Judge Roth's Law

by Bill Sage

The Purple Gang was a Prohibition Era mob in Detroit made up of mostly Jewish immigrants. They dealt in bootlegging, gambling, extortion, and murder. The gang began breaking apart in the early 1930s and was eventually squeezed out by Italian mobsters.

  Ever since Al’s Uncle Ziggy Roth, a former Purple, opened the Veterans Club, other Purples started hanging out there. It was on the second floor of a two-story brick building on the corner of 12th and Warner, across the street from Gertner’s Delicatessen.

  Although local merchants had a pretty good idea, they wondered what was really going on in there. If anybody knew, it was young Al Roth and his best friend Jake Gertner. They’d been hanging out at the club ever since 1950.

  It began when they were in the seventh grade. Almost every day after school they would ride their bikes to 12th Street and con their way in.

  Ziggy didn’t want them in there and made them leave. “You can’t stay here. This is not a good place for you to be. Go home, do your homework.”

  But they kept finagling their way inside.

  Eventually Ziggy relented. For one thing, the Purples liked the boys and didn’t mind them hanging around. And the other thing was that Lev Keller was on their side.

  “Let ‘em stay. They ain’t hurtin’ nobody.”

  Lev was someone you listened to.

  At first all Ziggy would let them do was clean off the tables, fetch ashtrays, sweep the floor, or bring in bagels from Katz’s Bakery. Later when they were older, he sent them out to buy cigarettes, whiskey, or bring in boxes of stuff from the Purples’ cars. Usually stolen clothes or small appliances.

  With Ziggy’s permission, the bookies let Al take odds over the phone and collect small debts from guys downstairs at the bowling alley and the barber shop.

  If Al thought he’d run into a problem, Jake went with him.

  Although they knew it would never happen, if the vice cops ever showed up, the boys’ job was to help the bookies flush betting slips down the toilet while the guy at the door stalled them off.

  When they were in high school, the Purples let them tag along when they muscled deadbeats or strong-armed competitors. They told the boys to stand back and not to get in the way. But the Purples quickly learned to keep a sharp eye on Jake, who kept trying to get in a few licks himself.

  After getting their learner’s permits, they started parking the Purples’ cars. It was hard to find a place to park around there, so the Purples would just leave them running in the middle of Warner. They’d blow their horns, jump out, and Al and Jake would come running downstairs.

  That eventually led to another driving job. Ziggy sent them to the Book-Cadillac Hotel in downtown Detroit to deliver cash to the highly esteemed Purple living on the top floor. They’d drive there in Ziggy’s white Lincoln just about every week.

  Jake would knock on the door and when he came out, Al would say, “Good afternoon, Mr. Bernstein.” Then as Al handed him a stuffed envelope he’d say, “A package from Ziggy Roth. He sends his regards.”

  Bernstein always thanked the boys. “Tell Ziggy I said hello and be careful driving home, boys.”

  On their ride back, they’d talk about how lucky they were to meet and talk to “Mr. Bernstein.” But Al cautioned Jake that they needed to keep it to themselves.

  “If Ziggy knows how much we like doing it, it’ll give him something to use as leverage against us.”

  The time they spent with the Purples wasn’t all work, though. Over the years, they learned some valuable everyday things too. How to quickly mark a deck of cards with a safety pin, tell when dice were loaded, and how to use their keys in a fight. And when Ziggy wasn’t around, they had their first taste of Canadian Club whiskey.

  Al and Jake loved going to the club and hanging with the Purples. As Jake once said, “Those guys got class.”

  Al agreed. They were everything they ever hoped to be.

  Most store owners on 12th Street believed Al would eventually be like his uncle and become one of them. But the merchants who knew him best had a different opinion. To them, he didn’t seem the type to be a gangster. They thought he’d be a lawyer or something like that.

  It was different for Jake Gertner. The shopkeepers and people who knew him best never doubted he’d be in the mob. He was big and mean and known to be a brutal street fighter. Most people suddenly remembered they had something to do when they saw him coming toward them.

  By the time they were in high school, the boys couldn’t wait to form their own gang. So when they were in their second year, they started the “12th Street Gang” with nine of their school pals. They spent most of their time in street fights with other gangs. Usually on 12th Street or sometimes they’d duke it out in front of Tony’s poolroom on Linwood.

  One scrap Al and Jake frequently talked about was the one they got into in late November 1955. It was the last one before they joined the army the following year.

  After shooting snooker for almost the entire afternoon, they went outside where they were confronted by four guys from the Greenway Boys Gang. They were standing on the curb, waiting for Al to come outside. They had no beef with Jake.

  Al had been flirting with Mary Kay Shannon and she sort of liked him. But she was Denny Hogan’s girlfriend, the leader of the Greenway Boys. Denny and his pals were there to set Al straight.

  “Hey, Al, think you’re pretty hot shit, don’t you,” Denny yelled out.

  “I don’t know about the ‘shit’ part,” Al said, staring him down.

  Jake took a step up to confront Denny. “I’ll tell you what the fuck you are,” Jake said, jabbing his finger in Denny’s face. “You’re a fucking, ugly piece of shit. Now whaddaya gonna do about that?”

  “Jake, stay out of it. I’m here for Al. We don’t want no problem with you,” Denny said as he and his three pals moved in a little closer to Al, who was standing a step or two to the left of Jake.

  Just then an elderly woman wearing a maroon babushka and carrying a grocery sack came walking toward them. Al and the others stayed in place while she worked her way around Jake and Denny, seemingly unaware of the pending street battle about to take place.

  Jake took that time to step over to Al. “Stay close to me,” he said under his breath. The same thing he always said just before fists started flying.

  Keeping his eyes fixed on Denny, Jake closed in on him. Then before Denny could react, Jake took him out with one punch. A powerful right cross to the side of his head.

  Meanwhile, the Greenway Boy in a grease-stained, leather jacket took a swing at Al, who ducked and responded with a left-right combination. Jake rushed over to back up Al, but the leather jacket guy retreated three or four steps back to the curb. The other two Greenway Boys froze, gawking at Jake.

  In less than a minute, it was over.

  Denny got himself up and the Greenway Boys turned around and walked to their blue 1950 Ford, 4-door sedan parked across the street.

  When they were entering the car, Denny stopped, yelled out, “You guys are shit. This is just the beginning.”

  5

  Newport Beach – 1983

  ROTH WAITED IN HIS CHAMBERS to take the bench. He was drinking his morning coffee and reading The Orange County Register. The morning news played on the radio.

  It was one week after Steve Ward came into his chambers and tried to blackmail him. Roth recalled Ward’s face and the dramatic way he said he’d call him back. Like he expected his threatening words alone would be enough to make him back down.

  Scoffing, Roth thought, What a dipshit.

  Roth figured Ward would probably drop his attempt to blackmail him. He hadn’t caved and if Ward did peddle the Munich story to the Los Angeles Times or The Orange County Register, it would kill any chance of Ryan ever getting no time in jail.

  It’d be a total loss for everyone.

  Roth went back to reading the Register. After a few minutes, he folded the newspaper and slid it to the side of his desk.

  He started thinking about Ward
again. What if he did call?

  One thought that ran through his mind was to lead him on. Tell him he was considering giving Ryan no jail time, but needed to see the probation report first. That way he could stall Ward off until Jake got there.

  After a few seconds of kicking that around, he went back to reading the Register. He turned to the business section, and saw an article about the grand opening of the Trump Tower in Manhattan, but didn’t read it.

  A few minutes later, Judy said they were ready for him on the Torres matter, so he zipped up his robe and went into the courtroom.

  He was hearing a 995-motion brought by attorney Ron Bradford, Roth’s old friend from the Los Angeles District Attorney’s Office. Bradford left the office and opened his own private practice a year and a half ago.

  His client Jesse Torres was charged with one count of possession of heroin for sale and one count of mere possession. Bradford was trying to get Roth to dismiss the heavier beef, the possession for sale charge.

  Roth had already read both sides’ legal briefs. This was the time for the attorneys to argue their positions in open court.

  When it was his turn, Bradford argued that there was insufficient evidence to show Torres intended to sell the 15 bindles of heroin the cops found in his car.

  “So, Your Honor, we’re asking the court to dismiss the possession for sale count because no scales or other paraphernalia was found. It’s perfectly reasonable that the bindles were for his personal use. Evidence of his intent to sell is either non-existent or too sketchy to make out even a prima facie case.”

  As Roth listened to Bradford's argument, he was thinking that it was one of the biggest bullshit motions he’d heard in a long time. It was good Bradford was a close friend.

  After the DA made his argument against granting the motion, Roth gave Bradford a warm smile. "Mr. Bradford, you've made a good argument. You really had me going there for a minute."

  Bradford returned the smile, barely holding back a laugh.

  Roth turned to the defendant. “Mr. Torres, you have a good lawyer there, and he's made some strong arguments on your behalf. I hope you realize that.”

  Torres eked out an unconvincing smile and nodded.

  Then Roth returned his attention back to Bradford. “It's a close call, Mr. Bradford, but I'm going to deny your motion.”

  Since Torres didn’t have a chance at trial, he pled guilty to the felony possession charge in a deal Bradford worked out with the DA in case his motion failed. The sentence Torres would receive was left open to Judge Roth. No deal, it’d be completely up to him.

  Roth continued Torres’ sentencing to a later date, when they would have a current probation officer’s report and recommendation.

  As Roth rose to leave the bench, he nodded at Bradford, inviting him to follow him to his chambers.

  Bradford continued to be one of Roth's best friends. Even after he’d left the DA’s office, they still did many things together.

  Roth spent his last years in the Los Angeles District Attorney’s Office in the Organized Crime Division with Ron. They teamed up, trying complicated fraud and conspiracy cases.

  Roth and Jake always laughed about that. When Roth first told Jake he was prosecuting Mafia guys, Jake chided him, saying, “Now you’ve really gone over to the dark side.”

  After years of working together and hanging out, Roth and Bradford had enough dirt on each other to ruin the other guy’s career. Roth knew about Bradford's kinky sex life and occasional drug use. And Bradford knew Roth had slugged a handcuffed prisoner he was questioning in the back seat of a patrol car after he’d spit in Roth’s face.

  Bradford sank into one of the chairs next to the desk. "One of these days I’ll get lucky and you’ll grant one of my motions."

  “I promise I’ll give away the courthouse to you. But Ron, next time don’t make an argument to dismiss when your client was caught with over $800 in twenties.”

  Bradford smiled. “I guess I forgot to mention that part of it.” He paused a moment before saying, “No question about it, you were right on this one.”

  “That’s good to know. Usually, all I hear is what a moron I am.”

  Bradford grinned. “At least Torres didn’t freak out in the courtroom. He’s sort of a loon. Loses it sometimes.”

  “I’ll remember that when he comes back for sentencing. Maybe Jon will need backup.”

  “I’m not kidding. You’ll probably see it in his probation report. He flips out. It’s bizarre.”

  Roth nodded, saying, “Uh-huh.” He settled into his high-back chair and let his head fall back against the leather.

  While they continued chatting, Judy appeared at the open door. Roth waved her in. She put two phone messages on his desk and returned to the courtroom.

  Roth glanced at the messages. One was from Linda. No doubt about it, he still loved her.

  Never even removed her photograph from his desk.

  The other message was from Steve Ward…

  Roth took a breath and stood up. “I know you won’t believe it, but I actually have some stuff to do. Give me a call. Maybe we can go to Franco’s and a few places in Newport.”

  Bradford got up. “A judge with something to do? You must be doing something wrong.”

  “I’ll need to do better. I don’t want to lose your respect,” Roth said with a smile.

  Bradford went for the door. “Maybe later this week. I’ll give you a call and we can set something up.”

  Then he said goodbye and left.

  6

  ROTH TOOK OFF HIS ROBE, threw it on the couch. Went back to his desk and sat down. He’d call Linda first, giving him more time to think about what he’d say to Ward.

  When she answered, he said, "Hi, Linda."

  "It's you."

  "Yeah."

  "Didn’t want to call you at work, but Matt and I are going to the Newport Grill.”

  Matt Stein owned an accounting firm, a mutual friend of theirs. Wasn’t Linda's boyfriend but Al knew he’d like to be.

  “Can you meet us? We’ll have a few drinks, something to eat," Linda said.

  “Sounds good."

  “We're thinking about 8:30. How's that?”

  “That's perfect. I'll see you then. Got to go."

  Roth put down the phone. Thought for a few moments before calling Ward. He shook his head as he thought that giving Ryan no time was totally out of the question.

  He picked up the phone and dialed Ward’s number. It must have been his personal line because it went straight through to him.

  “Steve, it’s Al Roth.”

  “Well, you know why I called. Time for you to make a decision.” Ward waited a second then said, “It shouldn’t be that hard. No time is what Ryan deserves and it could avoid a lot of unneeded problems for you.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, I do have to make a decision. God knows, my whole judicial career’s at stake,” Roth said in a sarcastic tone. “I gotta do something.”

  There were a few seconds of silence as Ward seemed to be considering how he’d respond. Then, “You gotta do what’s right for you. Do the smart thing.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, here’s my answer.” Roth paused a second. “I’m choosing history.”

  “What…what are you talking about?”

  “Either I played ball or I’d be history. Remember? Figure it out.”

  “Oh, so that’s how you want to play it?”

  “Yeah, that’s how I want to play it.”

  “You’re going to fuck up your whole life for nothing.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “You’re not—”

  “Here’s what’s gonna happen, Steve,” Roth said, cutting him off. “I’m going to give Ryan the sentence he deserves. You be at the hearing and if you like what I give him, then all I’ll ask is that you stay away from my courtroom. Never come back. If you don’t like what I do, fling your shit.”

  “That’s bullshit. You’re not going to keep us hanging. Hamilto
n won’t go for it. You’re gonna make it happen, and that’s it.”

  “Steve, I don’t care what you want, you don’t decide shit. I’m gonna sentence Ryan and you can go fuck yourself.”

  No one spoke for a second or two.

  “You’re really gonna regret this,” Ward finally said in an angry voice.

  There was silence again.

  “What’s your options?” Roth began. “Tell the world you’ve heard rumors that I killed some dirtbag twenty or thirty years ago when I was in the army? By the way, did you ever serve, Steve?”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “Just as I thought, you’re a chickenhawk. You’re shit.”

  “Hey, fuck you, Roth.” A pause. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. Hamilton’s no one to fuck with.”

  “I don’t give a shit. Don’t call me again.”

  Roth hung up.

  Settling back into his chair, Roth let out a sigh. He did what had to be done, stand his ground and tell Ward how it was going to be.

  As he sat there, he went over what he’d just said to Ward.

  After a few minutes, Roth felt good about what he’d said. It put things where he wanted. Now the psychological burden was on Ward. He was the guy who’d have to go through all the hand-wringing and worrying about making the next move.

  As far as his other idea of telling Ward “he was considering no jail time for Ryan,” that was completely off the table, never seriously considered it.

  The next move was up to Ward.

  But Roth figured that after hearing his response, Ward had to know he was in a weaker position. If Roth didn’t care if the Munich story was leaked to the press, all of Ward’s leverage had gone up in smoke.

  So all Ward was left with doing was waiting to see what sentence Roth would give Ryan. Then he could retaliate if he didn’t like it. Of course, that’s when it wouldn’t matter.

  Roth was still aware Ward could act out of spite and strike back at him right now, even though that wouldn’t do Ryan any good. Something Roth thought could happen—a risk he was willing to take.

  But enough of Steve Ward. Roth had something much more pleasant to think about—dinner with Linda. He loved being with her and especially tonight when it’d be a nice break from Ward, the Munich story, not to mention criminal defendants and trial lawyers.