Gil and his appellate attorneys have argued seven state and federal appeals since his conviction in 1991. None of them were successful. Twelve years after he was convicted, I drove six-and-a-half hours to visit him. The long drive allowed me to process why I felt so compelled to tell him what was on my heart.
Since his conviction, Gil had been in a total of five prisons. He had served time in Cross City Correctional Institution, Baker Correctional Institution and two other facilities. He had recently been transferred once again, this time to the maximum-security Union Correctional Institution, affectionately known as “The Rock” to those who live there.
There is often no rhyme or reason to why a prisoner is moved. In some cases, if he gets friendly with the guards, the senior corrections staff at the warden's level will transfer him. This helps cut down on the security risks that might occur when a prisoner gets too chummy with prison personnel. Gil's exemplary behavior didn't make him a security risk, but his beliefs often ran him afoul of the religious leadership at the prison. Gil had already been kicked out of the “faith-based” dorm by the time I saw him at The Rock. He was deemed inappropriate to be housed in this separate unit in which prisoners participate in mandatory daily devotional periods, specialized counseling, and religious services and study.
Even though it was obvious that Gil was responsible for bringing hundreds of inmates and even four guards to saving faith in Christ, the prison chaplain didn't go for Gil's belief in speaking in tongues or the laying on of hands for healing. Gil wouldn't compromise his belief in these aspects of scripture or practice them in conformity with the chaplain's standards; so, right or wrong, he was moved back to the regular population.
To get to The Rock, I had to bear right, somewhere near Nowheresville, Florida. I then had to go past another maximum-security prison in the town of Starke, before reaching the rural prison town known as Raiford.
Showing up early when you're a guest in someone's home is considered rude; but when you do it at the prison home of an inmate client, the guards pretty much tell you to leave and come back when you were scheduled to be there. When it comes to maximum-security prisons, rules are in; flexibility is out. This forced me to have to kill some time.
There is no better way for me to get my head right than to go running, so that's what I decided to do while I waited. The fresh air and total freedom from work, vibrating cell phones and a million other little interruptions are my antidotes for stress. It's just God and me when I run. I suspected this would be especially medicinal before this particular visit.
The locals who ran the nearby gas station convenience store allowed me to do the whole Superman-quick-change thing in their dirty bathroom, so I shagged my running clothes and shoes from the gym bag I always carried in my trunk. When I emerged from the bathroom—a little worse for wear from the smell of disinfectant and who-knows-what—I hung my clothes in the back seat of my car and started running. There's nothing like an hour or so in the noonday heat to get that runner's high.
The road ahead of me stretched between the buildings that comprised the prison compound. Death-row inmates were housed on the right of the road and the rest of The Rock was on the left. As I ran, I thought about all the letters Gil had sent me over the years. Each one was more inspiring than the last. I also thought about the irony that even though he was in prison, he seemed to have more freedom than most people. He would always say that his relationship with Jesus Christ is what allowed him to reject the cares of this world. And it was clear to anyone who knew him that something had given him the ability to look through the bars, not at them.
Gil had been ministering to people inside and outside of the prison walls ever since he was incarcerated. He definitely had a unique ability to reach people, and he demonstrated that skill nearly every day. Although I was in awe of his compassion and willingness to serve others, a nagging feeling came to me as I ran. I couldn't help but feel we needed to talk about the victims and their families.
Unbelievably, in all these years of exchanging letters, we had never brought up the subject of the families’ loss and grief. I'd been telling people for years that Gil had a radical conversion experience, and that he'd been transformed and lived to serve others. Yet, we never discussed these families. I began to wonder whether he was as sensitized to their pain, loss and grief as he was to everyone else's.
And today I was going to ask him about it. But first, I needed to confess to him. It never sat right with me that I wasn't straight with him about the extent of my faith during the trial. Gil and his family wanted a Christian lawyer to represent him. I told them I was a Christian—and everyone thought I was, based on my appearance in church each week. But I knew the truth. And the time had arrived to come clean.
I knew this visit could either be very nice or it would be something I would regret. I might just wish I had never lost my mind and decided to do the whole confession thing. I was actually a little apprehensive about Gil's reaction. So, as I ran I said a quick prayer: “Father, please help me be real with Gil and tell him the truth about my earlier deception. Help him to understand and forgive me for being dishonest about the extent of my faith in the old days.”
My mind then turned to Gil's appeals. Even Gil acknowledged that he had only one appeal left. By legal standards, the likelihood of its success was doubtful. In most cases, only two years are allowed before an otherwise meritorious appellate issue is time-barred because of the statute of limitations. Even though many more years than that had passed, Gil was still hoping that his last appeal would work. I had done whatever I could to help Gil and his assigned public defender with his first appeal, and now I was doing whatever I could to help Mike Gelety, Gil's private appellate lawyer, with his last.
I only mentioned once that the likelihood of success for this final appeal was remote, because I knew Gil's beliefs didn't allow for negative thoughts. Based on the Bible, he embraced that “all things are possible with God.” This was giving him continued hope that God would somehow find a way to release him.
After a good run in the heat, it was just about time for my scheduled visit. I had to figure out how to take a whore's bath over the filthy sink in the men's room at the gas station—without actually getting dirtier. Somehow, I managed. I changed back into my regular clothes and was good to go.
Once I went through security and was inside Union, I hit the vending machines in the visiting room in preparation for a long stay. I loaded up on junk food and then bought some healthy stuff, like coffee, chips and candy bars. The visiting room was predictably dreary, even though it overlooked the oddly park-like setting of the prison courtyard. The steel table and metal chairs in the room were a stark contrast to the expanse of green grass outside.
Soon after I arrayed all my junk food on one of the tables, a guard brought Gil into the room. Gil stood right inside the doorway, smiling, wearing prison-issue blues and shiny black boots. His short hair was slicked back. He still looked great and was incredibly fit, although a little less cut and pumped up. There also were a few gray hairs along his temples, as you would expect from someone in his early fifties.
He hugged me as naturally as he'd hug a family member and then we sat down. And before I knew it, he leaned forward and firmly held my hands in preparation to pray.
“Just like the old days,” I thought. Only this time, I wasn't embarrassed. It was interesting to experience that his prayers were still as inspired as they used to be. In all this time, I had never heard anybody pray with the same kind of fervor.
When we were done praying, we both leaned back in our chairs. He smiled at me and shook his head slowly, as if to say, “So, what are you doing here?”
I made small talk because I knew I wasn't ready to confess to misleading him about being a more devout Christian during the trial. Following my lead, he teased me about how white my hair had turned and that I looked like his dad. He still looked great; I knew I couldn't get too far with teasing him about how he had aged. So, I continued the chitchat, talking about my kids.
“My two babies are now 14 and 15! Our third, Mary, is adorable, smart as a whip and already nine-years-old. Remember, I wrote to you that she came along five years after the trial? It took that long for me to recover, my friend. And let me tell you, she's got me wrapped around her finger, just like the others did when they were her age.”
He was laughing then, which was great to see. We then talked briefly about his family.
“I just got a card and some photographs from Gillie and David,” he said proudly. I knew he hadn't heard from his sons in two years, and five years ago was the last time he had seen them. It had been 10 years since he even had a letter from Neli, who had divorced him years after his incarceration so she could go on with her life.
“Neli wrote on the outside of the envelope. Listen to this,” Gil said, pulling the envelope and his reading glasses from his shirt pocket. After he put on the reading glasses, he said, “Here's what she wrote: ‘Gil, you would be proud of the young men your sons have become. They're exactly what I believe God wants young men to be in this world. Thank you for helping to create these two beautiful young men of God.’”
Gil wiped away a tear after he laid the envelope on the table. I knew he had never stopped loving Neli, so the note from her touched him deeply. I could see he was feeling vulnerable, so I quickly moved on to other kinds of catch-up talk, allowing him to recover his composure. After we talked about a variety of safer topics, finally, I was ready.
“Gil, I've got a confession to make.”
He knew when to get serious and I could see I had his attention.
“I wasn't really a true Christian when we first met in 1990.”
This was harder for me than I had thought. Looking him in the eye was an effort but I had to do it.
“I went along with your perception that I was a believer like you because I really wanted the case. I wanted it for all the wrong reasons: money, publicity, the challenge. I wanted to represent you. The truth is, I used to feel self-conscious and embarrassed when you held my hands and prayed with me in the jail. I used to worry about what my friends and colleagues would say if they saw me.”
Gil just leaned back further and seemed to be studying me more, noticing my discomfort.
“Back then, I was still a major drinking and partying fool. Then over the years, I started noticing all the scriptures I'd conveniently glossed over in those earlier days.”
Gil was smiling bigger now, still nodding, essentially telling me that he could relate.
“Will you forgive me?”
He laughed and said, “Yes, of course I forgive you! Father God knows that the road to sanctification is just like the road to success; it's always under construction. Don't you see, John? It's Jesus; only Jesus and His Holy Spirit could get you to come up here and say this. Praise the Lord!”
He could have just as easily laid a major guilt trip on me. He could have used some of his charismatic faith vernacular and accused me of “allowing the enemy into his camp,” as I had heard him say about others with whom he stopped associating since his conversion. He could have suggested that I wasn't fully on board with God, thereby bringing the “wrong spirit” to the defense table. But he didn't do any of that. Instead, he just simply forgave me. After so many years, I was relieved to be let off the hook.
Before I could get up the courage to address the other important issue I thought about while running that morning, an inmate named Jerry approached Gil. He politely interrupted and asked Gil for his help.
Jerry and his girlfriend Sally were apparently at their wit's end. They were seeking Gil's help with encouraging Seth, Sally's suicidal son who had come with his mother to visit Jerry. Gil didn't hesitate to act, after first asking Seth if it would be OK to talk in front of me. He then asked Seth if he could lead him in a prayer. Surprisingly, Seth consented.
“Look me in the eye, Seth. Repeat after me,” Gil said. “Father God, close the doors that need to be closed. Satan, I rebuke you. You're exposed, trespassing, unwanted. I command you in Jesus’ name to get up and get out…”
This was vintage Gil. Nothing had changed since I first met him. I experienced a flashback of sorts as I saw Gil's large hands clasped around Seth's, which were much smaller by comparison. Even though I had prayed earlier with Gil, I had a different perspective now that I was seeing it from the outside. This was exactly the way Gil held my hands the first time he prayed with me. For a moment, I felt as though I was back with Gil in the Broward County jail in 1990.
It was obvious from Gil's prayer that Jerry had already told him that Seth, though only 16 years old, had been in drug rehab and had thoughts of suicide.
“Do you think you're the only one who has thought about suicide?” Gil asked, keeping his voice low and soothing. “When I was a cop, I used to put my gun to my head and cock the trigger, squeezing it a bit, thinking those kind of thoughts. But I didn't really want to die. I only wanted a little pity party.”
Gil's eyes flashed. Anyone could see he was in his element.
“You remember the little kids poem, ‘Humpty Dumpty, sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the King's horses and all the King's men, couldn't put Humpty Dumpty back together again’? Remember that one? They were talking about the King's horses and the King's men—not about the King! My life was wrecked, like Humpty Dumpty's, and only the King could ever put it back together again. And I didn't just wreck my life. I wrecked my wife's life and my parents’ lives, and my kids’ lives, too, by doing cocaine and being an idiot. And now look at where I am.”
We were all speechless and listening intently as Gil continued telling Seth, “My boy, Gillie, wouldn't play sports because he kept waiting for me to get out of prison. He'd say ‘I don't want to play until you get out and watch me, daddy.’ He just kept waiting. It's almost 14 years later, and because of me, he never played sports.”
“The last time I saw my boys was five years ago. My youngest boy, David, was nine then. He cried his heart out and refused to leave when visiting time was over. Even the guards were crying because David kept saying, ‘I'm not leaving my daddy!’ He put his arms out to stop anyone from making him go through the door. The guards kept telling him, ‘It's OK, your daddy's going to be OK.’
“But David didn't even hear them. He just kept saying, ‘I'm staying here with my daddy!’”
Gil started crying. We all cried, too. Listening to his pain and visualizing his little boy was heartbreaking.
“My parents lost everything they had while trying to help me. They won't say it but I know it's true. They were successful businesspeople; they owned two salons. They sold everything. They lost their salons and their house, and had to move in with one of my sisters. They lost it all while trying to help me but they won't say it. I was the only dummy in the family. The rest of them are winners—my parents and my sisters.”
“Seth, look at your sweet mom; she loves you like my mom and dad love me. You wouldn't let me hurt her, would you? Not if you could stop me, right?”
“Yeah,” Seth said immediately.
“You wouldn't let me kill her, but you'd kill her, wouldn't you? Do you know that when she's up all night worrying about you, night after night, you're killing her? I know you don't want to or mean to, but you are.
“Your mom is all you've got. Your friends won't be there for you when all hell breaks loose.You know how it is when you're in trouble: The going got tough and they got going! I'm not saying your friends are bad; they're just blind.
“Your homeboys probably won't be there for you if you get in trouble. They won't tell you the truth about places like this either. They don't tell you that everyone can see you in the shower. They don't talk about the Dear John letter you're gonna get or about the letter from your family, saying they can't send any more money. They also don't talk about the money troubles you're gonna have, like when you get a letter informing you your appeal's been denied—again—and you know it's gonna take a bundle to do another one. Where are your friends then? Are they there when you have to try to hide from the guys waiting to get their mail so they don't see you crying?”
“They also won't tell you that you're given 90 minutes of free time between the head count at 4:30 and dinner at 6. During this time, you have to get cleaned up, and pick up your laundry and mail. Then 90 guys line up to use one phone. You do the math. There are 90 guys and only 90 minutes. There's no way you can tell anyone to hurry up, so you might not get to use the phone that day. If you don't get to use it, you just get in line the next day and try again.
“Sometimes a guy will try to take your food, or maybe he tells you that you're sitting in his seat or he changes the TV station you're watching. You gonna let it go? You gonna give up your food, move your seat, whatever? You gonna show yourself to be weak, pull up your panties and leave? Your friends don't tell you all that. Do they? You'd be lucky if you could even get one of your friends to actually come and visit you in jail.
“You see, Seth, your mother is the only bridge you have. But that bridge only extends so far. I see that with a lot of the guys in here. Some of them don't get visitors anymore because that bridge ran out. If you're lucky, your mother will put up another plank to lengthen that bridge. But if you keep hurting her, eventually she'll run out of planks.
Seth cried as he glanced over at his mother, who was holding onto Jerry, her eyes filled with tears.
“I started out as a good guy. I was a police officer. I had a sweet wife and a great family before it all snuck up on me—the cocaine, the steroids, the women, the bodybuilding championships. Then I became a bodyguard for the Colombians. I realize now it was never about me against anybody else; it was always about good against evil. It was the power of light against the power of darkness.”
Seth, now crying, nodded.
“I don't know the trials you've had. It's true that you can't tell another man how to live until you walk in his shoes. But believe me, I've been there.”
“Seth, I'm gonna stop now. Know that your mother and Jerry love you. And I can tell you that even though you just met me, I love you as a brother.”
Humbled now and looking softer than when we first saw him, Seth walked over and held his mother and Jerry in a silent embrace. I sat somewhat stunned as I watched Gil wrap his huge arms around all of them.
Several minutes later, Jerry passed by me before a guard escorted him, Sally and Seth out of the visiting area. Gil had walked over to say a quick hello to a friend who was visiting another inmate. I seized the opportunity of Gil's absence to ask Jerry, “Is he always consistent like this or does he sometimes…”
Jerry interrupted, “Always like this, helping me and everyone else. Always. I've been in prison for 19 years now and I've never met a greater prayer warrior than this man. I've never met anyone like him.”
As Gil returned to the dented steel table, I wiped away my tears and took a deep breath. Not only was I nervous about what I came to say to Gil, I was blown away by what I had just seen. But I knew what I had to do. Gil could tell something was up. He knew me pretty well, even though it had been a while since he'd seen me. Typically, he was quite conversant. But now he just sat there quietly, waiting for me to speak.
At length, I finally said, “Gil, I'm in conflict over some issues we've never really discussed concerning things people say you've done in the past.”
Gil was studying me more than usual. He started to say something, but I wasn't done. I think he knew I needed to empty my bucket.
“I don't want to continue pretending there's not an elephant in the corner of the room. You know what I mean? We both know it's there and neither of us have ever talked about it. At this point, our relationship can either be superficial or real. We need to get past this.”
“It's one thing to have to listen to you clear your conscience about your faith in the old days, and that was cool. But now I have to listen to you talk about elephants, too?” he joked. Then he suddenly became serious and said, “Look, John, you already made your confession today. Are you saying it's my turn now? If you are, I'll tell you what I told you way back when I was accused of Tommy Felt's murder…”
I interrupted, saying, “Before we even talk about Tommy and other things from your past, I need to say something. You know that as your attorney I couldn't and wouldn't be stupid enough to say anything without your blessing. Even if a prosecutor were to subpoena me and suggest that our attorney-client privilege has somehow been waived by the book I'm writing or by the fact that I've talked openly about some of the things we've discussed, my testimony would be the same then as it is now: you've never admitted to any murders, period.
“I'm only saying; if there's truth to any of the other allegations and you want to license me to work out concurrent sentences, I can. I can work with Cindy Imperato—she's a judge now and she's still friendly with…”
“John, let me help you out here,” Gil interrupted. “I already get my protection where it counts, from God.”
“I know, it's just that…”
“Let me say a few things. You said your thing, now let me say mine.”
“OK,” I said, “I'll listen.”
“The prosecutors had everyone convinced that Bert and I killed Tommy Felts to get rid of him. Then they convinced Carbone that he was next. Remember that? But they also told the jury that Tommy and I were best friends and like brothers. They used my association with him and his association with Carbone against us. At the same time, the cops and the state convinced the media and everybody else that we killed Tommy. You gonna kill your best friend? If I were gonna kill one of them, why would I kill Tommy when I could've killed Carbone? And here's the kicker, John. The same prosecutors have since pled out another guy for Tommy's murder. You told me that yourself. The guy's name is Bobby Young, right? Young admitted he did it. He's serving time for Tommy's murder. Before, they were convinced that I killed Tommy. And they convinced everyone else of that, too. Think about it. What else could they be wrong about? They were wrong about a lot of things.”
“Gil, don't get me wrong. Keep in mind that I'm not asking you to admit to anything or do anything, other than to think about whether you have any information that might help the families achieve closure.
“Now that Bert's dead, is there anything you could say that you couldn't say before? Law enforcement already knows that Harry Van Collier killed Charlinda Draudt and Mitch Hall because he left a fingerprint on duct tape at the scene. But do you know of anything else that might help the victims’ families? If you do, wouldn't it be the right thing for you to say something? People are saying that you're not the real deal because you don't talk about the old days. Look, we both know the Gil Fernandez I met in 1990 was not the Gil Fernandez of the early 80’s; the man they say committed other crimes. Frankly, guilty or not, he's a man I never would've wanted to know.”
Gil moved his head back and forth slowly, as if to say “no.” I wasn't quite sure whether he was saying no to my request to think about these things or if he was just shaking his head because he agreed the old Gil was someone he wouldn't have wanted to know either.
He started to say something but then stopped. My body language told him that I was amped-up and needed to talk some more.
“You talk about 1 Corinthians 5:17 and use that as evidence that you're a new creation in Christ, that old things have passed away. But doesn't the new Gil have to accept responsibility for what the old Gil did, or at least talk about anything else the old Gil might know that might help the families? Do you agree?”
“Are you going to take a breath and let me talk?” he asked, this time sounding understandably impatient with my verbal purgation.
“I'm almost done, I promise. The new Gil, who might as well have a completely different name, occupies the same body as the old Gil. Look, you believe all day long that you're a new spiritual man and that you've been forgiven by God for all that the old Gil did. And I agree with you. But there are still earthly consequences. Forgiveness and consequences are not mutually exclusive. And I know you know that.
“Gil, here's the bottom line: I don't want people to believe that you're just another hypocrite and that you aren't as genuine as I've told everyone you are.”
“John…”
“One second. Cindy, Luana and I don't know how many others have been saying that you're not repentant because you haven't confessed to the Tringali, Leahy and Robertson families. You've been convicted, so as far as they're concerned, you should just confess and give up any remaining appeals. They say that you should take responsibility, and if you don't, you can't be a real Christian…”
Gil couldn't wait any longer. When I paused to take a breath, he jumped in and said, “John, first of all, I don't care about the opinions of men. I only care what God says. Nobody knows what I say to the Father. And how do these people know what it takes to be a real Christian anyway?”
“Cindy and most others believe, I'm sure, that when you sin there's judgment…”
“Don't waste a good sermon on me, preacher-man,” Gil joked as he interrupted me. “Tell these people the real message of Christianity is not about sin and judgment; it's about salvation and second chances. That's why they call the gospel the good news. Otherwise, they'd call it the bad news. The Bible is clear that we have to confess to God, not man. And besides, confession is not the same as repentance or redemption. I believe people are redeemed because of what Christ did, not because of what they do.”
“But some people use that scripture in James, “confess your sins, one to another…”
Gil interrupted me to say, “But that's only the first part. They need to look at the whole verse, not just half of it. You should know that, John.”
“Yeah, I know,” is all I said. I couldn't possibly keep up with Gil's years of concentrated Bible study.”
“OK, well, let me enlighten you,” he said, teasing me. “Here's how it reads: James 5:16 states, ‘Confess your faults, one to another, praying for one another that you may be healed,’” Gil said, recalling the verse from memory. “That refers to talking to others about your faults because it's healing for you to get it all out. You know, like they do in 12-step programs.”
He then added passionately, “But I don't keep stuff inside, John. I go to my Father with everything.”
As he spoke, I noticed the guard who stood at the sentry post on the other side of the visiting room window. He was examining his nails, looking incredibly bored.
“I know, Gil, but all that having been said, here's the bottom line question: Does a Christian owe any sort of confession and apology to people he hurt, in addition to confessing to God? I'm not talking about anything specific and I'm including myself in this, too. So, please don't be defensive.
“Even the 12-step programs have a step that requires a person to make amends to those he's hurt. Do you think Christians owe the same type of amends? I believe I do, unless of course it only hurts the person more if I say something. I read that in the Alcoholics Anonymous Big Book, back in the days when I was beginning to wonder whether I was getting addicted to all that wine I drank.”
“Anyway, I learned I had to make amends to some people. At first, I tried to get out of it. I actually scoured the Big Book to find any reason I could why I didn't need to confess things to people. And I found a section that mentioned we shouldn't say anything if it's going to hurt or affect the person in any way. So, if that's your reason for not wanting to give the families information, then I understand…”
“But John…”
“One second, Gil, I'm almost done. Let me just finish. If the answer is that you don't want to add more pain to their lives or your sons’ lives, that's honorable and…”
“I hate to cut you off there, counselor. But these prosecutors who say I haven't confessed, do they confess all they've done? Because the last time I checked, Christ said, ‘Now go forth and sin no more.’ Have they gone forth and sinned no more? And as for them saying I'm not repentant for what I've done in my life, how can they judge me and know my heart today?”
“Yeah, but Gil, this is about you, not them,” I said. “You can't take their moral inventories.”
Through the window, I could see a crowd of people who had just been escorted out of the visiting room. As they walked behind the sentry and down the hallway, I could hear the echoing sound of tearful good-byes.
Frustrated now, Gil responded, “Repentance is just a change of mind about sinning, a decision to stop. I've done that. Can my accusers say the same thing? These people want to help God judge me—and they aren't even Christians! How do they know what I'm supposed to do to be right with God and to be a good Christian? Did the Lord tell Apostle Paul ‘go turn yourself in’? Paul had done some horrible things before Christ changed his name from Saul to Paul. But God told him, ‘just go.’”
I looked at my watch and saw that visiting time should have been up by now. Knowing the guard would be here any minute, I had to speak quickly. So, I sat forward and asked Gil one last question: “You wear that WWJD bracelet. I know that's there to remind you to ask yourself ‘What Would Jesus Do?’ So, I'm asking you, what do you think Jesus would want you to do with respect to talking about your past?”
Gil stared at me for a moment and smiled, with a look on his face that said, “Are you done? Can I answer now—without being interrupted?”
As he was about to speak, we heard the quick footsteps of a guard coming down the hall. I looked at my watch again and saw that visiting hours had been over for five minutes. I had been here for hours without realizing it. Somehow, the guard hadn't realized it either. He had screwed up and let us stay together longer than allowed.
Suddenly there were two loud raps on the metal door by the prison guard. As Gil and I jerked our heads in the direction of the noise, it got eerily quiet; and then there were another two raps to interrupt the silence. Then the door swung open wildly, banging against the dull-colored concrete block wall.
“OK gentlemen, visiting time's over,” the guard said as he burst into the room. He was out of breath but spoke in a friendly way. I could tell he liked Gil.
Understanding more than anyone the importance of following the rules in prison, Gil stood up rapidly, screeching the metal legs of his chair across the concrete floor. He stood almost at attention, the way you would expect a private in the military to do in the presence of a superior officer. The guard approached Gil with purpose and quietly said ‘Gotta go Gil.’ He let us know we had no more time for anything but an abrupt goodbye. Knowing we had run out of time, Gil gave me a quick bear hug and firmly buried my hand in his.
He started to follow the guard out the door and into the hall but stopped short. He turned and said quickly, “Be blessed, John. I love you. And so does Jesus.”
As he passed through the door, he paused one last time to turn and smile at me. I could tell from his look that he knew, like I did, that I would be back. This conversation wasn't over.