendant on the stand during a bond hearing because it would expose him to potentially damaging cross-examination. I saw no danger, however, in allowing Gil to testify. I knew it would reinforce what the pastors had said about his strong ties to the community. And besides, Cora would never be able to hurt him on cross. Gil was too smart—and as an ex-cop, too experienced—to give up any information the other side could use.
But Gil's testimony and the pastors’ passionate endorsements did nothing to penetrate Cora's resolve. She asked Gil in a sneering tone, “So you found God, Mr. Fernandez?”
Within a millisecond he replied, “No ma'am. He was always out there. He found me.”
“Good one, Gil,” I thought.
Fortunately, Gil's response cut short Cora's attempt to make fun of his faith. I'm sure she would have loved to score points on that remark in front of the TV cameras, but it didn't work. That didn't stop her from continually trying, however, to work the media to her advantage. Especially if it meant she could potentially embarrass me in front of the cameras. In one of her attempts to do so, she complained to Judge Tyson, “Mr. Contini doesn't stand up when he objects.”
Shamefully, I retorted by mocking her diminutive stature, responding, “Your Honor, I just wanted to be eye level with the prosecutor.”
The laughter in the courtroom was immediate and explosive. Cora blushed and shot me a nasty look. She was acutely aware that the TV cameras were recording the interchange. I could see in her eyes that the embarrassment this caused her made her hate me even more.
As the hearing droned on, I got down to the business of doing my best to persuade Tyson to release Gil. I reinforced Gil's testimony by repeatedly echoing that he never fled—even though he knew he was being targeted for eventual arrest by BSO in connection with the murders. Just as he wasn't a flight risk then, he wasn't a flight risk now. Of course, that argument would have been even stronger if Gil had allowed me to disclose that the Miramar pastors told him of BSO's intent to arrest him for the murders. But Gil wasn't willing to trade the pastors’ safety for his own, so I backed off.
After Gil was done testifying, I made my final statement.
“Your Honor, the prosecutors can present no physical or forensic evidence whatsoever, and they have no other competent witnesses to back up their unsubstantiated allegations. If the prosecution had anything else, this case would have been made seven years ago!”
Tyson was expressionless as I spoke, despite the passion in my voice. After a pause, he decreed that Gil would be held without bond. Neli and Gil's parents appeared visibly defeated, even though I had prepared them for this moment. I told them several times that Tyson wasn't going to grant us a bond. But I suppose they deluded themselves into believing that the facts and the law would actually carry some weight in this case.
As the bailiffs escorted Gil in shackles out of the courtroom, the TV camera operators shifted into high gear and followed him. The still photographers also went nuts once again, clicking away like a zillion crickets after dark. Gil comforted his family as he moved through the low, swinging doors along the railing that separated the trial participants from the crowd. He was all smiles and twice mouthed the words, “I love you,” first to Neli and then to his parents.
Then he said, “Praise God.” I struggled with that one. But I was far from discouraged. The prosecution's case was nothing but a bag of excrement, in my opinion. It was my job to do whatever I could to eventually make everyone else share my opinion.
I wasn't done fighting yet—not by a long shot.