by Carl Hiaasen
2. In a courtroom, the person wearing the long black robe is called:
a) The judge.
b) Zorro.
c) Overdressed.
3. When the person in the black robe asks for a well-reasoned verdict, he is:
a) Talking to the bailiff.
b) Talking to the jury.
c) Wasting his time.
4. All citizens should consider their jury duty as:
a) An integral part of the judicial system.
b) A paid vacation from work.
c) A chance to get your portrait sketched free by a courtroom artist.
5. While sequestered during a long trial, jurors are often cautioned:
a) Not to read the newspapers.
b) Not to discuss the case among themselves.
c) Not to communicate with the psychic spirit of Shirley MacLaine.
6. The word "unanimous" means:
a) All in agreement.
b) All in the same language.
c) All in the same time zone.
7. During the trial, jurors should never:
a) Speak directly to the witnesses.
b) Speak rudely to the judge.
c) Take bets as to which of them can spit the farthest.
8. Which of the following is considered a legitimate excuse to be dismissed from a jury:
a) "My mother has the flu."
b) "My Rottweiler has the mange."
c) "I'm missing all my soaps."
9. The best way to break a jury deadlock is:
a) By a careful and thoughtful review of the evidence.
b) By listening to the tapes over and over.
c) By doing one-potato, two-potato.
10. If a jury wishes to communicate with the judge, the proper method is:
a) Writing a brief and simple note.
b) Raising your hand and asking permission to speak.
c) Slapping yourself in the face and shouting "whoop-whoop-whoop!" like Curly of the Three Stooges.
11. When writing a note to the judge, it is advisable to:
a) Print neatly.
b) Try to use at least one verb in each sentence.
c) Try not to refer to the defendants as "slithering vermin."
12. As the trial progresses, most jurors are:
a) Absorbed with the seriousness of their responsibilities.
b) Impressed that lawyers for both sides can be so persuasive.
c) Surprised that they don't really get to meet Judge Wapner in person.
13. When selecting a foreman, the jury should always pick the member who:
a) Is the most reasonable and articulate.
b) Has the keenest grasp of both arguments in the case.
c) Can spit the farthest.
Mob desire backfires on longtime cop
August 30, 1989
Today's Episode: Ralph Joins The Mob.
Not Ralph Kramden, but Ralph Finno. He's the former Fort Lauder-dale police captain who last year ran for Broward sheriff, and lost. This year, authorities say, Ralph chose a different line of work.
The scene: a typically tacky office on Commercial Boulevard. Hidden TV cameras are rolling (Ralph doesn't know it).Two other guys in the room aren't real mobsters, they're police informants (Ralph doesn't know this, either).
Bogus Mob Guy # 1: "To swear an oath to us, that your allegiance is with our family, I ask you to bite this bullet. With this bullet, you are now a part of us."
Bogus Mob Guy #2: "That's the bullet that's got your name on it."
Bogus Mob Guy # 1: "Right, that's your bullet. Capisce?"
Ralph Finno: "Capisce." (Uneasily.) "Want me to bite the bullet?"
Bogus Mob Guy # 1: "Just bite it. That's good."
Ralph bites. Gingerly he hands the bullet back to the phony mob guy, who then kisses Ralph on both cheeks.
Unfortunately for Ralph, the bullet later reappeared in an evidence bag after Ralph was arrested for loan sharking, racketeering and running a house of prostitution. Today Ralph says he did nothing wrong.
Over months he'd been videotaped discussing alleged crimes with the phony mob guys. His "initiation" into the Family was to be the climax of these friendships. As silly as it looked, Ralph's ceremony went smoother than his brother Tony's.
In a blood oath, Tony and the phony mobster tried to nick each other with a dagger. The dagger was too dull. "Why don't you get me something, for Chrissake's, that can cut!" complained the phony mobster.
Tony took out his own knife. This time the two men sliced themselves so deeply that they wouldn't stop bleeding. The hidden camera recorded them sitting on the sofa, trying to discuss alleged Mafia business while sucking their own fingers.
When Ralph is on camera, the favorite topic is his old rival, Nick Navarro. The phony mob guys say they can arrange for Ralph to be named acting sheriff, if only something happens to Navarro. Ralph loves the idea of being sheriff ("When the time is right, I've got to get my suit pressed!") but appears nervous at the suggestion of foul play: "If anything happens to this guy [Navarro] … this town'll be turned upside down by all these young investigative reporters."
At one point Ralph asks if the mob is influential enough to get the governor to remove Nick from office. The phony mob guy makes a noise like a gun, and says that's the only way to get rid of Navarro. Ralph looks queasy. "It's a very touchy, touchy, touchy situation," he says.
The phony mobster, doing a swell Luca Brazi: "You want him gone with the fishes? Fine."
Ralph doesn't look thrilled with the idea of knocking off Navarro, but notes, "He did have threats by Colombians."
The phony mobster asks if Ralph has any ethical qualms about jumping to the other side of the law. No, Ralph says, "I always respected a guy who had talent, could make money and not get caught."
There will be criminal activity, the bad guy warns. "It's a business," Ralph replies. "It's like anything else … Even when I was on the job, I had no problem with prostitution, I really don't. Open up 20,000 places, go ahead … You want to run some traffic in gambling? Fine. You want to have some loan sharking? Fine. These things never bothered me."
The phony mobster says there might be times when knees must be broken. Says Ralph: "It's very easy to go out and smack somebody around. At the same time … can we use this person? Why burn bridges?"
In a prelude to the bullet-biting ritual, Ralph expresses one reservation about his pending career change. He wonders if joining the Mafia might tarnish his 27-year record in law enforcement: "I have extensive, extensive—and I'm not trying to blow my own horn—extensive credentials … I don't want this decision to hurt that."
Today Ralph is in jail, no bond. His credentials are in serious jeopardy.
Spotlight on Nick Navarro becoming hot
July 1, 1991
It was many months ago that 60 Minutes arrived to do a segment on Broward Sheriff Nick Navarro.
The sheriff reacted as he always does at the prospect of seeing himself on TV—with joyous gusto. Navarro is a publicity junkie, and the idea of appearing on America's most popular (and serious) news show must've sent him into ecstasy.
Sure, he's bosom buddies with Geraldo Rivera, but nobody takes Geraldo seriously. 60 Minutes is the big leagues. A prime-time puff piece would guarantee Navarro's re-election.
But now the picture's gone bad. The Broward Sheriffs Office is the target of a federal investigation into corruption and influence-peddling. The press, which has given Slick Nick such a sweet ride for so long, now snarls at his throat.
Even worse for Navarro, the 60 Minutes producers are reshaping, if not reconsidering, their profile of the dapper sheriff. By the time it's over, the 2 Live Crew fiasco will look like comic relief. Ironically, Navarro's own pathological itch for self-promotion is what caused some of his problems. Back in 1986, the sheriff was too eager to help Geraldo Rivera find a target for a prime-time drug bust. BSO chose a coke dealer named Nelson Scott.
After complaining for year
s about Scott's activities, neighbors were glad to see him finally arrested. Why it took so long was something of a mystery, until Scott started talking. He testified that he'd been paying off deputies with cash, dope and hookers. A BSO investigation discounted Scott's charges, but the feds are listening to him now.
The scandal has other dimensions. Agents are exploring the lifestyles of some of the sheriffs top guys. One, Ron Cacciatore, managed to build a $69,000 home on a captain's salary. Cacciatore has said his family inherited some money and invested wisely. He was seen socializing with a fugitive smuggler in the Bahamas, but has insisted he didn't know the man's true identity.
Another focal point is Navarro's friendship with auto dealer Jim Moran, the sheriffs most generous campaign contributor. Recently Moran sold BSO a fleet of used cars at new-car prices. Once Navarro hired one of Moran's security men as a BSO commander, even though the man, James Burkett, had failed a polygraph when asked about drug crimes.
Burkett recently was convicted of lying to U.S. agents about a marijuana operation. He was sentenced to 21 months.
The rain of subpoenas is enough to make Navarro's hair turn from white to black. All involved have denied any wrongdoing, while the sheriff clings to the Nixon defense: Bad things might've happened, but I sure didn't know about 'em.
No, Mr. Tough Guy Sheriff was too busy busting rap musicians to pay attention to what was going on inside his own department. Now he's got a mess that will not stop stinking before the '92 election. The media, which had been Navarro's pliant co-conspirators for so long, are now lambasted for their "feeding frenzy."
To scoff at Navarro's past grandstanding is to underestimate his shrewdness. Over the years he has hyped himself into a national personality; he is far more widely known and recognized than his low-key Dade counterpart, Police Director Fred Taylor.
Even Broward commissioners have been intimidated by Navarro's silky celebrity—they've inflated the BSO budget to an outlandish $197 million a year. For reasons still unclear to taxpayers, the sheriff now employs about 3,200 people.
As much as he'd love to duck responsibility for the BSO scandal, Navarro can't. It's his own top, hand-picked men who are in trouble—not the rank-and-file deputies.
These days, the sheriffs moth-like frenzy for the kleig lights has abated. The true test will come if 60 Minutes calls again. Can Nick resist the urge to face the cameras, to beam his suave visage into 2.0 million American homes?
Probably not. He who lives by the tube, dies by the tube.
Personal-injury lawyers back in chase—by mail
May 12, 1994
A U.S. appeals court says Florida lawyers don't have to wait 30 days to send advertising material to accident victims. Now solicitations can begin almost as quickly as CPR.
That's great news for starving personal-injury attorneys, since ambulance-chasing by direct mail is more fuel efficient and less hectic than the old way.
Your secretary simply drives to the police station and copies the day's accident reports, which conveniently include the names and addresses of all parties. Soon you've got yourself a lengthy (and potentially lucrative) mailing list.
Disapproval of such tactics caused the Florida Bar to impose the 30-day rule in 1991. Softhearted regulators decided that accident victims should be given a few weeks to collect their wits before being peppered with brochures from lawyers.
The problem was, some accident victims actually got better during that time, and thus had no interest in suing anyone.
It was a sad period for personal-injury attorneys. Some turned to probate law, or even real estate. Others simply went broke. Before long, they were living under the interstate and collecting aluminum.
Fortunately, one brave fellow fought back. His name was G. Stewart McHenry, a disbarred Tampa lawyer with justice on his mind and time on his hands. He hired a non-disbarred lawyer and sued.
McHenry argued it was unconstitutional for the Bar to curb a lawyer's use of the postal system. On Tuesday the nth U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals agreed, tossing out the 30-day waiting rule.
Once again, lawyers may write to crash victims immediately after the mishap. In composing those letters, the tricky part is to avoid coming off as a cold-blooded mercenary. Veracity should always be glossed with compassion:
Dear Mr. Doe,
It has come to our professional attention that you were recently involved in an unfortunate (plane, bus, train, boat, moped or automobile) accident. We sincerely hope that you and your (wife, children or co-workers) were unharmed and have no cause to take legal action, despite the many millions of dollars you might be able to collect.
However, in the tragic event that you now find yourself (maimed, dismembered, bruised, stiff, achy, queasy, sneezy, dizzy or sexually lethargic), we advise you to visit our office for a free legal consultation.
We apologize for contacting you so soon after your accident. Seeing our postal carrier at the hospital must have been quite a surprise! We sincerely hope his presence did not interfere with any emergency medical procedures.
But experience has taught us that the sooner we can reach victims and inform them of their rights, the more assistance we can give. That's why our firm communicates only by registered mail.
We understand that, under the circumstances, it might be impossible for you to personally sign for our important correspondence—your writing arm might be fractured, sprained or attached to an intravenous tube.
In that case, any licensed (paramedic, nurse, doctor or physical therapist) may accept our mail on your behalf.
We also realize that you might be unable to read this letter and make a timely decision regarding your legal representation. Don't worry. Some of our most loyal clients were heavily sedated at the time we contacted them. Some were even in deep comas.
If that's your situation, a member of our staff will gladly visit you in Intensive Care to explain your options. We're specially trained to interpret your feeblest sigh, moan or tremor.
Your pain is our pain, Mr. Doe. Only a (five-, six-, seven-) figure settlement will truly ease it. Please let us help.
Judicial race is an exercise in extortion
February 28, 1990
The billboards and bus benches shout the news: Soon it will be time to go to the polls and elect our judges.
What a joke.
All around Florida, circuit and county judges already are out pressing the flesh, leeching campaign contributions from the very attorneys who bring cases before them. It's as close to naked extortion as you can get, but don't blame the judges.
It takes loads of money to run a political race. If you're a candidate for a judgeship, the logical place to solicit is law firms because (a) lawyers have the dough and (b) they're the only ones who have the remotest idea who you are.
The public, in most instances, hasn't got a clue.
The average voter walks into the booth and picks a name that looks distinguished or vaguely familiar. He hasn't the vaguest notion of whether or not the candidate is qualified to sit on the bench. Without reading the small print, he couldn't even tell you whether the vacancy is in criminal or civil court, county or circuit.
Unless a judge recently has been involved in a steamy scandal or a high-profile criminal trial, he or she remains largely anonymous to everyone but courthouse regulars. By the time the primary rolls around in September, most people will be taxed even to recall the name of the man who sentenced Miami policeman William Lozano.
You can't blame the voters for not knowing who's who. In Dade County alone, 97 county and circuit judges must run for office. Broward has 62 judges; Palm Beach County, a mere 39. Says Florida Bar President Steve Zack: "Walk up to your favorite lawyer and ask him to name all the judges. It's an impossibility."
The election process is not only shallow but tainted. It rewards the candidates who can afford the best billboards—in other words, those able to squeeze the most money out of lawyers. When the same lawyers later appear in that judge's courtroom
, we are supposed to believe that the judge's actions will not be swayed by the memory of political generosities, or lack thereof.
The concept of "selling" judges is tricky because they don't campaign like county commissioners or congressmen; the nuances of someone's judicial record can't be compressed into a snappy to-second sound bite. Judges can't even take a public stand on issues; they are forbidden by a code of ethics.
So what can they talk about on the political trail? Absolutely nothing of substance. Name recognition is everything; billboards, balloons, blarney. Typically we are better informed about our choice of stick deodorant than our choice of judges.
The Florida Bar and many in the judiciary want reform. Several bills have been filed in Tallahassee that could lead to a change in the way we pick circuit and county judges. Merit selection is the most logical option.
Under this method—currently used in 34 states and our own appellate courts—panels composed of lawyers, appointees and lay people submit lists of qualified candidates to the governor, who then chooses the judge. Every few years, voters get a chance to decide whether to keep or remove that judge.
Those who support the present charade wave the flag and beat their breasts. They warn that merit appointments could be spoiled by politics—yet what's more political than the current spectacle of judges out hustling support from law firms?
Critics also wail that merit selection robs the public of the right to choose. It's nonsense. By voting yes-no on retention, the public will hold the ultimate power to replace any judge.
To argue patriotically in favor of judicial elections is fatuous, because the vast majority of incumbent judges run unopposed. It is no accident. Many of them find campaigning so distasteful that they hire "consultants" to steer potential opponents into other races, or discourage them altogether from running.
