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Muscles, Murder, and a Messiah, Part 2

Continued from page 4

Either way, the rising death count was among the reasons Carbone brokered an immunity deal to testify against Fernandez and Christie. He believed he was likely the next one on Fernandez's hit list of potential witnesses, according to a BSO report.

Since Fernandez's trial, only Felts' murder has been solved. Bobby Young, an associate of former South Florida drug kingpin Randy Lanier, confessed to the killing. Detective Diaz, of the Miami-Dade police, believes that Fernandez also played a role in the murder.

Nearly two decades after these unsolved murders, Imperato wants to see the cases finally closed. After Christie was granted a new trial in July 1999, Imperato approached him. She offered to help him broker a deal if he'd testify about the other murders. "Christie seemed willing, but he didn't want anything to come out until he was dead," Imperato remembers. "I guess he didn't want his daughters to know about the killings while he was alive."

But Christie's unexpected death soon after the meeting ruined those chances. He never testified against Fernandez.

For that reason, Imperato discussed a possible deal with Contini. Assuming his final appeal is denied, Fernandez will never experience freedom again in his lifetime. If Fernandez would be willing to come forward and confess to the unsolved murders, Imperato believes prosecutors would agree to spare him the death penalty on those murders. Since additional prison sentences would be meaningless, Fernandez would have nothing to lose.

"He's in for life," Imperato says. "If this religious conversion is for real, he should confess to these murders and bring closure to all these families."

Lewis, who sat next to Imperato at the prosecution table, believes that the effort could be a waste. Fernandez is a killer, a brutal murderer; that's all he needs to know.

"There's no doubt in my mind that Gil Fernandez is responsible for those unsolved murders," Lewis says. "I'm quite sure he's responsible for five or six of those killings. He can confess or not confess to murders. I am just as sure in his guilt now as I was then. Am I bothered that he won't come forward and confess? No, that doesn't bother me particularly. Given that he won't be executed, I just don't think he should ever get out of jail. I think what he's doing — some of the things in the jail — it's admirable. But I still don't want him out on the street with you and me."

Diaz leans back in a chair at Miami-Dade police headquarters and laughs. "Gil is a smart guy," he says. "He's not going to give you something for nothing. What does he have to gain by confessing?"

To be sure, Fernandez has no incentive to confess to murders for which he hasn't been charged.

Except maybe one — legitimacy to his claim of salvation.

Fernandez is crying. His eyes are red, and tears stream down his face. His chin quivers gently. He lifts his large arm and wipes it across both sides of his face. Fernandez is thinking about his family. He hasn't seen his wife and two boys in years.

In 1993, two years after his conviction for triple murder, Fernandez's wife divorced him. He no longer hears from his two sons, including his youngest, David, who was born shortly before the trial.

Prison is hell, Fernandez says. But he believes that the man-made hell is the only one he'll ever know.

"I'm not going to hell," Fernandez says. "When people hit hell, they hit it for eternity. There is no appeal, no clemency. The Bible says hell greets you at death. It welcomes its participants."

Fernandez was a bad guy. He'll admit that much. "I was a stone-cold devil," he says. Fifteen years ago, Fernandez told a pastor that he'd done every crime except "child pornography and murder." He's never wavered from that statement, and with an appeal in the works, Fernandez refuses to talk about any of the murders.

Contini supports that decision. Fernandez's unwillingness to confess in court, he says, in no way speaks to the conviction of the inmate's religious beliefs.

"Confessing to man is some measure or barometer of one's faith," Contini says. "But it's not the only measure or barometer. Leading a life of repentance and ministry, albeit in prison, for 15 years and leading hundreds if not thousands of inmates to saving faith is another barometer or measure of his sincerity."

But away from his client's ear, Contini admits that he's played an active role in negotiating an eventual confession with Imperato. If the appeal is turned down, Contini wants to have a "serious talk" with Fernandez to persuade him to finally come forward.

"If it's true that my client had anything to do with any of those unsolved homicides, then it's my hope and prayer as a man of faith that over time I can be helpful in bringing closure to those other families," Contini says. "I have children of my own now, and I can imagine the pain. I can only imagine it, because there is no way to know their pain. I would love to believe that over time, I can be used to help bring about closure for those families.

"I know Gil's heart, and I know not many people on this planet have a sweeter spirit than Gil Fernandez has," Contini continues. "I have every reason to believe that Gil would want to help as many people as he possibly could, including the victims' families, as we move ahead in this process."

Yet whether Fernandez would ever be willing to confess to these unsolved murders is uncertain. He's never given any indication that he would even confess to the three murders police, prosecutors, and a jury of his peers say he committed.

A guard looks in the window as Fernandez sits in a visiting room at Union Correctional Institution. It's time to go. Fernandez stands and puts his reading glasses in his front breast pocket, then embraces Contini.

"God is not like a cop who pulls out a billy club," Fernandez says, trying to summarize his message. "God draws you with love. Unlike cops, God cannot lie. He's just. But be careful, because with God, there's no mistrial or retrial."

Fernandez walks toward the door and turns, leather-bound Bible clutched in his right hand.

"I believe this is the end of the line for me," he says. "I'll go home from here, to God."

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