Rabbi Mark Borovitz was a mobster, gangster, con man, gambler, thief, and drunk. He has seen it all. Now, in this inspiring memoir, he takes you on a journey from the streets to discovering his soul in a ten-by-twelve-foot prison cell.

When Mark was fourteen, his father died and his world came crashing down. Within months, he was selling stolen goods for the mob out of his high school locker, beginning a twenty-year life of crime that ran the gamut from bar hustles and con games to check-cashing scams.

Mark stole and gambled and drank, all the while trying to be the good son, the good brother, the good boy, but his life only spun more out of control until the mob put a hit out on him. From Cleveland he moved to Los Angeles, virgin territory, and amped up his hustles, schemes, and cons. Then came prison, but it only served to increase his legend, and he played every angle and then some in the prison yard.

After his release, the drinking and thieving continued unabated until, at the edge of oblivion, Mark experienced a moment of true divine intervention, a startling revelation that both saved his life and sent him back to prison, where he actually wanted to be. There he found the keys to saving his soul.

Mark Borovitz proves that you can change your life -- profoundly. He is now the rabbi at Beit T'Shuvah in Los Angeles, the House of Return, a rehabilitation facility for addicts of all kinds. Mark knows what these people feel and who they are because he was one of them. He is now, as he says, an advocate for the soul.

The Holy Thief is the remarkable memoir of an amazing man. It is a true-life gangster story, a passionate love story, and a case study in redemption. Regardless of your faith, you will find Mark's story tragic, funny, uplifting, and inspirational.

The Holy Thief

A Con Man's Journey from Darkness to LightBy Borovitz, Mark

William Morrow & Company

ISBN: 0060563796

Chapter One

The End

Tuesday, May 16, 2000.

A typical L.A. morning. Hazy brown sunshine, breezeless,a chill in the air. The freeways are frantic. Shimmeringfour lanes of bumper cars.

I'm up, as usual, at 4:30 A.M.

Eyes slammed shut, I murmur my morning prayers. Ishower, dress, hit my local Starbucks, swig back-to-back-to-back Rabbi Red-Eyes (one shot decaf, two shots decafespresso), and flip through the paper at a table outside. I popinto the office by 5:15, surf through my e-mails, outline thisweek's Torah portion. At seven I strut into the sanctuary formy weekly men's Torah study. By eight I'm back in the officeworking the phones.

I argue with a D.A. in Kansas, plead with a judge in Kentucky,deal with a drug addict in North Hollywood. At elevenI return to the sanctuary to facilitate a weekly group on relationships.

I break up the group at noon, graze through achicken salad, settle into the conference room at twelve-thirtyfor our weekly staff meeting. By two, I'm at my desk bangingmore phone calls.

This day, at two-thirty, Harriet pokes her head in. Shewears a charcoal-gray Donna Karan suit with subtle pinstripesand a smile that could light a night game.

"Mark," she says, "it's time."

She winks and goes. I grope under the mountain range ofpapers on my desk for my wallet. My intercom blinks. I pickup the phone. My secretary, Susan, announces that Lois, themother of one of our residents, is on the line.

"Put her through," I say.

My chair groans as I lean back. I tuck a Stimudent intothe corner of my mouth and click Solitaire onto my sleek flatcomputer monitor. I concentrate better when I doodle andSolitaire's my way of doodling.

Lois speaks slowly, solemnly. Her son has been living atBeit T'Shuvah for less than two weeks and is threatening toleave. If he does, he will violate his court order and will likelywind up in jail.

I don't see the kid bolting. He seems comfortable here,more so than in the parking structure where we found him,eating his dinner out of a garbage can. Amazing. This is aBeverly Hills family, entertainment business, big money. Thedad produced a couple of movies you've seen, one of whichwas nominated for an Academy Award. Meanwhile theirseventeen-year-old is popping uppers, drinking a six-pack ofbeer a day, financing his habit by hustling gay men on HollywoodBoulevard. One night the kid packed up and movedout of his six-thousand-square-foot mansion and into a doorwaydowntown.

"I'm so afraid he's going to leave," Lois says. "I don'tknow what to do."

"I know you're worried," I say. "I am, too."

"You are?" Her voice rises, veers toward panic.

"Yes." I scratch my forehead. "Lois, your son is an addict.With addicts there is only one thing you know absolutely andthat is that you never know." I hold. "So I always worry. I'm always on my guard. And I don't feel that in your son's case,his main issue is leaving the facility. I think he feels securehere and that he wants to try. That's not to say we won't keepour eyes open. You know what I mean?"

Lois's breath whistles through the receiver. On my computerscreen, all four aces line up at attention. I roll my mouseforward.

"Okay," Lois says. "Okay." Another rush of breath. "Ifeel better. I always feel better when I talk to you. Jesus, thisis hard."

"You know it," I say. "And it's gonna get harder."

Lois swallows. "You don't mind if I call you when I getlike this? When I get scared?"

"You have to call me. And I have to call you. Always.Constantly. Now that you have him back, you cannot let himgo. So we'll be calling each other. And I will be talking toyour son. Lois, he's here because he wants to be here. Hewants to change."

"Thank you, Rabbi." A small laugh. "Not yet, right?"

"A few more hours. Then it's official."

"Well, early congratulations."

"Thank you. And Lois ... "

"Yes?"

"Hang in there with him."

"I will."

"Remember," I say, "he is your son."

A click. Her throat? The phone? The line hums. I look up.Harriet appears in the doorway. She taps her watch. "Mark, wegotta go."

I stand, stretch, snag my coat from the hanger on the insideof my office door. I grin at Harriet like a game show host."Yes, dear."

I drive. I pull out of our parking lot, turn right ontoVenice, and stop at a red light at Robertson. I drum my fingerson the steering wheel and lower my window. I crane myneck into the air and for the first time today, I allow myself amoment.

One moment. One memory. A memory of another momentfourteen years ago ...

Abus we called the Gray Goose, methodical, rickety, grindsup a back road to Chino State Prison, steaming into thebarren brown horizon, the ground fluttering dreamlike outsidethe window.

This is a bus of fools -- silent, stoical, and severe men, menwho have stolen, conned, or killed.

I am one.

The driver is a ghost. The silence cloaks all of us like amist. I have taken this ride before, driven by other ghosts. Today,though, I know everything is different, everything haschanged. I have been shaken into an otherworldly state ofcalm -- of reverence -- by a massive unseen force. A force thathas spoken in a slow, deliberate Voice, delivering to me onesimple and final truth: I will never take this ride again.

Because if I do, I will die.

Continues...

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