by Paul Levine
Federal judges reign over a palace.
While state court judges are bunkered in a mold-infested building from the 1920s and an obsolete, undersized rabbit warren near the Miami River, federal judges inhabit a modern, palatial tower.
I crossed the plaza toward the federal courthouse entertaining those thoughts, while hauling a trial bag stuffed with files, research, and lunch. The building consisted of twin towers lifted three stories off the ground by massive limestone columns. These could be useful when rising seas turn Miami into Venice, or worse, Atlantis. The towers are connected by an eight-story curved blue-green glass cone that protrudes into space and resembles the bow of a ship. The five-story lobby has slate floors and artistically designed limestone-paneled walls. It more closely resembles a Four Seasons hotel than a federal courthouse.
Kip had arrived separately, checking in first at the Marshal’s Office, as part of his pretrial release obligations. Workers were trimming brown fronds from palm trees of the plaza when I heard a booming voice from behind: “Judge Speidel has a warrant out for you, Lassiter!”
Holy shit! Was I late? Federal judges have been known to lock up tardy lawyers.
I spun around to see Ray Pincher double-timing toward me, laughing his ass off.
“Gotcha, Jake! Oh, I gotcha.”
“Thanks a lot, Ray. What are you doing here?”
“Meeting the U.S. Attorney. It’s that state-federal task force I told you about. Opioid pill mills.”
“Let me guess. The feds have all the money but want you to use state resources.”
“Same old story. Hey, I tried to poke my head into their war room on your case, but it’s cordoned off. About half a floor with restricted access.”
“Half a floor just for Kip?”
“They prepped all their college cases there. Lucayo said he had to borrow half a dozen A.U.S.A.’s and even more FBI agents from D.C. From what I saw, they probably have two dozen paralegals and assistants flitting around with iPads and earbuds. Also, an espresso machine, trays of croissants, and pitchers of fresh-squeezed O.J.”
“Your tax dollars at work, Ray. You gonna come to court, be my one-man cheerleading squad?”
“Would love to, but I don’t want to answer reporters’ questions about what the state attorney is doing on foreign soil. I might send Gilberto Foyo over here to keep an eye on you.”
We paused in the shade of the building. “I suppose you’ve done your research on Lionel Speidel,” Pincher said.
“Prosecutors call him the ‘Lion King’ because they think he’s kindly and wise.”
Pincher chuckled. “Meaning he’s government oriented, which makes sense. Every paycheck he’s ever gotten was signed by Uncle Sam.”
“Defense lawyers call him ‘Speed-it-up Speidel,’ because he’s always pushing them to shut up and sit down. What’s your take?”
“From what I gather, Jake, there are three Lionel Speidels.”
“How do you mean?”
“You know he’s enormous, right?”
“Yeah, Victoria Lord told me he’s about six feet five and his weight equals one Lassiter plus one Solomon, which would put him close to 400 pounds.”
“Speidel can be charming. Think of Orson Welles in his later years, wearing a black cape, a twinkle in his eye, telling Hollywood stories to Johnny Carson.”
“But you’re saying there are two others.”
“Remember Sydney Greenstreet in The Maltese Falcon?”
“Sure, Sam Spade called him ‘The Fat Man.’ Devious, tricky, and ruthless.”
“That’s number two. Then, of course, there’s King Henry VIII. Had a couple wives beheaded. Prone to anger and throwing his considerable weight around.”
The sun glared off the windows of the courthouse, and I shielded my eyes with a hand. “There are state judges who try to bully lawyers. I’m not afraid of them, and I’m not afraid of this guy.”
“That’s the spirit, Jake.” Pincher steadied his gaze at me, and his hands clasped both my shoulders. “Play it the way you always do. Stand your ground. You’re damn near an immovable object when you do.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Brief Briefs and Long Briefs
Judge Lionel Speidel, his enormous black robes billowing behind him, sailed into the courtroom from a rear door and hopped up three stairs to his bench, graceful and light of foot for such a large man. The courtroom was bright and modern with a handsome mix of light and dark woods. The judge’s bench was paneled with teak and limestone, and the backdrop was a rich, dark wenge wood.
“Good morning, all!” Judge Speidel boomed, surveying the gallery, reporters filling the first three rows. He plopped down into a high-backed leather chair that, I swear, groaned under his weight.
“Appearances,” he said.
“Margaret Bolden, Assistant United States Attorney, for the government.” She nodded at the judge, or maybe it was a slight bow, eyes closed, head down for several seconds.
“Jacob Lassiter for the defendant Chester Lassiter, better known as Kip.” I nudged Kip, standing beside me in a suit, white shirt, and friendly blue tie. His blondish hair was trimmed short, giving him the look of a studious prep school kid.
Judge Speidel motioned downward with one hand, like the conductor of an orchestra, and we all took our seats. He had bulging pink cheeks that reduced his eyes to slits, their color not ascertainable. His several chins merged into his neck, also pink, as if he had just shaved or his blood pressure was at the boiling point. He had a large forehead and his thinning gray hair was combed straight back.
The deputy clerk, a Hispanic woman in her forties, sat below the judge at a long table with a limestone facing that matched the design of the bench. She stood, turned, and handed the judge the U.S.A. vs. Lassiter court file. He put on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, opened the file, and skimmed several pages.
Without looking up, the judge said, “Margie, I didn’t see you or Micah at the club Saturday.”
Margie! Assistant U.S. Attorneys, who practically live in the federal courthouse, get buddy-buddy with judges in a way private counsel cannot.
“Micah was taking Justin on a college tour,” Margaret Bolden responded, “and I was up to my elbows in trial prep.”
The judge chuckled, and his chins jiggled. “Of course you were. Well, I hope to see all of you for the spring picnic this weekend.”
As they say, a good lawyer knows the law. A great lawyer knows the judge. Obviously, Bolden had home field advantage.
The judge peered at me over his spectacles. “Mr. Lassiter, I don’t believe I’ve seen you in my court before.”
“Maiden voyage, Your Honor. I’ve spent most of my time in the criminal division of state court.”
He coughed up a laugh. “That skid row of justice down by the river! Mr. Lassiter, what’s the biggest difference between state and federal court?”
“You have higher ceilings.” I pointed toward the unusual origami-shaped wood panels of different heights that formed the courtroom ceiling.
“Ha! Good one.” There was a hint of joviality in his voice. So far, he didn’t seem sinister at all. “That ceiling gives us opera theater acoustics. Anything else?”
“I haven’t been held in contempt yet. But I’ve only been here ten minutes.”
“Ha! Another good one.” His laughter caused his bulbous pink cheeks to close the slits of his eyes altogether. “I like a lawyer with a sense of humor. Also, one who stands tall and stands still.” He gestured toward the jury box where three nicely dressed young people, two men and a woman, sat taking notes. “Law clerks, pay attention! See the way Mr. Lassiter stands in front of the bench? Perfect posture, feet planted. Solid as an oak. When you start practicing, don’t be jumping around like you’ve got ants in your pants.”
Okay, this wasn’t so bad. Maybe I was getting the Orson Welles personality.
I glanced at Kip next to me. He seemed relatively relaxed.
“I’ve visited state court,�
� the judge rolled on, “and it reminded me of my first job after clerking on the Seventh Circuit. I was counsel to the Stockyard Administration in the Agriculture Department. I attended more than my share of slaughter cattle auctions in Oklahoma and Texas. That came back to me over in state court, with all those lawyers and cops and witnesses milling about and chattering while the auctioneer—excuse me—the judge, was calling his motion calendar. Ill-prepared lawyers, shooting from the hip like gunslingers. Both the cattle auction and the courthouse had a stink to them, though I don’t remember the lawyers pooping on the floor, if you’ll pardon my French.”
Spectators in the gallery laughed. Reporters laughed. The prosecutor laughed, so I joined in, wanting to be a member of the club. I knew about the job in the Stockyard Administration. I’d heard the judge got into a jam accepting free sides of beef from some of the slaughterhouses. From the looks of him, he might have eaten the whole damn cow. But in that bureaucratic way of failing upwards, Speidel had landed a job as counsel to the Deputy Secretary of Agriculture. Then, thanks to a friendship with a Florida senator who owned cattle ranches, he was named to the bench by President George W. Bush.
“Now, before we pick a jury, is there any housekeeping we need to do?” the judge asked.
“More like a barn burning, Your Honor,” I said.
“How’s that?”
“I’ve moved to dismiss all charges for failure to state a crime. The motion has been pending for three months, Judge.”
“Your Honor! Not Judge!” he admonished me. “You’re not on skid row down by the river.”
“I apologize, Your Honor.”
A grating sound came from his throat. “And what do you mean ‘pending for three months?’ Are you criticizing the Court?”
“Not at all, Your Honor. I was just . . .” My voice trailed off.
The judge harrumphed, and again, his chins jiggled. I may have already worn out the goodwill I’d created by standing tall and still.
“I’ve read your motion, Mr. Lassiter, and your memorandum of law in support.”
I waited. Margaret Bolden waited. The reporters in the gallery waited.
Judge Speidel riffled through the pleading’s binder. “What font is that you’re using?”
“Well . . . I’m . . . I don’t know.”
“A carpenter should know his tools. Margie, what font is Mr. Lassiter using?”
“Looks like Comic Sans, Your Honor.”
“Aach. Comic Sans.” The words dripped with such disgust the judge might have been cleaning pus from an infected wound. “Mr. Lassiter, do you think this case is a laughing matter?”
“Of course not, Your Honor.”
“Then tell your word processing department to prepare all pleadings in Times New Roman. And justify your margins.”
“I’ll text them right away, Your Honor.”
I heard Kip, my word processing department, stifle a snicker and hoped that the opera theater acoustics didn’t carry the sound to the bench.
The judge was still perusing the motion, maybe looking for misplaced commas. “Also, henceforth please spell ‘judgment’ without an ‘e’ after the ‘m.’ I know English teachers say there’s an optional spelling, but not in my courtroom.”
“Got it, Your Honor. One ‘e,’ no options.”
This was absurd. He was absurd. I felt heat rising in my chest, an odd sense of growing anger, far out of proportion to having my font and spelling criticized. Without wanting to, without meaning to, I heard myself speaking in a hoarse whisper to Kip, “Do you believe this shit?”
“Shh!” Kip quieted me.
“What’s that, Mr. Lassiter?” the judge inquired.
“Nothing, Your Honor. I’m sorry. I was conferring with my client.”
Just like that, my anger and my sotto voce flareup was over. But what the hell was going on with me?
“Now, I’ve tanned your hide enough,” the judge said, using an expression he may have picked up in the stockyards. “I want to compliment you, and as Margie can tell you, I dole out compliments as if they’re gold doubloons.”
The judge paused to let us appreciate his wisdom, his kindness, his wordplay.
“Your brief on the legal issues is quite extraordinary.” Again, he turned to his captive audience, his trio of clerks, doubtless graduates of the finest law schools. “Pay attention, clerks! Mr. Lassiter’s example is to be followed by aspiring trial lawyers.”
Wow! I’d used Ray Pincher’s idea in my motion. I argued that neither lying in postcards from Hawaii nor lying about your identity at a testing center constituted mail fraud. Was Kip going home a free man?
“Do you know why I liked your brief so much?” the judge asked.
I shrugged. If this were Final Jeopardy, I couldn’t even take a wild guess. “Sorry, I don’t, Your Honor.”
“Margie, what do I like about it?”
“It’s seven pages.”
“Precisely! It’s a brief brief, not a long brief. Most lawyers use the full twenty pages permitted by the rule. Why? Are they getting paid by the word? You were concise and to the point, Mr. Lassiter.”
I bowed my head in grateful supplication to the Lion King. “Thank you, Your Honor.”
“Okay, then. Your motion is denied.”
My head jerked up. “Your Honor, don’t I get oral argument?”
“Is there anything you’re going to say that’s not in your seven pages?”
“I’m . . . well . . . I don’t know . . . maybe.” Sounding like an idiot, even to myself.
“Very well, argue. You have thirty seconds.” He pulled a stopwatch out of a drawer and punched the button. “Go.”
“You have to be joking!” The anger surged back.
The judge made a rumbling sound in his throat, though his lips didn’t move. “Do I look like a man who jokes?”
“Only at executions and funerals,” I mumbled.
Kip smashed an elbow into my side, and I shut up.
“What’s that, Mr. Lassiter?”
“I understand, Your Honor,” I said. “You’re not joking.”
“Good.” He looked at the stopwatch. “You have twenty seconds.”
“Mail fraud requires that a victim be deprived of property,” I said, rat-a-tat-tat. “Who’s the victim? What’s the property? We submit there’s neither. An intangible admissions slot is not property in the legal sense. It can’t be leased or sold or stored in the trunk of a car. You can’t place a monetary value on it. In short, there’s no victim because no property has been taken. There is no crime because—”
“Time!” announced the judge. “You may take your seat.” He turned to the government’s table. “Ms. Bolden . . . ?”
“The government stands on its memorandum of law.”
“Very well. The defendant’s motion is denied. Again. Are we ready to—”
“On what grounds, Your Honor?” I demanded.
The judge’s eyes seemed to widen. For the first time, I saw they were spit-colored. “On the grounds I said so, Mr. Lassiter.”
I leaned forward over the defense table. That closed the distance to the bench by only a few inches, but some judges find it overly aggressive. “It would be instructive to the defense to know the court’s reasoning.”
“I’m not here to teach you how to practice law.” The judge made a wet, guttural sound. “When your client’s convicted and you appeal, I’m sure the government’s brief will be highly instructive.”
“You mean ‘if’ my client is convicted.”
“That’s what I said, counselor. If your client is convicted, I trust the government will have ample reasons why your motion was denied.”
I came around the table into the well of the courtroom. The clerk looked up from her table, where I loomed over her.
“Respectfully, Your Honor said ‘when.’ Spelled w-h-e-n. Same spelling in Comic Sans or Times New Roman.”
Judge Speidel banged a meaty fist on the bench and turned to the court stenographer
. “Rose, read back our colloquy, please.”
Rose, using a computer-assisted transcription stenotype, fiddled with the machine for a moment, then read aloud. “Mr. Lassiter: ‘It would be instructive to the defense to know the court’s reasoning.’ The Court. ‘I’m not here to teach you how to practice law.’” She hesitated just a split second before continuing. “‘If your client is convicted . . .’”
“There you have it, Mr. Lassiter,” the judge said.
I shot a glance toward Margaret Bolden, who avoided my gaze. She wasn’t about to tell the emperor he had no clothes, an image I really didn’t want to contemplate. Orson Welles had become Henry VIII. The king can do no wrong, which, after all, is our concept of sovereign immunity.
Thankfully, I felt no surge of anger. My boiling emotions waned, saving me from contempt. “Your Honor, I apologize for my mistake,” I said humbly, head down.
“Apology accepted. Now let’s pick a jury, and Mr. Lassiter, let’s see if you can keep your record intact.”
I was puzzled, wondering if the judge knew about the one idiosyncratic record I held to this day. I was the only player in NFL history to be penalized for unnecessary roughness on the opening kickoff, the last play of the first half, and the last play of the game. Two horse-collar tackles and one late hit. But no, the judge had something else in mind.
“You’ve never been held in contempt in federal court, and I haven’t held a lawyer in contempt this year,” he said. “Let’s both take pains to keep our records intact.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Mansplaining
“Judge Speidel really likes you,” Margaret Bolden said.
I almost spit my coffee through my nose.
“He hates me,” I responded. “I’m from that skid row of justice down by the river, which reminds him of the cattle auctions where there’s cow dung everywhere.”
