The Pa-la-ti-'shan

by Neal Goldstein

  Johnson’s office was a storefront on North 3rd Street above Girard Avenue in what used to be North Philadelphia, but was now referred to as Northern Liberties, the next hot neighborhood. When I opened the door I was greeted by Carlota Washington, the late Representative’s office manager; she didn’t seem particularly pleased to see me. She was a stately African American woman with gray hair and a serious no nonsense air about her.

  “Bernie Green, we’ve been expecting you.”

  “Mrs. Washington, it’s good to see you. The governor asked me to see if I can help out until the new district representative is elected.”

  “Help us out?” She laughed. “You mean clear us out so that you can take over. Isn’t that right Mr. Green?”

  The other women sat at their desks and watched.

  “No one told me anything about that. Look, I don’t know what the future holds for any of the staff. Whoever is elected to fill the representative’s post will likely want to hire his own staff. But that’s not going to happen until November. In the meantime, the District’s business has to be attended to. I’m here to help make sure that happens.”

  The two of us stared at one another in silence.

  Washington finally ended the standoff and said, “Well, that’s not what I heard. According to Dan Gross, you are the next District Representative.”

  Dan Gross again, Jesus, how does he find out about this stuff ? “I’m not so sure of that,” I replied. “Anyway, there are a few minor details yet to be worked out, like the endorsement of the City Committee and the general election.”

  “As far as we’re concerned, you’ll do just fine, that is as long as you have all of us to help you out,” she responded.

  Even though Sylvester Johnson had been lazy and incompetent, his staff was first rate. I knew this because I lived in the district and had worked closely with them throughout my tenure at the Governor’s Regional Office. “The representative was lucky to have you and the ladies watching his back. Whoever replaces him would be crazy if he even thinks about trying to replace any of you. The entire District would hang him out to dry.”

  “You just remember that Mr. Green.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Mike Zeebooker stumbled through the door nearly knocking me over.

  “Meet Mike Zeebooker. He’s also been assigned to help us out. Mike’s a wiz at computers and tech stuff. He’s a really hard worker who cares about helping people.”

  Zeebooker blushed at the compliment and stared at his shoes as Mrs. Washington introduced him to the staff. Zeebooker and I went into Johnson’s private office to review the representative’s personal files to make sure that any pending legislative matters that had to be handled were being addressed. After a while I left the representative’s computer to the expert and returned to the outer office to see if I could be helpful.

  A distraught woman was sitting in front of Mrs. Washington’s desk. “Mr. Green, perhaps you can help Mrs. Connors,” Carlota said and nodded at the woman.

  She explained that Patricia Connors’ 13 year old son Jimmy had been arrested for shop lifting. He was a good kid; never in trouble before. The Judge, however, had sentenced him to 11 months at a juvenile detention facility in Wilkes-Barre. None of this made any sense to the Connors. Frankly, it didn’t make any sense to either Mrs. Washington or me.

  “I’m going to call Lisa Scandone, she’s a friend of mine at the Public Defenders. Lisa handles the juvenile courts. Maybe she can help us out.”

  I was able to get through and explained the situation to Scandone. “Mrs. Connors, Lisa asked me if it was Judge DiPasqualli?” I was channeling the conversation. She nodded. “Yes that’s the Judge.” I listened and channeled the next question, “Was Jimmy represented?”

  “No, the judge said it wasn’t necessary,” Connors responded and I again channeled the answer to Scandone. I listened to her response. “You got to be shitting me. I mean he can’t do that, can he?” Both Mrs. Washington and Mrs. Connors looked at me anxiously as Lisa explained the strange inner workings of the juvenile court system. “OK, I’ll send Mrs. Connors over so that you can begin the appeal process. In the meantime, I’ll see if we can do anything on this end. Thanks Lisa.”

  Mrs. Connors waited for me to explain.

  “OK, here’s what we’re going to do. Apparently Judge DiPasqualli has this program for first offenders like your son, to more or less frighten them so they’ll never get in trouble or be in the system again. He sends them to this private reform school, detention center for their own good. But in this case, the offense is so minor, and your son has no priors, the sentence just doesn’t make any sense.

  Lisa will have one of the Defenders file a motion. She’ll try to prevent the judge from sending Jimmy upstate while they attempt to convince the judge that he over reacted. But Judge ‘De Final Verdict’, as they call him, is one tough nut to crack.”

  Mike Zeebooker emerged from Johnson’s office as Mrs. Connors departed.

  “Who’s Roscoe Smith?” he asked Mrs. Washington.

  “Roscoe Smith was Representative Johnson’s nephew. He was the representative’s personal aide. He passed away about five years ago. Why are you asking about him?”

  “Well, according to the records on Representative Johnson’s hard drive, Roscoe was still collecting a pay check. In fact, a check was directly deposited to his bank account last week.”

  “But that’s not possible. I went to his funeral. He died five years ago. Bernie, what’s going on?” Carlota looked from me to Zeebooker, obviously shaken by the revelation.

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation,” I said to reassure her, even though I felt far from assured myself.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  That Only Happens in the Movies

  Zeebooker and I returned to the late representative’s private office. He showed me the computer entries that documented the staff payroll. Roscoe Smith’s pay had been deposited directly into his bank account every two weeks for the past seven years. Since Roscoe died five years and two months ago, he had collected over $300,000 in salary. Not bad for a dead guy.

  We checked with Smith’s bank. A helpful bank manager informed us that Smith’s account had shown activity through April 15th. Things started to fall into place when she asked if Representative Johnson’s heirs would be coming in to deal with his accounts and to inventory his safe deposit box anytime in the near future. Apparently the late Mr. Smith and the now later Representative Johnson both banked at the same branch.

  I asked the bank manager if she knew Mr. Smith. She could not recall the last time he actually came into the bank. However, with the advent of direct deposits and on line banking, it was not unusual for customers to go for months, even years without actually visiting the bank.

  “So are you thinkin what I’m thinkin?” I asked after hanging up with the bank manager.

  Zeebooker stared at me through his coke bottle lenses. “I’d hate to think that an elected official would collect the pay of a deceased relative.”

  I nodded my head and replied, “Yeah, I agree. At least if someone was going to do that, you’d think he would be a little more creative than to bank at the same place.”

  “But why would he risk his reputation and betray his constituents. I mean, was it only for the money?” Zeebooker was still a true believer.

  “I don’t know. I think most politicians start out straight, but they become corrupted somewhere along the way. The office, the power, whatever the hell it is, changes them.”

  “What are we going to do?” he asked still apparently bothered by what he had uncovered.

  I sighed. “We’re going to have to tell the Attorney General. Let him handle it. That’s his job.”

  “But what about the Representative’s family, they’ll be humiliated; and how about Mrs. Washington and the ladies in the front office? I mean they’re all innocent, but they’ll all be dragged through the mud.”

  “I know, but Johnson d
idn’t give a damn about them. They’re not our responsibility.”

  I could tell from his reaction that this response had disappointed Zeebooker. But even though it wasn’t our job to clean up the late representative’s mess it did strike me as unfair. Old Sylvester had screwed up big time and then died and left his family and friends to deal with it.

  “Let me think it over. But, I don’t think we have many options. In the meantime, why don’t you see if you can find out some more about Judge DiPasquailli and this reform school in Wilkes-Barre. Something’s not quite kosher about that deal.”

  “OK …and Bernie, I know you’ll figure something out about Representative Johnson’s matter.”

  I left Zeebooker to work his magic on the internet while I filled Carlota in on my conversation with the bank manager.

  “Oh my, oh my, we have to report this to the authorities. I mean something like this can’t be swept under the rug.”

  I could tell by her reaction that Carlota was heartbroken. She must have cleaned up a lot of that lazy bastard Johnson’s mess in her time. And now he’s still leaving behind a king sized problem for her to resolve.

  Her sadness quickly gave way to anger. “That good for nothing…how dare he?”

  “What do you think Sylvester did with the money? According to our estimate, it was around $300,000. I remember the way he dressed and the car he drove around in. He certainly wasn’t buying his suits at Boyds and that old jalopy of his would never be confused with a Bentley. Did he have some young woman on the side?”

  She shook her head. “No he wasn’t the type. And he was definitely too cheap to spend his money on frivolous things like nice clothes.”

  “Did he leave a will?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Is there any family?”

  “No, his wife passed some years ago, and there were no children.”

  “Who’s the Executor of his estate?”

  “Why, I am.”

  I smiled at her and said, “OK, let’s you and me go inventory the safe deposit box. Maybe we can come up with a way to hold down the collateral damage. Let’s think this thing through before we unleash the hounds.”

  “What are you proposing?”

  Before I could respond Zeebooker ran out of Johnson’s office.

  “I think I found something that might help us with Judge DiPasqualli. I was checking on the residents at the White Haven Detention Center. Practically all of them were sentenced by two judges, DiPasqualli and a Berks County judge, Judge Adams.”

  “That’s interesting, but what’s it mean?” I asked.

  “There’s more. Several years ago Judge DiPasqualli was Adams’ law clerk. And guess who owns White Haven?”

  “I give,” I shrugged.

  “Judge Adams’ son.”

  “How do we feel about coincidences?”

  “There ain’t no such thing.”

  “So Grasshopper, you have been paying attention after all. Haven’t you?”

  “Yes Sensei,” he smiled.

  I called Lisa Scandone at the Defenders and shared Zeebooker’s revelation.

  “That son of a bitch,” she hissed. “I knew that first offenders- scare the kids straight program of his was a load of bull shit. I just couldn’t figure out what was behind it. Jesus, I’m so fucking angry, I mean he put kids in lock up who never belonged there. What a mess!”

  “I agree, but I don’t understand what the two judges get out of it.”

  “The Commonwealth is paying White Haven big bucks for the operation. White Haven gets thousands of dollars a month for each detainee. The more beds they fill, the more money they get. Between DiPasqualli and Adams they were providing over a half million a month in revenue.”

  “Jesus, I didn’t think there was that kind of money in the private prison business. I’m sure the judges weren’t in it just to make Adams’ kid a millionaire. They must have been getting some kind of kickback.”

  Scandone agreed. “I think we should see the DA right away. There has to be a money trail,” she said.

  “OK. Why don’t you set it up? I’ll have Book print out the info. Were you able to help the Conners kid?”

  “Uh-huh. We filed a Motion for Reconsideration. His Honor, that sack of shit, had a hissy fit. We pointed out the proceedings were defective and threatened to refer the entire matter to the President Judge and the Disciplinary Board, so he released Jimmy to his mother’s custody while he considers the Motion. I can’t wait to see the look on that prick’s face when this shit hits the fan.”

  “Me too great job, maybe there is justice after all.”

  “Nah, that only happens in the movies.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  That’s A Really Big Box

  Carlota made arrangements with the bank to conduct an inventory of Representative Johnson’s safe deposit box the next day at 9AM. I asked the governor to direct the Inheritance Tax authorities to fast track the inventory. We arrived armed with the appropriate documentation from the Registrar of Wills and accompanied the branch manager as she retrieved the box from the vault.

  “That’s a really big box,” the representative from the Inheritance Tax Bureau observed when the branch manager, with my help, schlepped the box out of the vault and into the room. Carlota and I held our breath as the bank manager opened the box. It was filled with neat stacks of $100 bills. One hour later, the Inheritance Tax collector prepared the inventory in triplicate; he left after Mrs. Washington signed it in her capacity as Executrix.

  “Three hundred thousand, eight hundred and eighty-four dollars, that’s a lot of dead presidents, Carlota,” I observed.

  “What are we going to do with the money? I think it’s obvious this is Roscoe Smith’s pay. It has to be returned to the Commonwealth. What the devil was Mr. Sylvester doing? I mean, why collect the money and stick it in a box, it just doesn’t make any sense.”

  We stared at the money.

  “Maybe we got lucky since he didn’t spend the money. Here’s what I think. We have to notify the Speaker of the House that we discovered a discrepancy in the payroll involving Roscoe Smith and we discovered a great deal of cash in the representative’s safe deposit box. For now we should deposit the money in the Estate bank account. It’s up to the Speaker, or the Attorney General to make the connection between Smith’s salary and the money in the box.

  As I recall, Johnson’s will establishes a Trust for the families of firefighters and police officers who lived in the district who were killed in the line of duty. Sylvester was a frugal son of a gun. All told his estate is worth over two million dollars. If the Smith money is added in that means the kitty available for these folks is about a million dollars. We can suggest to the Speaker that some kind of compromise that will enable you to set up the trust and get the money to the families of Philadelphia’s finest is preferable to the bad publicity that will be generated by a big fight with the Fire Fighter’s Association and the FOP over the three hundred grand.”

  Carlota thought over my suggestion. “You know, it just might work out OK after all.” She smiled at me “Bernie, I think you have the makings of a first rate politician.”

  I wasn’t so sure this was a compliment.

  By the time we returned to Johnson’s office Lisa Scandone had called to let me know I was expected to meet with her and the District Attorney at 2pm. The governor had also left a message it was vitally important that I call him. All of the governor’s messages were vitally important. Nicky called to make sure I would pick her up after work. I called Nicky first; I had my priorities straight.

  “Bernie, please make sure you pick me up at 5pm,” she sounded upset.

  “Sure Honey. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, it’s just that the Major, I mean my Dad is coming to town tonight. He wants to meet you. Is that all right?”

  “Sure is that OK with you?” I still had difficulty getting used to the fact that we were a couple.

  “Yes of course it is. I
just don’t want him to scare you off. I’m his little girl and he tends to be a bit overprotective, at times. It will be fine. I won’t let him hurt you. Oh, I almost forgot, make sure you call the governor. It’s something about the City Committee.”

  “OK.”

  “I’ll see you at 5.”

  “Sure.”

  “And Bernie, I love you,” she said and hung up.

  I stared at the phone.

  The phone rang before I had recovered from Nicky’s goodbye. Was she calling back to retract it?

  “Bernie?”

  It was the governor. “Yes sir.”

  “Everything all right, you sound funny.”

  “No sir, everything is…great.”

  “Good. Listen, it’s all set. You’re going to meet with the City Committee tomorrow night. You’ll meet with Congressman O’Grady at 7 and then the Committee will endorse you at 7:30. Now this is important, I want you to go over to Boyds and ask for Patrick. He’ll pick out a suit and stuff for you. You’ve got to look sharp. You can’t wear those schmattas you normally wear to work. You’ve got to think like a congressman, and dress like one.”

  “But I still haven’t committed to run for the State Legislature. Now you have me running for Congress”

  “I know,” the governor agreed. “But you have to think ahead Bernie. Look, while you’re thinking it over, why don’t you meet with Congressman O’Grady. If you don’t like what he has to say, you can tell him you changed your mind. But you can’t go to a meeting with the Congressman looking like a schlepper. Get over to Boyds and see Patrick.”

  I met Lisa outside the District Attorney’s office. Susan Romansky had been the District Attorney for three terms. When she was running for her first term a former mayor had labeled her “one tough cookie.” Her diminutive size, 5 feet 100 pounds soaking wet, fooled many an opponent in the courtroom. She was a tenacious litigator who would do anything within the bounds of legal ethics, an oxymoron if there ever was one, to prevail.