Cheater's Game

by Paul Levine

“Calm down, Mr. Lassiter.” The judge glared at me before turning to the witness. “Agent Wisniewski, you know better than that.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor.”

  I stomped toward the witness stand, stopping six feet away. Any closer, and I would need the court’s permission to approach. My tone became harsh. I’m not sure if I wanted the jury to share in my indignation of the G-man’s obvious bias or if I couldn’t help myself. Either way, I was louder than necessary.

  “You’ve met Kip Lassiter, haven’t you?” I demanded.

  “Yes.”

  “You approached him and told him he was in trouble and should cooperate with your investigation, correct?”

  “Not in those words, but that was the gist.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He declined to cooperate.”

  I pointed an index finger at him. A crooked index finger that never healed properly after being stomped on by a 310-pound offensive tackle. “Pay attention, sir. I asked a simple question.” I spoke slowly, enunciating each word with a snap like a broken twig. “What. Did. He. Say?”

  “He said, ‘I don’t need to cooperate. I don’t need immunity. I haven’t done anything wrong.’ Or words to that effect.”

  “So instead of saying anything indicating awareness of guilt, my client said, ‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ correct?”

  “Yes. I just said that.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wisniewski.”

  I scratched my right ear, not because it needed scratching, but just to have a moment for the jury to digest that helpful tidbit of cross-examination. Then I walked back to the podium and started up again.

  “Let’s talk about how the investigation got started. Which of Max Ringle’s clients called the FBI?”

  “None.”

  “Which of his disgruntled employees dropped the dime on him?”

  “None.”

  “What about the coaches or the proctors?”

  “None.”

  “Which of those elite universities called the FBI and said, ‘Hey, someone is corrupting our admissions system?’”

  “None.”

  “Is that because the universities didn’t mind getting all that money funneled through Ringle’s company into their athletic departments?”

  “I don’t know why. Maybe they didn’t know what was happening.”

  “Or were they getting fat and happy off the bribes disguised as contributions?”

  “Like I said, I wouldn’t know.”

  “Then just how did the investigation get started?”

  “It was a tip from a defendant in an unrelated case. A securities fraud investigation.”

  “So, much like Ringle, another criminal sought to lessen his own punishment by informing?”

  “You could say that.”

  I paused a beat, hoping my point was getting through to the jury. I would have other witnesses connect the dots and show how the universities profited from Ringle’s scheme. Now, I needed to lay the groundwork for my fundamental fairness defense. Call it selective enforcement. It’s not a true and lawful defense, but it’s appealing to people of goodwill, meaning my jury.

  “Mr. Wisniewski, how many parents were indicted as part of Operation Flunk Out?”

  “Thirty-eight.”

  “How many were recorded taking part in either the school bribery or exam bribery schemes?”

  “Sixty-four.”

  “Let’s do the math. Why weren’t twenty-six parents who paid bribes charged with crimes?”

  “You’ll have to ask the Justice Department.”

  “They weren’t charged because they never said anything on tape that acknowledged they knew what they were doing was illegal. Isn’t that right?”

  He shrugged and his tone remained neutral. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “There was concern that the government would be prosecuting innocent people, correct?”

  “I’d state it differently. There was concern that those cases were weaker.”

  “A Chinese billionaire paid five million dollars to Max Ringle to get his daughter into Stanford, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “By far the largest sum paid as part of the school bribery scheme. And yet he was not charged. Why?”

  “He had some very good lawyers who convinced the Justice Department that he had no idea his conduct could be considered criminal.”

  “I wish my nephew had hired those lawyers.” Several spectators guffawed, even the reporters. The jurors did their best to stifle their laughter.

  The judge shot me a warning glance, but I plowed ahead. I instructed one of the courtroom personnel to cue up the tape recording of Kip’s phone call to me as I drove north on the 101 for that sit-down that ended with me in the rose bed.

  The tape began playing, first Kip’s voice, then mine:

  “You gotta chill, Uncle Jake. Max has an opinion of counsel that says everything we do is kosher.”

  “Tell me about it, Kippers.”

  “Max asked the top law firm in L.A. to look at our business. They say it’s really ingenious, and even though it’s a little hinky, it’s not illegal because there are no specific laws covering it.”

  I turned to the witness. “Apparently, Kip did not think he was committing a crime, correct?”

  “Correct, if you just listen to that conversation in a vacuum.”

  “Okay, let’s take it out of the vacuum. Where would you like to put it?”

  “Objection!” Bolden squawked. “Argumentative.”

  “Sustained,” the judge said. “Next question.”

  I paused and tabulated just what else, if anything, I wanted to ask. When you’re cross-examining a savvy, experienced federal agent, it’s a little like exploring a cave with a torch. You want to get out before the flame is extinguished.

  “One more question, Mr. Wisniewski. Are you comfortable with the fact that the Chinese billionaire was not indicted, and that more than two dozen parents weren’t indicted, while my nephew is charged with thirty-seven felonies?”

  “I have no opinion. You’ll have to take that up with the Justice Department.”

  I turned away, as if disgusted with his performance. “No, I don’t, Mr. Wisniewski. I’ll take it up with the jury.”

  I sank into my chair, exhausted and straining not to let it show. With just a note of derision in my voice, I said, “I’ve got nothing else for him.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  The Texas Verdict

  Melissa Gold . . .

  Melissa promised herself she would not ask Jake how he felt. She could tell from looking at him that he was drained. Pale and drawn, he sat at the kitchen table, eating the pan-seared filet mignon with garlic and herb butter she’d made in a cast-iron skillet—plus a baked potato, a dozen grilled asparagus spears, and a pint of Grolsch. At least tonight his appetite was strong.

  Kip, still a pious vegan, had already eaten his grilled baby eggplants with a green onion salsa, and was hunkered down in his room, doing his homework. Jake had told him to write a 1500-word essay about where he saw himself in the next several years. Prison was not an option. Jake would use the essay to plan Kip’s direct examination.

  “Kip seemed upbeat tonight,” she said. “He said you were the shit today.”

  “And that’s good?”

  “Apparently, ‘the shit’ is good. But if someone says, ‘you’re shit,’ well, that’s bad.” She handed Jake a slice of garlic bread she’d made from a baguette. “How’s his demeanor in court?”

  “All-American choirboy, so far. He’s taking notes, elbowing me in the ribs when I’m about to throw the water pitcher at the witness. I’m starting to feel optimistic about him. If I can somehow win the case—a very big if,— think he’s got a great chance to turn his life around.”

  “Kip told me you’re scoring points.”

  “I’m like a sniper hidden in the bush. I can pick off the point man of their platoon, but then they bring out a wave of reinforcemen
ts.” Jake grabbed an asparagus spear with his fingers. “My defense is very subtle, and subtlety isn’t my strong suit. I need to persuade the jury to acquit because they think it’s unfair to convict, regardless of the evidence of guilt. Some lawyers call it a Texas verdict.”

  “I’ve never heard of that.”

  “In essence, the jury says, ‘Not guilty, but don’t do it again.’”

  She laughed and was happy to see Jake smile in return. They had been short on laughter and smiles in recent days. She reached over and squeezed his shoulder. He seemed to relax, sinking back into the kitchen chair.

  “Have you stopped blaming yourself for his . . . what should I call it? His detour?”

  Jake sliced a piece of rare steak and seemed to think about it. “When I look back, there are things I’d change about myself. If I had, maybe he’d have gone in a different direction.”

  She waited. And waited some more.

  Finally, he said, “Long before I met you, when I was single, I might have fallen into patterns that weren’t helpful when Kip came into my life.”

  “You can’t stop there, big guy. What are you talking about?”

  “Okay, I had younger friends, and maybe a case of arrested development.”

  He plopped the piece of steak into his mouth and chewed.

  “This gets more interesting all the time,” she said. “By ‘friends,’ you mean you hung out with inappropriate women.”

  “My standards were a little low.”

  “You had standards?”

  “I wouldn’t date a woman who had jumped bail. Other than that . . .”

  “What else, Romeo?”

  He took a pull on his beer before answering. “This old house was rocking with parties. Now, you might think I would have shaped up by the time Kip arrived. But there he was, at age ten, mixing a dry martini second to none. The Kumquat Avenue mascot, getting his hair mussed by South Beach models. I was drinking too much and was . . .”

  “An aging party animal?”

  “Gawd, I remember that guy. Really pathetic. Further proof that men are the lower form of the species. Women are more evolved.”

  “That’s your excuse?”

  “I’ve said it before. Men just crawled from the swamp, our webbed feet dripping brackish water, hoping to mate with the first female we saw, or lacking that, a warm patch of mud.”

  “How enlightening. Maybe you should give a TED Talk on anthropology.”

  She locked her gaze on his. She wanted to ask something and didn’t know quite how. It was not like her to tiptoe around, so she took a hop, skip, and a jump. “That lawyer you prosecuted for having affairs with his clients . . .”

  “Bert Kincaid. What about him?”

  “I was wondering about your past, and . . .”

  It took Jake what seemed like several eons to answer. Finally, he said, “I did something worse.”

  She waited.

  “Long time ago, and I’m talking the Jurassic era, I was involved with a client’s wife.”

  Her throat tightened, as if someone were fastening a ligature around her neck. “That’s horrible. Why . . .?”

  “Gina and Nick Florio. I knew her before he did, so I figured I was grandfathered in.”

  “That’s not funny. That’s not cute. Be real, Jake.”

  He didn’t hesitate. “What I did was unethical, stupid, and reckless. Did I mention that Nick Florio was a killer?”

  “Oh my God! I assume you learned from that experience.”

  “Introspection is a brutal sport. I looked in the mirror, and someone else peered back. I thought of myself as compassionate and caring and ethical, but that bastard in the mirror was cynical and self-centered and soiled.”

  She shook her head. “But that’s not you, Jake.”

  “Not now. I changed through the desire to be a better man and sheer force of will. Which is why I believe in redemption. If I could do it, why not Kip?”

  She took a moment to process all of that. “Wow. I’m not sure I would have liked you back in your grandfathered-in days.”

  “You wouldn’t have! Looking back, I don’t like me. But now . . . now, I’m content with who I am and my hard-earned knowledge of self.”

  “And that knowledge is . . .?”

  “That it’s over so quickly. And what we leave behind is as fleeting as footprints in the sand. So, we’d better make the most of our days. We’d better be good to everyone we know, and especially good to those we love and who love us. And knowing all that, these days when I rue the fact that I didn’t meet you years ago, well, part of me knows this was the perfect time.”

  He resumed eating, as if he’d just been discussing the weather and not existential thoughts. It was as if he didn’t realize how deep he could go. She considered this man she loved. He was open and honest without thinking about it, and without knowing how rare that was in today’s male. Maybe any era’s male.

  “You’re really something, Jake Lassiter,” she said.

  “Hmm,” he mumbled between bites.

  “You’re very giving, Jake. Do you know that?”

  He shrugged. In fact, he probably didn’t know that, she thought.

  “You would do anything for the people you love,” she continued.

  “Well, who wouldn’t?”

  She smiled at his obliviousness. “Oh, you’d be surprised.”

  Suddenly, he clopped the heel of his hand to his forehead. “I’m an idiot. I’ve been home two hours and haven’t asked about your day.”

  She had already given him a pass on that. When she was preparing dinner, he was sketching out notes for the next day’s witnesses. She knew from the look in his eyes that his mind had been in the courtroom. Sometimes, when he was silently rehearsing questions, his lips moved, like a child reciting the multiplication tables.

  “My day was fine,” she said. “No word from the N.I.H., but now they know all about helmet guy and his scheme. I hope to hear something soon.”

  “If justice prevails, you’ll get the job,” he declared. “And whether you do or not, I’m so damn proud of you. For the work you do, for the person you are. I probably should tell you this more often. Being with you makes me the luckiest man on Earth.”

  Jake looked away, and she saw that his eyes were moist.

  “Aw, jeez. Sorry, Mel. Lately, I’ve been getting more emotional than usual.”

  “Just don’t try to blame it on brain damage.” She gave him a wide smile. “I like you this way.”

  It took a while to get to know the many layers of this complex man, she thought. Hard bark but a tender heart. She was about to say she loved him, when he turned to her and said, “I love you, Melissa Gold. With every fiber of my being. And for the rest of my days.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Ali and Frazier

  Melissa was asleep. I was in an easy chair in the living room, feet up, scribbling notes. At 11:10 p.m., the phone rang, Ray Pincher calling.

  “I knew you’d be awake,” Ray Pincher greeted me.

  “What’s up, Ray?”

  “I hate to bring bad news, but you should know. Nick Buoniconti died today.”

  “Aw, jeez, Ray.”

  “Yeah. Complications from C.T.E.”

  “He was my hero.”

  “How could he not be?” Pincher said. “A Dolphins linebacker who became a lawyer. Pretty much the Lassiter role model.”

  “You can’t even mention me in the same breath. Nick’s in the Hall of Fame. Except for special teams, I sat so far down the bench, my ass was in Hialeah. And if Nick hadn’t gone into business, he’d have been a better lawyer than me, too. Not to mention raising hundreds of millions for spinal injury research.”

  “One of a kind.”

  “Joe Paterno used to tell us to make an impact, and he wasn’t talking about a goal-line stand. Well, Nick made an impact that will last forever.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  “Two or three years ago at a Dolphins reunion
. He had early symptoms. Memory problems. Unsteady gait. You could look at him and see the future.”

  My thoughts turned to Melissa, and the importance of her work. Several former Dolphins had been cut down by the horrific disease. Hundreds of former players, maybe thousands, were showing signs of its deadly advance. Hall of Fame members like Nick and Frank Gifford and Mike Webster and Junior Seau and Ken Stabler were already gone. It was well known that Nick had left instructions for his brain to undergo an autopsy by the C.T.E. team at Boston University. Even in death, he would be giving back to society.

  I felt a tear trickle down my cheek. There is a strange sensation when a friend dies. Grief, of course. Sorrow and empathy for your friend’s family. But just as with a soldier who loses a buddy in battle, there can be an unexpectedly selfish feeling, too.

  There, but for the grace of God . . .

  Which is closely related to an inexcusably shameful notion we can barely admit.

  Better him than me . . .

  With Nick and me, it was different. His death was a foreshadowing.

  First him and then me . . .

  After a moment, I said, “Nick told me he calculated he’d taken half a million hits to the head, from peewee football right through fourteen seasons in the NFL.”

  “For sure, it’s a damn violent sport.”

  “I loved the game, Ray. The camaraderie. The friendships. The teamwork. Once in a while, the sheer physical ecstasy. But now I’m wondering if all that is worth the toll it takes.”

  He let me wonder in silence a moment before replying, “I don’t know, Jake. It’s a changing world. Maybe the next generation will only play football on video games.”

  While I pondered that, Pincher asked, “How’s your nephew’s case going?”

  “You know criminal trials, Ray. Some days it ebbs. Some days it flows. Some days, a riptide carries you out to sea.”

  “If you need anything, just ask.”

  “At long last, you’ve stopped telling me I shouldn’t handle the case.”

  “Too late to put a tourniquet on that wound. There are more than a hundred thousand lawyers in Florida, and you’re the worst one to defend your nephew. But you’re still a helluva advocate.”