Muscles, Murder, and a Messiah, Part 2

This town is where Fernandez will likely live the rest of his days. The 52-year-old is six feet tall, with a large torso and hulking arms, and wears a standard, state-issued blue uniform and shiny black boots. It's a November morning. Fernandez is in a visiting room at Union Correctional Institution, talking about his life. He's made the best of it, he says, because he's providing hope. Calling his work Armed and Dangerous Ministries, Fernandez tells other inmates about his religious transformation, how he went from violent thug to peaceful preacher. He carries a Bible with him everywhere, and when he studies it, he places small black reading glasses on the bridge of his nose.

Fernandez is a Puerto Rican-American, but his Hispanic features are subtle. In prison, where inmates usually align themselves by ethnic group, he's encountered resistance to his preaching.

"I've heard every excuse," Fernandez says. "'It's a white man's religion. Your god is white.' But, c'mon, pick a color. God is whatever color you want him to be. God is there. He don't care what color you are or what color you think he is. He desires all men."

One year before being charged with the execution-style murders of the three men in the Everglades, Fernandez became a born-again Christian. Many were skeptical. But a decade and half later, Fernandez still says he's as addicted to God as he once was to cocaine and steroids.

Barry Scott Collins, now chaplain at Holmes Correctional Institution in Bonifay, Florida, can attest to Fernandez's faith. He met the convicted murderer in 1994, when he was assigned to work at Cross City Correctional Institution, in Cross City, Florida. Collins first saw Fernandez standing in the prison yard, preaching to other inmates. "He was right there, witnessing and sharing his story of conversion," Collins recalls.

At that point, Collins realized Fernandez was the man who could help him reach some of the most hardened prisoners. Collins introduced himself to Fernandez in the middle of the prison yard.

"He gave me a good looking-over, and then he stepped to me," Collins remembers. "We sat and shared our experiences. I wasn't a real good guy all my life. The difference is, I didn't get caught. He did. We're all guilty of something.

"I can only relate so much with an inmate, because I'm a free person," Collins continues. "Gil had the credibility of being another criminal. Just to have blue on was credibility enough, and Gil never hid anything. He would tell them, 'I'm a pretty bad guy, and it didn't get me nowhere. No dignity, no person, no name. Just a number.' He did great work. He was a missionary to those in prison."

Fernandez has been a model prisoner. While incarcerated in five different maximum-security penitentiaries, he has never been disciplined or cited for improper behavior. For a normal prisoner, that's unusual. For an ex-cop, that's an enormous accomplishment, Collins says.

"Everybody knows who you are. They try you. They poke you," he adds. "Gil probably gets more fire and trials than anyone."

Fernandez commanded respect, Collins says, but many of the same people who respected him also wanted to see him fail. The cop turned killer's religious conversion couldn't be legitimate.

"In the spiritual world, he never did falter," Collins says. "Everybody looked for a stumble. Everybody looked for him to fall. Everybody looked for him to get caught stealing — something."

Collins ministered to prisoners with Fernandez for roughly three years, until October 1997, when the Department of Corrections transferred the inmate to another prison. During that time, Collins never asked about Fernandez's crimes. The ex-cop would talk openly — "I've done a lot of bad things," he'd tell Collins — but he never admitted to murder.

"In prison, everybody's innocent," Collins says. "Gil was one to say, 'I've done some things wrong.' I've been in prison work for 12 years. Out of three prisons I've been at, I've known over 5,000 men. I have five on my hand who I'd give another shot. Gil Fernandez would be one of those five."

Fernandez's murder trial 15 years ago was high theater. Littered with biblical references offered by both the prosecution and the defense, Fernandez's days in court were covered by the media with the zeal of sportswriters covering a pennant race.

At the height of the media circus, on September 21, 1991, defense attorneys filed an unsuccessful motion for an injunction to stop the tabloid television show A Current Affair from airing a segment about the alleged crimes titled "Lift and Let Die."

To this day, Contini believes Fernandez might have been found not guilty had the trial not been in the spotlight. "We did not get a fair trial, and most observers outside the prosecution table made that comment to me," Contini says.

Fernandez and his Mob boss, Bert Christie, were tried together after Broward Circuit Court Judge Robert Tyson, who has since retired, refused to grant separate trials. Prosecutors alleged that Fernandez murdered the three men on orders from Christie, who at the time owned the steroid-fueled Apollo Gym & Fitness Center in Fort Lauderdale.

In the courtroom, which included armed guards, Fernandez and Christie were shackled and seated next to each other. "They both looked like hulking guys from The Sopranos set," Contini remembers.