The Two-Witness Rule: A Novel

by William Eleazer

  “I wonder how such a guy from Chicago found his way to Atlanta,” said Scott.

  “Oh, he explained that. As I said, he took over the panel, spent half the time talking about himself and how he became a lawyer. He said proudly that he attended Atlanta Law School. It’s out of business now, but it was a long-standing law school until sometime in the 1990s. It was accredited by the Georgia Board of Bar Examiners, and graduates didn’t have to take the bar exam—get your diploma and you were admitted to the bar. James didn’t say that’s why he attended, but it’s my guess for a good reason for a guy from Chicago—or anywhere else—to attend. And once he was a member of the Georgia Bar, it was easy to make a decision to stay. In any case, he was pretty proud of his law school. Mentioned that several members of Congress, six governors and two chief justices of the Georgia Supreme Court had degrees from there.”

  “Well, that shows how little I know,” Scott said. “Never even heard of it.”

  “You may hear more. He’s not only proud but loud. You are going to enjoy the trial, Scott,” Samarkos said, with a laugh.

  “Well, the trial’s not about Atlanta Law School and ‘Diamond Jim.’ It’s about a low-life named Max Gordon, and yes, I’m going to enjoy it. Are you glad you’re out of it?” Scott asked.

  “You betcha! Nice talking, Scott,” Samarkos said as they hung up.

  Scott was curious. Who was this guy from Atlanta, and what were his qualifications that made him attractive to Max Gordon? Both had a Chicago connection, but other than that, Scott could only guess.

  He pulled up the lawyer listings on the Georgia Bar website. Yes, it showed James A. Colosimo, graduate of Atlanta Law School—in good standing, no disciplinary action on his record. Business address on West Peachtree Street; email address, Jim@diamondjimlaw.com. He really does like that name, Scott mused.

  Scott wanted more information on this new attorney who had taken on the defense of Max Gordon. He decided to call his former mentor, Grady Wilder, in Atlanta. Grady was an experienced assistant DA and Scott’s supervising attorney when Scott was a senior clinic student at Savannah Law, interning at the Chatham County DA’s office. Scott was assisting Grady on the initial John Harrison robbery case, which was to be prosecuted by Grady and defended by Max Gordon. Grady had accepted a position with the U.S. Attorney in Atlanta, but his departure coincided with the start of the robbery trial. When the judge denied a motion for a continuance, and no assistant DA was available who was familiar with the case, the DA decided to let Scott prosecute the case. It was very unexpected, even a bit freakish the way it happened, but Grady had trained him well and the prosecution was successful. Scott felt very indebted to Grady, and they had maintained close contact since Grady left for Atlanta.

  Scott placed the call and Grady answered. After the usual pleasantries, Scott made his inquiry. “Do you know an Atlanta attorney by the name of James Colosimo?”

  “Diamond Jim!” Grady exclaimed.

  “So you know him,” Scott laughed.

  “Oh yes, all of us here in the criminal side of the office know ‘Diamond Jim.’ Why do you ask?”

  “He’s now the defense counsel for Max Gordon,” Scott replied. Grady was familiar with the Gordon case. He and Scott had discussed it several times since Gordon was arrested in early May.

  “Oh, man, you are in for a trip. When did this happen?” Grady asked.

  “Today’s the first I heard of it,” replied Scott. “Got a call from Gordon’s old counsel, Charles Samarkos. What do you know about this guy?”

  “I’ve never had a case against him, but several of the others in the office have. They say he’s a fairly good attorney in the courtroom. Knows his evidence, knows the law, very good cross-examiner. But man, is he weird. Let me correct that. I don’t know if he’s weird or just prefers to give that impression. He practices law Chicago-style, if you know what I mean. Did you pull up his website?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “It’s interesting,” Grady said. “He’s the only licensed attorney for his firm, but he lists two from his office as ‘law school graduates.’ They aren’t listed as paralegals, just ‘staff members.’ The truth is, they’re both disbarred attorneys. One had a criminal law practice here in Atlanta before he was disbarred. I don’t know where the other one came from. I guess they do his investigations or whatever mischief that needs to be done. I’ve only run into him a couple of times, so I can’t say I really know him, but those who do claim he’s a classic bullshit artist. He likes to talk about his outlaw relatives, going back to Al Capone time. Apparently there was a ‘Diamond Jim’ relative connected to the Chicago underworld some years ago.”

  “Yes, I heard that from Samarkos,” Scott said. “Samarkos said he met Colosimo several years ago at a conference where he appeared on a panel. Spent most of his panel time talking about himself and his family history. Claimed that the original ‘Diamond Jim’ Colosimo was his great-grandfather. I’ve been wondering what psychological problem would make a person, especially an attorney, claim to the world that he comes from a long line of crooks and bootleggers.”

  “Might not be a psychological problem at all, Scott,” Grady responded. “May be a clever promotion. Think about it. A crook is seeking a lawyer. Here’s one he can identify with—comes from a family of crooks. Another thing in his promotional arsenal is a nightclub restaurant he owns out at Buckhead. He named it ‘Colosimo’s.’ It’s famous for its 1920s decor. It has a photo on its menu of a restaurant in Chicago by the same name, which according to the text under the photo, was owned in the 1920s by ‘Diamond Jim Colosimo.’ Nice steakhouse. I’ve been there a couple of times. The entryway has a photo of the original ‘Diamond Jim’ with his biography underneath. The bio claims he died in a hail of gunfire as he was leaving his restaurant, by someone tied to the mob. It’s a very large photo, maybe three feet by five, in a fancy wooden frame. Atlanta’s ‘Diamond Jim’ tries to look the same—slicked-back hair style, big black moustache, diamonds on the fingers. So he’s pretty well known in Atlanta as one of the go-to guys for people in trouble who have money. He gets the big-stake cases. Doesn’t surprise me that Max Gordon hired him. He’s a clever shyster—as shady a character as Max Gordon and just as dangerous.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Scott said. “I’ll watch my back.”

  “Watch your front, too,” Grady said. “He’s not only weird, but he’s a genuine asshole—the real McCoy. He will likely insult you early on. Every prosecutor here who’s had a case against him says he did, usually at the first meeting. Apparently he wants the prosecutor to get angry at him—anger that can lead to dumb mistakes. Insulting the prosecutor seems to be part of his professional MO.”

  “So, a weird, genuine asshole. Look’s like I’m in for a fun afternoon next Monday. When are you getting back to Savannah for a weekend? There’re some new Moon River brews we need to check out.”

  “Saint Patrick’s Day for sure, but that’s a long way off. Maybe I can get down there on a long weekend this fall. I love the town—really miss it.”

  As soon as they hung up, Scott pulled up Colosimo’s law firm website. The website opened with a flash of falling diamonds followed by a large photo of Colosimo, in a diamond-shaped frame. And just below the photo in bold print:

  I’m “Diamond Jim” Colosimo, and I’m pleased and proud to have one of the most successful criminal defense firms in the nation. With our highly experienced staff, we use a teamwork approach that is an integral feature of our office culture and the cornerstone of our success. We attack your problem aggressively 24/7. We have an expansive office, situated high in the Atlanta skyline. Call the Colosimo Law Firm—Atlanta’s big-winner team—for an appointment.

  The “highly experienced staff” seemed to consist of the two men and two female secretaries. There were small snapshot photos of the secretaries, with their names below. The men appeared in larger photos, bu
t still smaller than Colosimo’s. Beneath each was his name, followed by “Staff Assistant” with a notation “Law School Graduate.” There was no claim that either was a member of any bar.

  The younger man, “Anderson McDowell,” appeared to be in his mid-30s. The other, “Thomas J. Reid,” appeared to be a few years older. Neither was smiling. Scott closed the website. The meeting Monday would be interesting.

  Chapter Eight

  Monday, July 7

  Scott was up early as usual, sitting at his kitchen table with a steaming cup of coffee and the morning newspaper in front of him—his morning ritual. He had enjoyed another great weekend with Jennifer at Hilton Head, returning after a late Sunday afternoon cookout in the family backyard, where Jennifer’s father took charge of the grill. This time it was red snapper, marinated and grilled whole, one of her father’s specialties—and Scott’s favorite.

  Scott arrived back at his apartment about 9:00 p.m. Sunday night and turned on his TV. He was hoping to catch the last few minutes of the Braves-Astros game, which started at 5:35 p.m. To his delight, the game was still on, with the score tied 6-6. Then it went into extra innings—the tenth, eleventh . . . and on until the seventeenth, with Scott enjoying every minute of the great defensive struggle. Then, in the bottom of the seventeenth, Braves first baseman Mark Teixeira drilled a single, deep to left field, scoring Gregor Blanco and winning the game for the Braves. For Scott, a perfect ending to a perfect weekend.

  Though Scott already knew the outcome, it was still a pleasure to read the sports commentary in the morning, so he lingered a bit longer than usual with his paper and coffee. He would be in the office soon enough, back in the grind, making phone calls, reading police reports, and preparing responses to motions. When he had finished the sports section, he turned to other news and didn’t find much of interest—two retired Turkish generals failed in a coup attempt and another story of a possible federal bailout for Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac as their share prices continued to plummet. He turned to the automobile classified section even though he was not in the market to buy or sell. He was the proud owner of a black 1984 Z28 Camaro—his pride and joy and the only thing of significant value that he owned. It was equipped with a 305-cubic-inch V-8 engine that produced 150 horsepower, a three-piece spoiler, and aluminum five-spoke wheels. He maintained it in showroom condition—and when not in use, always kept it secure with a steering wheel lock. He had no plans to sell, but he remained curious of its value and what other Camaros were selling for.

  There were no new Camaro listings that day. Scott folded the paper, picked up his briefcase, and drove to his office.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  A few minutes after 2:00 p.m., Scott received a call that he was expecting.

  “There is a Mr. Colosimo to see you,” Mary Greenfield, the receptionist, said when Scott answered.

  “Tell him to slip you a diamond and send him down,” said Scott.

  “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

  “Did he give you a business card?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look at it. What do you see?” asked Scott.

  There was a pause. Then a laugh from Mary. “OK, I get it. I’ll see if he has one for me. Two carats or more. But in any case, I’m sending him down now,” she said.

  Scott stood beside his office door to welcome his guest. Colosimo was dressed in a white linen suit and a bolo tie. The tie had a silver adjusting clip decorated with small diamonds, and a braided black leather string with silver aiguillettes also encrusted with small diamonds. He was not tall, perhaps an inch or so less than six feet, but he had a girth that made up for it. He had a full head of black hair, dropping down to his collar in the back and almost to his ear lobes on the side. A thick, broad, rectangular moustache covered a substantial portion of his face. Except that it was black, it had the appearance of a badly adjusted surgical mask. Hard-soled shoes, or more likely boots, made a loud clomping noise as he approached.

  Scott extended his hand. “Scott Marino.”

  “James Colosimo. My friends call me ‘Jim—Diamond Jim,’” Colosimo replied. As he extended his arm to shake Scott’s hand, his French cuffs with diamond and gold cufflinks, jumped out from his coat sleeve, as if it were a practiced motion.

  Scott considered the response but doubted he would ever call this visitor “Diamond Jim.” He closed the door and motioned with his hand, inviting Colosimo to a chair just across from his desk.

  “I understand you have taken over the Gordon case from Charles Samarkos,” Scott said.

  “Yes. Charles has been helpful. Gave me a quick briefing on the case. I had a chance to read his motion to have you dismissed from the case. And I’m curious: Why are you fighting that so hard?” Colosimo asked.

  “Fighting it? There’s nothing to fight. It’s already been decided by the judge.”

  “I think you know what I mean—it’s not too difficult to understand, is it?” Colosimo said slowly, emphasizing each word.

  Scott ignored the snide remark, but he had no intention of being quizzed by this visitor. He had extended the invitation to visit as a professional courtesy, not as an opportunity to be insulted. So, insults really are part of his MO, Scott thought. He would cut this short. He stood up and faced Colosimo.

  “I assume you have filed a notice of your appearance with the court. Do you have any questions related to the administration of the case? I’m sure Charles informed you that the trial is scheduled for the week of November 17. Judge McCabe’s courtroom is Courtroom K. He usually begins promptly at nine.”

  “No, I have no administrative questions. I assume that even down here in Chatham County you follow the Georgia Superior Court Rules. And the Georgia Evidence Code. I’ve been trying criminal cases in Georgia for twenty years. I’m sure by the time the trial concludes, you will see that I’m quite familiar with them. I know you’re young and inexperienced. Charles tells me you’ve been prosecuting less than two years. I recall when I was a young defense counsel just starting out. Like you, I didn’t understand some of the law I was dealing with. But the problem was, I also didn’t understand that I didn’t understand. So I made some mistakes.”

  Scott was standing and looking at the narrowed eyes of his visitor, still seated. Scott realized Colosimo was in some sort of a lecture mood, mixed with what would likely include a few insults, as Grady had warned. He could just order him out—which was tempting—but he decided to listen. But damned if he would do so standing. He sat back down, and Colosimo continued.

  “We’ve all made mistakes. Your mistakes in this case are multiple, beginning with your failure to accept the fact that you should be disqualified from this case. And that’s only the beginning. The bigger error is charging Max Gordon with a crime committed only by that drug pusher and money launderer from Macon. Clarence Wilborn and Clarence Wilborn alone should be charged with this crime. It’s prosecutorial misconduct that you are charging Mr. Gordon. We consider it a personal vendetta. But there is another big mistake, a mistake that even someone with your limited knowledge of the law should recognize. You can’t prove that anyone actually committed perjury. Surely you are aware of the two-witness rule. You may have two witnesses, but you don’t have two witnesses to perjury. Just how do you expect to prove your case, Mr. Marino?”

  Scott recalled the warning that Colosimo would likely aim an insult or two his way, but he was really surprised at his blatant nastiness. “A few minutes ago,” Scott replied, “you claimed to be familiar with the court rules. Apparently you have forgotten. It’s called a trial, Mr. Colosimo. A jury trial, and you’ll have to attend to find out.”

  “And you would be wise to take my advice and cut your losses. Wilborn should be your target. Carefully consider it, Mr. Marino. My roots go back to Chicago. My great grandfather was the original ‘Diamond Jim’ Colosimo. He got rich running brothels—two hundred of them. Also ran one of the most famou
s and profitable restaurants in Chicago—Colosimo’s.”

  Scott was tempted once more to interrupt Colosimo and direct him to leave his office. But he was curious as to where this legal dolt was heading with this tale. He decided to let him run on. Perhaps he would learn something of the defense strategy. Scott sat back in his chair and focused his eyes on the character sitting across from him.

  Colosimo continued. “That was the Al Capone era. I’m a student of the history of that time period. I’ve read everything that’s ever been published and much that hasn’t been—accounts handed down in the family. There’s one particular story that you would be well-advised to research. There may be a lesson in it for you. It involved a young, hard-charging prosecutor—an assistant state attorney in Chicago by the name of William McSwiggin. He was about your age and assigned to pursue an indictment against Al Capone for killing a guy in a South Side bar. And he did so with vigor. You may want to take a look and see how that helped his career. Well, enough advice for now.” Colosimo paused for a moment, then began again. “Now one last thing—”

  Scott cut him off. “I agree, Mr. Colosimo. That’s enough for now.” Scott stood, walked quickly to the door and opened it. “I’ll see you in court, sir, November 17, nine sharp.”

  Chapter Nine

  Tuesday, July 8

  Scott was to meet Jennifer at the Library Bar and Grill at 6:00 p.m. They had plans for dinner and a movie. They had discussed two movies, both just released the previous week: Wanted, an R-rated, violent-action movie, and WALL·E, a G-rated Disney Pixar adventure film. Neither was in the mood for a movie of bloody violence that Wanted promised, but a G-rated Disney movie did not seem all that appealing either. They would discuss it at dinner.

  Scott arrived first and walked to the bar. He did not see anyone tending the bar as he took his seat, but he knew Juri was not far off. He knocked the bar top with his knuckles a couple of times, and playfully yelled, “Service, service!” Then he turned to face the doorway and watch for Jennifer. Soon a cold mug of beer was sliding gracefully down the bar from about twelve feet away. It stopped right in front of Scott.