Breaking Good | Michael Franzese | EP 302

49m read

·Nov 7, 2024

I don't want to not accept responsibility for what I did because I think that's wrong, especially at this stage of my life. Let's put it this way: had my father never introduced me to that life, I would have never gone down a criminal path. That's not who I was. But on the other hand, I had it in me to do what I had to do. So I wonder to myself sometimes, you know, what is the real you? In other words, if you were presented with a situation when you had to do something, you did it. Is that the real you even though you were uncomfortable? I've asked myself this question quite a bit. But being I was capable of doing it back then, was it the real me? Is it the real me? You might think that, because you, as I said, because you had decided to abide by this moral code and that it was a moral code that you wouldn't be conscience-ridden for doing some of the things you had to do to stay part of the family, because you'd already defined yourself in that way and also defined that as ethical. But it was still grating against something in you. And I would say hopefully that whatever was calling you to conscience was more the real you than the you that was stepping outside of your conscience to do the terrible things that you did.

It's very interesting to me that despite your oath and your discipline following of the appropriate practices, that you were still guilty. [Music] Hello everyone watching on YouTube or listening on my podcast. I have the opportunity today to speak to Michael Francis, who has an extraordinarily interesting life, one that might be characterized as breaking good. Michael Francis grew up as the son of the notorious underboss of New York's violent and feared Columbo crime family. Francis was quote, "one of the biggest money earners the mob had seen since El Capone," end quote, and one of the youngest individuals on Fortune Magazine's list of the 50 biggest Mafia bosses, ranking number 18, just five behind John Gotti. At his most affluent, Francis generated an estimated five to eight million dollars per week from legal and illegal businesses. It was a life filled with power, luxury, and deadly violence. Michael's story is a modern-day Damascus Road experience, from his early days in the mob and rise to power to God's leading him to do the unthinkable—quit the mob and follow Christ. In fact, nobody at Franzisi's rank had ever just walked away and lived. Michael's compelling story of transformation is featured in his autobiography, Blood Covenant. He's also written several other books including This Thing of Ours and The Good, The Bad, and The Forgiven. He's appeared widely in both Christian and secular high-profile media including The 700 Club, Life Magazine, Vanity Fair, Sports Illustrated, GQ, and many others.

Thank you very much, Mr. Franzisi, for agreeing to talk to me today.

Well, thanks for having me, Jordan. Yeah, well, this should be a very interesting conversation. Um, so let's go back to the beginning, I guess. Um, you had quite a, let's say, checkered past—decades ago you were involved in organized crime at the highest level of organization, really, and I suppose in your way, very successful at it. So let's start with that. What, maybe we could go back even to your teenage years. I mean tell me about your family and how this all came about.

Well, I was born in Brooklyn, New York, and my dad, Sonny Francis, was the underboss of the Colombo family—one of the five New York Mafia Cosa Nostra families. My dad was a very, very high-profile figure at the time. During the 50s and 60s, right into the 70s, he was very well-known and he was a major target of law enforcement, a major target of the media back then. I always say he was kind of like the John Gotti of his day. I'm sure most people know of John. And so I grew up in an atmosphere, Jordan, where I loved my dad very much; he was a good father. He originally didn't want this life for me. He wanted me to go to school and be a doctor. He wanted me to stay off the street. But we were surrounded by law enforcement all the time and I always viewed them as the enemy because they were trying to harass my family, harass my father. And I grew up with people always talking negatively about law enforcement and so on and so forth. I experienced that from the time I was four or five years old up until, you know, my teenage years.

Then it took a real turn of events during the 60s. My dad was indicted several times—he was indicted three times in the state of New York for some very serious crimes, grand larceny and murder. He went to trial on all three of those charges and was acquitted; he was found not guilty. But then, in 1966, he was indicted in federal court for masterminding a nationwide string of bank robberies. After a lengthy trial, he gets convicted in 1967. They sentenced him to 50 years in prison. It was, I believe, the longest sentence for a bank robbery conspiracy case ever given up to that point. In 1970, he loses all his appeals and they ship him off to Leavenworth Penitentiary to do his time.

I was a pre-med student at that point at Hofstra University in New York, but when my dad went away, which was essentially a death sentence—he was 50 years old when he went in, and we figured he had 50 years on top of that, he'd never come out of prison alive. And then Joe Colombo, who was the boss of the Colombo family, somebody we knew very well, he kind of took me under his wing. I would meet a lot of my dad's friends at the time. Joe Colombo had started the Italian-American Civil Rights League, which was supposed to, you know, safeguard Italian Americans from being harassed by the FBI. I got very active in the League; I saw it as a way to help my dad. And during that time, I was actually picketing the FBI building in Manhattan and being a very active participant in what Joey was trying to do—Colombo was trying to do. And, um, I lost interest in school because a lot of my father's friends were telling me if you don't go to school and help your father out, he's going to die in prison. You know, I believed my father was innocent because I asked him—I said, "Dad, bank robbery? It doesn't make sense." And you know, he looked at me—we're in the visiting room of Leavenworth—and he said, "Son, I'm not a bank robber." He said, "I was framed on these charges." And he said, "We got to work to get these charges overturned or I'm going to spend the rest of my life in prison."

And it was a turning point for me during that visit when I said, "Look, I'm not going to school anymore. If I don't help you out, you're going to die in here." And basically at that point, he proposed me for membership in the Colombo family. I was 20 years 21 years old when that happened, and that's when my life started to take a shift.

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So what did being inducted into the Colombo family mean?

Well, you know, you can't just go up to somebody in that life and say, "Hey, I'd like to join." You know, somebody has to propose you, vouch for you, say you have what it takes to be a member. And for me, it was my dad. He proposed me for membership. You know, there is a process to becoming a made man or an official member of that life. You go through a process where you have to prove yourself worthy of becoming a member. There were guys at the time, Jordan, they had an expression in the life where the books were closed from the 1950s up until that point in the mid-70s—they weren't officially bringing any more members into that life because of security reasons and this was all five families in New York kept to that—but then they opened the books again in the 70s. So there were guys actually waiting 20 years to become members of that life. Just, you know, they were just there 20 years.

For me, it was a two-and-a-half year, three-year process because, like I said, they had opened the books. So, you know, you have to prove yourself worthy. There's a lot of discipline in that life, a lot of authority, a lot of alleged respect. You know, you had a meeting at eight o'clock. If you weren't there at 7:30, you were late. You know, you could never be late in that life. And you just had to follow the orders—whatever you were told to do. You know, it’s difficult for me to share this, but you know, I like to be honest about it; you know that life at times is violent. And if you're part of that life, you're part of the violence.

And, um, it took me two-and-a-half years before I proved myself worthy, and it was actually Halloween night in 1975 when I took an oath and became a sworn made member of the Colombo family.

And what sort of things did you have to do? What sort of things were you called upon to do in order to be deemed worthy of membership?

Well, again, you know, when I first—after my dad proposed me, it was about two weeks later when an official in the family, a captain, picked me up and he took me to see the boss. Now, I don't know if you're aware, but Joe Colombo had been shot, seriously wounded, at a big rally that we had in Columbus Circle back in 1971. He eventually died from the wounds, and I was about 12 steps away from him when that happened on the stage. It was kind of the first eye-opening experience that I had in that life.

And, um, you know, I was told straight out, you know, they said to me, "Do you want to become a member of this life?" And I said yes. And they said, "Well, here's the deal." It was a new boss that had taken over. His name was Tom DeBella; Tom has passed on now. And he said to me, "Here's the deal: from now on, 24 hours a day, seven days a week, you're all called to serve this family—the Colombo family. That means if your mother is sick and she's dying and you're at her bedside and we call you to service, you leave your mother's side, you come and serve us. From now on, we're number one in your life before anything and everything. And if we feel you deserve this privilege, this honor to become a member, we'll let you know."

So from that moment on, you have to do whatever you're told to do to prove yourself worthy. And you know, there were a lot of menial things. You know, there were times I had to drive the boss to a meeting; I sat in a car two, three, four hours waiting for him to come out. You know, God forbid you leave— you go to the restroom, go get a newspaper, he comes out, you're not there, you're in trouble. You know, stuff like that. I know I did that once and paid the price; I had a real tongue-lashing. You know, just a lot of things were like that. I mean, a lot of times, you're just really hanging out and observing and watching and listening.

And, uh, you know, I learned to be a very good listener at that point, Jordan. I just listened and observed and seen what it was I needed to do and what was expected of me. And look, you know, again, to be honest, there are times when you're called upon within that life to commit an act of violence, and if you're told to do it, you need to do it.

And before you had gone into medical school and then decided to take this turn into your life, had you been involved in anything that was violent as a child or a teenager?

I never was involved myself. I mean I had fights, you know? I mean I had a fight—two or three neighborhood fights. I mean my ribs were broken once; I got hit with a bat, you know, things like that—scuffles like that. But nothing major. But I witnessed things, you know? My dad was a fairly violent guy. I mean I saw him hit people. Um, so I witnessed that. I didn't really enjoy seeing it, but I witnessed it. At one time, at a really young age, I think it was 10 or 11 years old, and he had trouble with somebody on the street. I was driving with him and he was pretty violent with the guy.

How did you react to that when you were 11?

It kind of scared me, you know? I didn't see him like that with another guy. So I was a little concerned. I said, "Hey, you know," in my mind I guess I was thinking this is going to get out of hand, what's going to happen? And two fellas that were with my dad walked over to me and said—I was in the car—and they said, "Mike, don't worry about it. Probably shouldn't be seeing this, but everything is okay." But it made an impression on me.

So, all right, so you how far did you get with medical school?

I was a pre-med student. It was my second year; I was a sophomore—basically a biology major.

What happened with your father? What happened with your attempts to have his case re-adjudicated?

Well, my dad actually did 40 years on that 50. And he was paroled. He made parole because he was under the old law where they still had parole in the federal system back then. Today, they don't have it; you got to do 85 percent of your time. But he was under the old law. After 10 years, I actually did get him out on parole. But he kept going back in—always for associating with other felons, somebody alleged to be organized crime. So he was paroled five times, violated five times, and went back in. He ended up doing 40 on the 50. He was actually released in 2017 for the last time. He was a hundred years old the day he was released. He was actually the oldest, you know, member of that life in America—probably in the world.

And he died at the age of 103 just, uh, two years ago. Hmm.

So what did it mean to be in that time at that time? What did it mean to be part of the Cosa Nostra of five families in New York? And, and why five? And how were they—were they bonded together or were they competing with one another?

Well, they didn't compete with one another, but there were rivalries at the time. But never rivalries that ended up in violence because in that life, there's a perception that families used to fight one another. That kind of activity stopped in the 40s, you know, when Lucky Luciano got together and created the Commission, and there was kind of a ruling body over the five families—the boss of each family was involved in it. They didn't fight among one another; they settled disputes amicably. Whenever there was a war in that family, it was always a civil war.

It was usually for power or leadership. So, um, but I always say this, Jordan—I believe the golden years, if you want to call them that, of the Mafia in New York, and maybe probably throughout the United States, was really from the 50s until the mid-80s. In the mid-80s, things started to fall apart when Rudy Giuliani started to really use the racketeering laws and put a lot of guys in prison and created a lot of informants, and that's when the life kind of made a drastic turn, you know? I guess for the better for society, but for the worse for them.

But it was a big deal, you know, back then. I mean we had a lot of power and a lot of control in this country.

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Yeah, well, it said in your bio that you at the height of your activity, you were involved in criminal activity that was generating something between five and eight million dollars a week, and that would be in the 70s if I've got the timeline correct.

Yes, so that's an awful lot of money. What sort of—so what sort of activities were you overseeing, and what did that overseeing consist of?

Well, you know, there's— um, you kind of find your own level in that life, and I like to explain it this way: there were kind of two types of people in that life. You were either a racketeer or a gangster. A racketeer was a guy that knew how to use that life to benefit him in business and went out and made money not only for himself but for the family. And a gangster was someone that was just not capable of that, and they were kind of a—I guess you can call it a thug. You know, they were the guys who did a lot of the street work.

Um, if you're a racketeer, you also had to be a gangster at certain times because you were—you had to do that. You know, that was something you had to do. But normally they tried to keep the guys that were earning money, you know, earning money because no organization survives without money. So I was fortunate. I knew how to use that life to benefit me in business, and I went on to make a very significant amount of money.

What did we do? Just about everybody in that life, you know, at that level, is into gambling. Like, I had a lot of bookmakers that were under my control because bookmakers weren't really allowed to operate on the street unless they were in some way affiliated with organized crime; we wouldn't let them. Um, you know, I put out money on the street at usurious rates. People couldn't go to a bank, so they would come to me. We did that. And I was—again, I was very aggressive on the street; I worked very hard, and a lot of people would come to me with different schemes.

You know, there's a misconception that guys in that life sit in their social clubs and look at the next business that they're going to attack or infiltrate or corrupt in some way, and that happens on occasion. But normally, it's someone from the business that would come to us and say, "Hey, we have a scheme to defraud our company," or "You know, our business can you help us?" And that happened to me quite often.

And the biggest thing, you know, to answer your question that I got involved in was, um, I was involved in a scheme to defraud the government out of tax on every gallon of gasoline. And somebody brought the germ of an idea for me, and we created that into a huge, huge enterprise, I would say, where we were generating eight to ten million dollars a week.

How was that implemented, that scam on the gasoline tax front?

Well initially, in New York— and I think throughout the country—the tax on each gallon was collected at the gas station. The gas station operator was obligated to pay the tax. While that was happening, we had 350 or so gas stations that we'd owned or operated, and we installed people in all of them. To make a long story short, you know, it would take the government about 10 months before they would come down on a company that wasn't paying tax, and we had a way to manipulate them so that it took 10 months.

Then they changed the law and they said that you had to be a licensed wholesaler in order to collect the tax, and then you had to pay the government. Well, I had 18 companies that were licensed to collect tax on every gallon of gasoline. And the same deal: it took them about 10 or 11 months before they came down on us. We had accountants working for us that were able to keep them at bay for that length of time, and then by the time they would come down on a company, we just closed the doors; that company would be over and we'd move to the next license.

So we did that for—I ran this operation for almost eight years.

So how come the government didn't clue in if they were losing the amount of money that you were siphoning off that you said you ran this repeatedly? So if I've got it right, you set up a company, you had about an 11 month window before the government would come in and enforce its tax collection, so you could collect money for 10 months and then just kill the company and then start another one, correct?

And then you managed to do that for eight years?

Yes. So why didn't the government clue in?

Well, they couldn't. You know, they were investigating us; they were trying to clue in; they just couldn't figure out how we were doing it or what we were doing. And you know, it was a pretty sophisticated operation and we just tried to stay one step ahead of them, which we were able to do, and it lasted that long.

I mean, I had an incident once where two FBI agents—I had also a couple of car agencies; I had a Mazda agency and a Chevrolet agency—and they visited me in my offices once and they brought me outside and they said, "Look, we have an idea what you're doing; we know what you're doing, but we can't figure it out. Just tell us; help us, and we'll give you a pass on all this.”

Now obviously, I knew they weren't going to give me a pass, and I didn't cooperate with them at the time, but they knew something was going down; they just couldn't figure it out. We just stayed ahead of them.

And so how did it finally fold up after eight years?

Well, my partner who developed the scheme along with me, he was actually the one that brought me the idea. He had a small operation out in Long Island, and he got in trouble on an unrelated case—a tax issue, a personal tax issue that he had. And at the time we had a—he was on trial and we had a compound in Panama. And the reason we had it there is because there was no extradition between Panama and the United States at that point in time.

And so he was flying back and forth to Panama. And it was at some point in time when he thought he was going to be convicted on his case and he didn't want to take the conviction, so he fled to Panama. And um, the FBI somehow—they went and kidnapped him in the middle of the night, so they bypassed the extradition laws and they brought him into Florida. And at that point in time, he agreed to be a cooperating witness against me, and I was the target at that time.

I had several investigations going on me at one time, and once he became an informant and started cooperating, he told them how the whole scheme was coming down, and that's when it fell apart.

So I'm curious about your personality then and now, I suppose. It seems to me that juggling all these enterprises, each of which has a high probability of collapse and a high probability of investigation, I would think of that as something extraordinarily stressful. And so how is it that you were able to keep your head—well, engaged in these enterprises? Because I can imagine if I was doing that, I would be apprehensive all the time as a consequence of being pursued, let's say. But obviously, you were able to deal with that. And so how were you able to stay composed? Well, engaged in these activities? And why at that time did you think it was worth it?

Well, you know, that's a good question. I'll tell you, you know, it wasn't only I was a target of law enforcement from day one because my dad's name was so high-profile. I mean I had throughout my time in that life, I had 18 arrests. They were on me all the time. I found out I also had seven indictments—I had five state indictments and I had two federal racketeering indictments, one that was brought on by Rudy Giuliani.

And I went to trial five times; I was either dismissed or acquitted in every case. And, um, so I constantly was under investigation. And on the other hand, you know, when you're in that life, you're constantly watching out for the guy next to you because that's the way the life goes.

So, you know, I mean I never analyzed myself and said how was I able to do this. I think part of it stemmed from, you know, the resentment that I had from law enforcement—that hey, you destroyed my family, you took my father away, and I'm just going to continue on this path.

But I will say this, Jordan; you know, people have asked me that many, many times. There were things that I had to do in that life that I was very uncomfortable in doing. I didn't like it; it wasn't part of who I was, I believe. But, you know, in some way, I mean I just stepped outside of myself because I knew I had to do it, or so for consequences for myself. And I did it, and then I sprang back to who I was before that.

I mean, I don't know how else to say it.

Well, you said already that you had constructed a pretty complex identity. You had a two-and-a-half year apprenticeship. And as you get deeper in and deeper into something, that's more and more of who you are. And so the alternative to continuing in that vein is to do something radically different, and that's no easy thing to manage. And I think people do in their lives step outside themselves quite frequently to maintain what they have.

So you said part of it was that you had been embattled on the law enforcement front for a very, very long time, and so you were pretty accustomed to that and that you felt that the law enforcement agencies were enemies. And so was that part of the justification for engaging in those activities?

Yes, I mean I saw law enforcement as, they're corrupt, these are not good people, they framed my father, they put him in jail for a crime he didn't commit. It was very destructive to my family. I mean we had a, you know, I don't know what any family of any member of that life, including my own now—not my wife and kids thank God, but mother, father, brothers, and sisters—uh, that hasn't been totally devastated, and I guess I blame them in a big way early on.

I wasn't blaming my father; I was blaming them. And so anytime I was able to get over them or fight with them—or argue with them, I don't mean argue verbal argument—but, you know, just I just did it; I went for it. It was it was very resentful on my part. I had a real resentment.

I see, okay, okay, okay. So some of the—I see. So, and so then that also meant that when you're facing prosecution by the law enforcement entities in the judiciary, you're still feeling like you're embattled and that that you have a moral obligation in some sense to continue to fight despite the costs.

When you look at the situation now, because you're a changed man and we'll get into that, you talked about viewing law enforcement as an enemy and an enemy worth continually battling against even at personal cost and not blaming your father. And you said you loved your father and that he was a good father to you. When you look back on it now, I mean obviously your father—and correct me at any point if I've got this wrong—but obviously your father was engaged in widespread criminal activity. How have you—why was that not an issue when you were young?

Why do you think that his guilt on that front was more or less invisible to you? And how do you view his participation in these activities and his hand in establishing his destiny, even if he was framed on those charges? How do you view that now?

Well, totally different. You know, one of the—you know, I've had many defining moments in my life. But when I stepped away from that life and walked away, I had a lot of trouble, Jordan. I mean there was a contract on my life because you can't walk away from that life. And everybody thought the next step for me would be to be a cooperating witness because that's what happens. Normally, people don't just walk away.

So I was in prison at the time, and you know, we can get into that how that happened. But, um, the law enforcement, the FBI came into the prison and said, "There's a contract on your life; you're a dead man anyway. Cooperate with us." And they said, "And your father went along with the contract; we got word from our informants."

Now, I understood that, you know, I understood that because sometimes in that life, if you propose somebody and that person becomes an informant, well, you could be held responsible—in my case, probably not with my dad because of his reputation there—but it was possible. So I understood what he was doing. It hurt a little bit, but it didn't bother me that much because I understood the life well.

And I said, "Well, these are some of the consequences I'm going to face." I don't believe my father would ever put a gun to my head, but he might have kept quiet, you know, and just, well hey, my son violated the rules. But it was really later on that I had a conversation with him, and this was many years later after I walked away. It was probably maybe 10 or 12 years ago. And I said to him, I visited him in prison on his last violation, and I said, "You know, Dad, our family is destroyed. I mean, my mother, 33 years without a husband at the end of her life, she died in 2012." For her, the relationship with my dad can only be described as ugly because she blamed him for everything that went wrong.

What went wrong? I had a sister, 27 years old, died of an overdose of drugs. My brother, 25 years, a drug addict. I can't even begin to tell you what he put the family through, and me personally, trying to keep him alive on the street. Another younger sister, you know, 41 years old. She died of cancer, but she was never mentally stable. And I said, you know, Dad, you got to claim responsibility for what you destroyed our family.

Because you were asking me, you know, you walked away, why did you do this? And I said, "Because I didn't want to put my family through what we went through." And you know, he looked at me and he said, "Well, none of this was my fault."

I said, "What do you mean by that?" He said, "Well, I was framed on this case." And I said, "Dad, you weren't framed because you were a doctor, a lawyer, or a priest. You were framed because of who we were." I said, "You got to come to terms with that, because eventually, you were going to go down."

He wouldn't accept responsibility, so that's it.

So that's interesting. So, okay, so let's talk about that a little bit, because that's extremely interesting. So, because you might think that given that he had lived an exceptional criminal life, that he would have been willing in some sense to accept the guilt that would be part and parcel of that. I mean, if you engage in criminal activities, then you're doing criminal things, and obviously, that's wrong in some sense or it wouldn't be called criminal.

And you'd think that that would be part of the price you'd pay for whatever success and respect you might generate as a consequence of doing that—maybe whatever adventure you might have as a consequence of doing that. But the fact that he dwelt on the narrow fact of his innocence in that regard means to me, in some sense, that he was denying his—and I think this is what you're telling me—is that he was denying his culpability. You know, when you often hear that especially the high-level criminal types are, um, without conscience, but that doesn't seem to be an appropriate description of the situation with your father because if he was without conscience, he would have just said, "Well, of course I was guilty, and they framed me, the sons of..." but that's exactly what you'd expect.

But you know, I had it coming to me in some sense because of all the other things I did. But you said that he was clinging to his innocence, and that that was what he used to escape responsibility because he wouldn't necessarily think that that would be vital under those circumstances, but it was—it was how he apparently lived with himself.

And, and you said there was a kind of, I hesitate to use this word, but there was also a kind of narcissism of legacy associated with that—that's prideful. I suppose he said that he wanted to be viewed—and you can understand this—and it is tough in some sense that he wanted to be viewed as the guy who was so loyal that he wouldn't crack, no matter what. And even though that's misguided, it's not nothing, right? It's not just complete chaotic rule by whim. There is an ethos there.

But, you know, you said your birth family was completely destroyed by that ethos. It turned out that that doesn't work very well in the medium to long run, and that would be despite the money and the respect and the power and all of that that went along with it. Why do you think it was so destructive for your family? I mean, it was partly because your father was jailed, but that wouldn't be all of it.

Well, a lot because of my mother, you know, which was a very difficult woman. She—she didn't, how could I put it? She was difficult with all the kids in the family; she couldn't handle motherhood alone. We needed a balance in the household, and he wasn't there to do that. When he was there, there was a balance. Even, you know, my brothers and sisters were younger than me. I kind of became the father figure in the house when he went away. But my mother was such a strong personality, and there was nothing to balance her out.

And then I think all the kids had that same resentment for law enforcement— all of them. And so it just worked against them. And then dealing with my mother, it was so difficult. Like my brother—you know, I'll tell you what happened to another dynamic—my brother got himself in trouble because he was constantly in and out of trouble with drugs—low-level stuff. I mean he was a drug addict, and he would do what drug addicts do. And he got himself in trouble, and he wore a wire against my dad and other people for over a year.

The last violation that my dad got and the last case that he got, my brother brought it and actually testified against him in court. He went into the witness protection program; we didn't see him. I didn't see my brother for 10 years while my dad was on trial. And I went to see the trial; I was shocked seeing my brother on the witness stand.

But, um, since then my brother's cleaned up his act, and he's been clean for a while. And I sat down with him, and some of the things that he was telling me about his feelings inside, and I believe he's being honest with me, I guess I never realized how tortured my brothers and sisters were over my dad being away, my mother being the way she was, and me, you know, being not out of their life, but you know I got married and wanted to do my own thing.

Um, he just couldn't handle it. He couldn't handle it. He had a big resentment to my father—a big resentment. And that's what he didn't think he did anything wrong. I should, you know, John, his name was John. I said, "You know, Dad almost died in prison as a result of your action, still your father." He didn't view it as anything wrong; he said, "I had to do this."

Well, you guys were definitely in a bind with respect to your father. I mean, so one of the questions that popped up for me is you—you still speak of your father, as far as I can tell, with both love and respect. And so one of the reasons that I'm curious about is, you know, you told me that his actions destroyed your family. You told me that he was involved in high-level criminal activity that there's no doubt about that.

And although he was framed on the charges that he went to prison with, and that he bears a tremendous amount of moral responsibility for the havoc that was wreaked in his wake, but it's clear to me that you still love him and you respect him. And so I'm curious about why you loved him and respected him first, and then—well, let's proceed from there. So what was it about the way that your father interacted with you when you were a kid and a teenager, let's say, and maybe even later that produced this love and respect despite the other elements of his character?

Well, he was always very supportive of me when I was younger. He really did want me to be a doctor. Um, I think I was the only one in the family that ever paid attention to him in a way that he wanted me to—wanted all of his kids to—because he was married once before; he had three children from another marriage. So there were seven of us altogether—kind of a blended family. And I was really the only one that paid attention to him.

And so, and I did everything to try to please him when I was younger. For some reason, I just—I wanted to please him. And I tell you this, Jordan, maybe this had a lot to—obviously it did.

I got to go back. My dad met my mom when she was 15 years old, and he was married at the time. And the way the story goes—and this is probably going to blow your mind a little bit—my mother got pregnant at 15. And I was born when she was 16. And my father, at that time, being that he was married—in that life, you weren't allowed to get a divorce; you weren't allowed. It was against the Cosa Nostra rules.

So my grandparents—my mother's parents were so upset because, back then, you didn't have a child out of wedlock. They forced my mother to marry someone else to say that that was her—I was her—his child. And so I grew up for a short time believing that my father, Sonny, was my stepfather. I believed that he adopted me at an early age because then he left his wife, and then my mother and him got married.

I think I was, I don't know, four or five years old. But his first wife left, ran away with his kids, and so we had a blended family. My mother was like 20 years old when his kids came into the house, and she didn't react well to that, and there was a lot of dissension in the household. And I grew up believing that my mother was kind of mean to his kids and that my father would turn on me because I wasn't his real son. But he never did. Never did. He always treated me as well, or better than anybody else.

And I used to get mad at my mother. I used to say, "Mom, why are you doing this? She's going to turn on me one day." And she would always say, "No, he won't. He won't; don't worry about it." But I didn't understand why. It wasn't until two years later—years later when I found out that he was my real father.

And, um, you know, maybe it was me always trying to please him and him always treating me right that I had this real love and respect for him that never went away.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Well, that's very complicated. You know, I read this book by Frank McCourt called Angela's Ashes, and Angela's Ashes is a tremendous book and Frank McCourt is a brilliant writer, and his father was an absolutely destructive alcoholic. And they grew up in Ireland—a terrible family, many, many kids—they grew up in poverty that was unbelievably extreme.

They lived in a tenement house at one point that had three inches of water in it in the spring, and he had siblings who died of, I think it was tuberculosis—doesn't matter, it was an illness induced by poverty and privation. They often didn't have enough food. His father was always off drinking up every cent the family had on these alcoholic benders that went on forever, and that was their life.

And you know Frank was a very wise child. And he, in some ways, compartmentalized his father into two different persons. There was the sober morning father who was a pretty decent guy and who actually loved him and who spoke words of encouragement. And then there was the drunk and useless nighttime father. And he more or less ignored him, and what Frank did was concentrate on the positive aspect of the relationship.

With his father, to the degree that he was able to garner that even though overall, what his father did was just murderously destructive in the most irresponsible possible manner. But the thing that—and it usually has a pretty pathetic outcome and generally isn't very productive.

But the thing about the organization that you're describing is that there really is an iron-shod ethos that goes along with it now, but what's interesting about it—you know, so imagine that we look at your situation; we think you had decided to abide by an ethical order—and that was the order of the Cosa Nostra families and you're bound by that.

And then you might say, well, that defines you, but it doesn't exactly because you said by your own testimony that despite the fact that you had identified with that ethic when you saw yourself doing certain things, you didn't feel that was the real you.

And so then the question would be, well, who is the real you that that Mafia ethic is transgressing against? You know, if it's something you did by choice, which was the case, and it was something that you were disciplined to do, you might think, well, that's you. But that isn't the case.

What you felt, from what you've told me, is that you felt you were violating the real you when you were doing terrible things to abide by this ethos. And so what do you think now? You're much older, and you've gone through many transformations. What do you think the real you that was being violated was, and why wasn't that the Cosa Nostra, you?

Well, you know, the fact that I was so uncomfortable at times, doing the things that I was told to do. I liked it. I don't want to not accept responsibility for what I did because I think that's wrong, especially at this stage of my life. But I can't say that that's something—let's put it this way, had my father never introduced me to that life, I would have never gone down that criminal path; that's not who I was.

You know, I wanted to be a doctor or go on with my life in that way. But on the other hand, I had it in me to do what I had to do. So I wonder to myself sometimes, you know, what is the real you? In other words, if you were presented with a situation when you had to do something, you did it. Is that the real you, even though you were uncomfortable?

I've asked myself this question quite a bit, and I don't know. You know, like now I wouldn't think of it; I don't want to hurt my family in any way. I don't want to do the wrong thing, but being I was capable of doing it back then, was it the real me? Is it the real me?

Well, that is the question in some sense. And I suppose that's also the question that is relevant with regards to a conversion. What is the real you? And I don't mean just you specifically—I mean the real human being. You might think that because you, as I said, had decided to abide by this moral code, and that it was a moral code that you wouldn't be conscience-ridden for doing some of the things you had to do to stay part of the family because you'd already defined yourself in that way and also defined that as ethical.

But it was still grating against something in you. And I would say hopefully that whatever was calling you to conscience was more the real you than the you that was stepping outside of your conscience to do the terrible things that you did. You know, I do believe that people have an intrinsic sense of—well, I think it's an intrinsic religious sense in some sense, and that's why they're called upon by their conscience, period.

Now exactly what that means in the final analysis, I don't know. But it's very interesting to me that despite your oath and your discipline following of the appropriate practices that you were still guilty.

And it's also interesting to me that your father had to insist on his innocence and that that was what he used to escape responsibility because he wouldn't necessarily think that that would be vital under those circumstances, but it was—it was how he apparently lived with himself.

And you said there was a kind of—I hesitate to use this word—but there was also a kind of narcissism of legacy associated with that—that's prideful, I suppose. He said that he wanted to be viewed, and you can understand this—and it is tough in some sense that he wanted to be viewed as the guy who was so loyal that he wouldn't crack, no matter what.

And even though that's misguided, it's not nothing, right? It's not just complete chaotic rule by whim. There is an ethos there. But you know, you said your birth family was completely destroyed by that ethos. It turned out that that doesn't work very well in the medium to long run, and that would be despite the money and the respect and the power and all of that that went along with it.

Why do you think it was so destructive for your family? I mean, it was partly because your father was jailed, but that wouldn't be all of it.

Well, a lot because of my mother, you know, which was a very difficult woman. She was—how could I put it? She was difficult with all the kids in the family; she couldn't handle motherhood alone. We needed a balance in the household, and he wasn't there to do that. When he was there, there was a balance. Even, you know, my brothers and sisters were younger than me. I kind of became the father figure in the house when he went away.

But my mother was such a strong personality, and there was nothing to balance her out. And then I think all the kids had that same resentment for law enforcement—all of them. And so it just worked against them. And then dealing with my mother, it was so difficult. Like my brother—you know, I'll tell you what happened to another dynamic—my brother got himself in trouble because he was constantly in and out of trouble with drugs—low-level stuff. I mean he was a drug addict, and he would do what drug addicts do. And he got himself in trouble, and he wore a wire against my dad and other people for over a year.

And so one of the reasons that I'm curious about is, you know, you told me that his actions destroyed your family. You told me that he was involved in high-level criminal activity. That there's no doubt about that. And although he was framed on the charges that he went to prison with, and that he bears a tremendous amount of moral responsibility for the havoc that was wreaked in his wake, but it's clear to me that you still love him and you respect him.

And so I'm curious about why you loved him and respected him first. And then—well, let's proceed from there. So what was it about the way that your father interacted with you when you were a kid and a teenager, let's say, and maybe even later that produced this love and respect despite the other elements of his character?

Well, he was always very supportive of me when I was younger. He really did want me to be a doctor. I think I was the only one in the family that ever paid attention to him in a way that he wanted me to—wanted all of his kids to—because he was married once before; he had three children from another marriage. So there were seven of us altogether—kind of a blended family.

And I was really the only one that paid attention to him. And so I did everything to try to please him when I was younger. For some reason, I just wanted to please him.

And I tell you this, Jordan, maybe this had a lot to—obviously it did. I got to go back. My dad met my mom when she was 15 years old, and he was married at the time. And the way the story goes—and this is probably going to blow your mind a little bit—my mother got pregnant at 15.

And I was born when she was 16. And my father, at that time, being that he was married—in that life, you weren't allowed to get a divorce; you weren't allowed. It was against the Cosa Nostra rules. So my grandparents—my mother's parents were so upset because, back then, you didn't have a child out of wedlock. They forced my mother to marry someone else to say that that was her—I was her—his child.

And so I grew up for a short time believing that my father, Sonny, was my stepfather. I believed that he adopted me at an early age because then he left his wife, and then my mother and him got married. I think I was, I don't know, four or five years old. But his first wife left, ran away with his kids, and so we had a blended family. My mother was like 20 years old when his kids came into the house, and she didn't react well to that.

And there was a lot of dissension in the household. And I grew up believing that my mother was kind of mean to his kids and that my father would turn on me because I wasn't his real son. But he never did. Never did. He always treated me as well or better than anybody else.

It wasn't until two years later—years later when I found out that he was my real father. And, um, you know, maybe it was me always trying to please him and him always treating me right that I had this real love and respect for him that never went away.

And even though that's misguided, it's not nothing, right? It's not just complete chaotic rule by whim. There is an ethos there.

But you know, you said your birth family was completely destroyed by that ethos. It turned out that that doesn't work very well in the medium to long run, and that would be despite the money and the respect and the power and all of that that went along with it.

Why do you think it was so destructive for your family? I mean, it was partly because your father was jailed, but that wouldn't be all of it.

Well, a lot because of my mother, you know, which was a very difficult woman. She—how could I put it? She was difficult with all the kids in the family; she couldn't handle motherhood alone. We needed a balance in the household, and he wasn't there to do that. When he was there, there was a balance. Even, you know, my brothers and sisters were younger than me. I kind of became the father figure in the house when he went away.

And I was really the only one that paid attention to him. And so I did everything to try to please him when I was younger. For some reason, I just—I wanted to please him.

And I tell you this, Jordan, maybe this had a lot to—obviously it did.

And I was born when she was 16. And my father, at that time, being that he was married—in that life, you weren't allowed to get a divorce; you weren't allowed. It was against the Cosa Nostra rules.

Well, that is the question in some sense. And I suppose that's also the question that is relevant with regards to a conversion: What is the real you? And I don't mean just you specifically—I mean the real human being. You might think that because you, as I said, had decided to abide by this moral code, and that it was a moral code that you wouldn't be conscience-ridden for doing some of the things you had to do to stay part of the family because you'd already defined yourself in that way and also defined that as ethical.

And you said there was a kind of—I hesitate to use this word—but there was also a kind of narcissism of legacy associated with that—that's prideful, I suppose. He said that he wanted to be viewed, and you can understand this—and it is tough in some sense, that he wanted to be viewed as the guy who was so loyal that he wouldn't crack, no matter what.

And even though that's misguided, it's not nothing, right? It's not just complete chaotic rule by whim. There is an ethos there. But, you know, you said your birth family was completely destroyed by that ethos. It turned out that that doesn't work very well in the medium to long run, and that would be despite the money and the respect and the power and all of that that went along with it.

Why do you think it was so destructive for your family? I mean, it was partly because your father was jailed, but that wouldn't be all of it.

But, um, since then my brother's cleaned up his act, and he's been clean for a while. And I sat down with him, and some of the things that he was telling me about his feelings inside, and I believe he's being honest with me. I guess I never realized how tortured my brothers and sisters were over my dad being away, my mother being the way she was, and me, you know, being not out of their life, but you know I got married and wanted to do my own thing.

And I was really the only one that paid attention to him. And so I did everything to try to please him when I was younger. For some reason, I just—I wanted to please him.

And I tell you this, Jordan, maybe this had a lot to—obviously it did.

I got to go back. My dad met my mom when she was 15 years old, and he was married at the time. And the way the story goes—and this is probably going to blow your

Breaking Good | Michael Franzese | EP 302

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