by Paul Levine
“As are you. Today I inadvertently mentioned your name when I was mad at the prosecutor.”
Pincher laughed. “Lawyers come up to me all the time and say our battles in court were like Ali and Frazier.”
“I’m Ali,” I quipped, “the pretty one. You’re Frazier.”
“Ha! You’re the thrilla in vanilla, white boy!”
We both chuckled at that. Old times. Not always good times, but a mutual respect out of fair combat.
“Hey Ray, I saw Gilberto Foyo in court today.”
“He’ll be there every day. If you need to post bail, he’s got a blank check.”
“Don’t worry. I’m on my best behavior. Say, did you know the U.S. Attorney didn’t charge forty percent of the parents involved in the bribery scheme?”
“No, but so what?”
“Tomorrow morning, I’m going to make a motion to compel the government to disclose their names so I can call them to testify.”
“To what end?”
“Get their admissions. ‘Did you bribe?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Were you charged?’ ‘No.’ One after the other. A dozen. Two dozen. Make an impression about the unfairness of it all.”
“Some will invoke the Fifth.”
“That’s fine, too. Maybe even better because it implies guilt. The jury will know there are a slew of people who committed crimes and were never charged. So why indict my baby-faced nephew? Selective enforcement.”
“Which is not illegal. Not everyone driving above the speed limit gets a ticket.”
“But Kip is being unfairly singled out, especially since Ringle is getting a sweetheart deal. No matter what the judge instructs on the law, jurors are guided by an inherent sense of fairness. That’s what I’m counting on.”
There was silence on the line a moment before Pincher said, “You’re going for jury nullification. That’s tricky, Jake.”
“The only other issue I have is highly technical, and you know how juries react to that.”
“What’s the issue?”
“That the universities weren’t deprived of property so there’s no fraud.”
“A long shot. Is a plea still out of the question?”
“They never offered one. This is their show trial.”
“Is there a number you would take?”
That stopped me a moment. Was the state attorney offering to broker a deal with the U.S. Attorney?
“What are you saying, Ray?”
“Just thinking out loud. Good luck, champ. You’re still the greatest.”
It wasn’t true, but I appreciated the sentiment from my old pal and adversary just the same.
“And you’re still Smokin’ Joe,” I said.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
The Law Business, not the Justice Business
Heading north on U.S. 1, an asshole in a Lamborghini convertible—if that’s not redundant—cut me off. I leaned on the Eldo’s horn, which played the first four notes of the old Monday Night Football theme. Dun-dun-dun-dunnnnn. The Lamborghini driver shot me the bird.
I’m not given to road rage, but lately on the highway, I’ve been impatient and irritable. When we both caught the traffic light at Seventeenth Avenue, I changed into the right-hand lane and pulled alongside him, reaching for my coffee cup.
“Don’t do it, Uncle Jake,” Kip advised.
I tossed half a cup of black coffee onto the Lamborghini’s windshield. Hey, I’m a nice guy. With his top down, I could have dumped it onto his Alcantara suede upholstery.
“You’re gangsta!” Kip cheered.
The Lamborghini driver turned on his windshield wipers and sputtered a few expletives. I tooted another horn blast, then headed north on I-95 for the short drive downtown.
It was too early in the day for a migraine, but there it was, an arrow shooting through one ear and out the other. I had a small problem pulling into the parking lot. The arm on the gate seemed to have cloned itself, and I saw two arms, moving up and down like the blades of scissors. Once inside the courthouse, I felt just a touch of vertigo. When I stepped off the elevator, I felt as if I were still moving upward.
I deposited Kip in the courtroom, then poked my head into the judge’s outer chambers and told the assistant that I needed ten minutes for an emergency motion before testimony resumed.
Five minutes later, trying to ignore the piercing headache, I was sitting in one of the cushy chairs in front of the judge’s desk in his spacious, high-ceilinged chambers. It was a quiet place of light woods and floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with law books, even though nearly all research these days is done on computers. The judge’s three well-groomed law clerks sat on a beige sofa, laptops balanced on their knees. The court reporter was perched in a straight-backed chair, her machine at the ready. Margaret Bolden and her merry band trooped in and occupied much of the open space.
Judge Speidel regarded me skeptically and demanded, “What’s your emergency?”
“The defense moves, ore tenus, to compel the government to reveal the names of the twenty-eight parents it has chosen not to prosecute,” I said.
The judge murmured a quiet hmmm. Sitting this close, I saw that his fleshy jowls quivered with every word, not just when he was angry.
“Apparently, Mr. Lassiter intends to argue that because the government exercised its lawful discretion as to whom to charge, his client should go free,” Bolden said in a dismissive tone.
“Ms. Bolden, if you’re gonna argue my case,” I said, “I wish you’d do a better job.”
“Mr. Lassiter, just what do you intend to do with these people?” the judge asked.
“Find out why they got a free ride. Do they have any exculpatory evidence helpful for my client?”
“Sounds like a fishing expedition,” the judge said.
“I’ve caught some big grouper that way, Your Honor.”
“Counsel is being disingenuous,” Bolden said. “Based on his cross of Agent Wisniewski, it’s obvious Mr. Lassiter intends to call the non-charged parents and make some frivolous argument about the unfairness of it all.”
“Is that true, Mr. Lassiter?”
I tried to focus on the question. My vertigo was gone, but my migraine had become a backhoe and was gouging a hole in my cranium.
“Mr. Lassiter,” the judge pestered me.
“I reserve the right to call the non-charged parents, and the government has no right to ask the subject matter of my questions.”
Bolden said, “Then counsel should know that if his client took exams for any of their children, we’ll be adding additional counts to the charges.”
“Well, listen to that.” I gave the prosecutor a scoffing laugh. “Margie, you are so darned cute when you make threats.”
“Mr. Lassiter! Kindly address me, not opposing counsel,” the judge warned.
“You got it, Judge.”
“Your Honor! Not Judge.”
“Sorry, Your Honor. You’re darned cute, too.”
The judge’s mouth fell open, increasing his chins from four to five. “Mr. Lassiter, are you on drugs?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. Except for the experimental ones, which I stopped cold turkey. My doctor, who I also sleep with, said there might be side effects.”
“Jesus H. Christ!” the judge exclaimed.
For reasons I cannot explain, I made the sign of the cross, though I am not Catholic, last time I checked.
The judge was silent for a long moment. Maybe he was thinking about calling the marshals to take me away. Or the guys in little white coats with leather-belted straitjackets.
“All right,” the judge sighed. “We’re gonna finish this up with no more folderol from Mr. Lassiter. Does the government have anything else to say on the pending motion?”
One of Bolden’s assistants handed her a document, which she glanced at, and said, “Under Campbell vs. United States, the Eleventh Circuit last year upheld the denial of a virtually identical motion. In an insider trading case, only three of nine persons were charged
. Those three sought the identity of the six others. The court reasoned that the identity of non-charged individuals is government work product and also threatened grand jury secrecy.”
“Thank you, Ms. Bolden. As usual you are incisive, brief, and on point.” The judge turned to me with a scowl so derisive that it would have buckled the knees of most men. But my knees are made of chromium, titanium, and plastic, and while they squeak, they don’t buckle. “Mr. Lassiter?”
“I haven’t read the case, Your Honor. But by the end of the day, I will be prepared to respond.”
“So, Mr. Lassiter, how is it that the government is better prepared to argue your motion than you are?”
“I don’t have the entourage Ms. Bolden does.”
“Then perhaps you’re not capable of handling this case.”
“A momentary setback, Judge.”
“Your Honor! Not Judge!”
“Right. Right. Your Honor. ‘Your Honor’ somehow reminds me of ‘Your Highness,’ which seems excessively royal.”
The migraine had hatched baby migraines, and the judge’s chambers were spinning. I was seeing double again, so that Judge Speidel seemed to now weigh 800 pounds. It did not make him any more attractive.
“Perhaps if you’d followed the rules and filed a written motion with a memorandum of law, you’d be better prepared,” he scolded. “Or perhaps having researched the law, you would have discovered the frivolity of your motion before you filed it.”
“Frivolousness,” I heard myself say.
“What?”
“You said ‘frivolity.’ Which means silly or lighthearted. You meant ‘frivolousness,’ the legal term meaning not worthy of serious attention. If you want, why not have the court reporter read it back? Maybe I’m wrong, and you said frijoles.”
Judge Speidel’s jowls turned pink and quivered like a brook trout struggling to shake the hook. “I’m cutting you every break I can, counselor. I even told my clerks you were a damn fine cross-examiner. No structure but sharp instincts. Then you waltz in here, demanding an emergency hearing. You haven’t followed the rules! You don’t even know the rules! You don’t give a damn about the rules!”
“The rules. The rules. The rules.” I sounded like a demented parrot.
The judge’s face had turned an angry shade of red. A heart attack was not out of the question. His voice changed timbre as it picked up steam, climbing into tenor range, odd for such a massive man. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, fella. You want me to hold you in contempt? Declare a mistrial? Lose the case and set up a 2255 for ineffective counsel?”
Not a bad idea. I could hire Marcia Silvers, Miami’s preeminent criminal appellate lawyer, to claim I botched the case. Unfortunately, Kip would be incarcerated while that played out.
“Whatever it is,” Judge Speidel continued, “you’re not getting it! We’re gonna try this case to the end by the rules! By the goddamn rules! And when I send this jury home for a job well done, I’ll deal with you, starting with a complaint to the Florida Bar.”
“Excellent,” I said. “I’m a Bar prosecutor. If they let me prosecute myself and defend myself, I’d have a fool for a client, a fool for a lawyer, and a fool for opposing counsel. All things considered, I’d be inclined to offer myself a plea.”
“Are you mocking me? Are you mocking the rules?”
“I care about . . .” My voice trailed off.
“What? Speak up!”
“I care about justice.”
“Justice is a meaningless term.”
That rocked me. “How can a federal judge say that?”
“And how can you have practiced law so long and not realize that justice is a mere concept? A goal, an ideal, a sweet and fuzzy word like ‘spirituality.’ But it’s just a notion, and your definition of that notion can be far different from mine. It’s the law that’s real and tangible and nonnegotiable.”
He slammed his fist on his desk with a clomp and raised his voice even louder. “We’re in the law business, not the justice business. And it’s the law we shovel from our courthouses like coal from a mine into the hopper. If the application of the law happens to coincide with someone’s notion of justice, great. If not, it’s still the law. And to that end, the defense motion stands denied.”
The judge stood and reached for his robes, which were hanging on a coat rack. “Now, let’s get into the courtroom.”
Margaret Bolden and her crew of young thoroughbreds exited chambers before I even got out of my chair.
I got to my feet, feeling like an old plow horse with a mangy coat and spavined spine. Too weak to till the north forty, too slow to cavort in the south pasture. I was plagued with the thought that the judge might be right. That I was incapable of handling my nephew’s case. And that I knew nothing about the “law business,” meaning my career was a sham, and I had as much chance of winning Kip’s trial as that plow horse had of winning the Kentucky Derby.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The Trap Door
Five minutes after leaving the judge’s chambers, with a pit stop for a pee, I sank into my chair at the defense table.
“What’s wrong, Uncle Jake? You look bummed.”
At the government table, Margaret Bolden and her cast of thousands had set up their tents and were sharpening their swords. Like the Vikings encamped outside York in the ninth century, they were ready to pillage and burn and take no prisoners.
The judge was taking his time getting into the courtroom. Maybe he was telling the marshals to be ready to Tase and cuff me. Or maybe he was simply popping a couple antacids because I gave him indigestion.
I looked at Kip and said, “I hope I don’t let you down, kiddo.”
“No way!” He put a hand on my forearm. “You’re doing great.” He studied me a long moment. “I’m really sorry about how pissy I was to you.”
“Forget it, kiddo. You’ve apologized enough.”
“At Max’s house, I called you an ‘old burnout’ when you were trying to help me.”
“Hey, quit it. We learn. We grow. You and me kiddo, we’re cool.” His eyes were moist. I lowered my voice to a whisper. “And to tell you the truth, I am an old burnout.”
***
Arthur Kwalick of Greenwich, Connecticut, owned a firm that designed women’s clothing, which it manufactured in China and India. He led the hit parade of parents who filled the government’s roster today. There wasn’t much for me to do but sit and stew and listen to their tales of my nephew, the imposter, taking their children’s tests.
Kwalick was the first of five witnesses with similar stories. After first flirting with U.S.C., he was intent on having his son, Craig, attend Yale, his alma mater. Kwalick paid $100,000 to Q.E.D. for Kip to take his SAT exam. From the documents, I knew that Ringle kept $75,000 and gave Kip $25,000. Son Craig got to sing “Bright College Years,” the cheerfully ironic Alma Mater, for two semesters before being expelled for his fraudulent admission. His dad was one of the first parents to plead guilty, express remorse, and offer to cooperate. In our system of justice, it is the early songbird who gets the juicy deal.
Kwalick served twelve days at a federal prison camp in Wisconsin. It’s called “Papadapoulous time” after the Trump campaign official who served exactly that after pleading guilty to lying to the FBI.
As was her style, so admired by Judge Speidel, Bolden was quick and crisp with her questions. She established that Yale, with a six-percent acceptance rate, was a “reach” school for Craig, though he was a decent student at Phillips Academy in Andover, Massachusetts. Kwalick met personally with Kip, gave him the preppie’s handwriting sample, and asked him to get close to a 790 in math and a 760 in English to hit the median of accepted applicants. Kip nailed it, a 1550, and earned an additional $30,000 bonus.
I admired Bolden’s abilities. I’ve long thought that a good prosecutor is a well-trained union carpenter building a sturdy house with shiny tools and freshly hewn wood. She follows blueprints to the letter, makes s
ure the framing is in plumb, lines up the two-by-fours, and hammers the nails straight. The best courtroom carpenters are Renaissance men and women. They double as bricklayers, installers, tapers, finishers, electricians, and even plumbers. They can build the whole damn house, and it’s a thing of beauty that will pass the toughest inspection by city inspectors . . . or juries.
Until the defense lawyers come along.
We’re the stealthy vandals wielding crowbars and spray paint. We tear down door frames, break windows, and spray graffiti on the walls. Our job is to destroy what the carpenters have built and feed it into the woodchipper.
“Your witness,” Bolden said, giving me access to the sturdy framing she had built.
I hated the fact that Kip had met personally with Arthur Kwalick. The face-to-face meeting elevated my nephew’s status in the scheme, which, of course, was Bolden’s goal. I needed to refocus attention on the major sleaze, Max Ringle.
“Mr. Kwalick, who owned Q.E.D., the business you dealt with?”
“To the best of my knowledge, Max Ringle.”
“And who pitched you on hiring Q.E.D.?”
“Max Ringle.”
“Who guaranteed your son’s admission to an elite university?”
“You know who. Ringle.”
“Who did you pay?”
“Same guy. Max Ringle.”
I walked to the podium with a glass of water, discovered it was empty and walked back to defense table. I opened a briefcase and pulled out an Army canteen, unsnapped the camo canvas pouch, unscrewed the lid, and took a long drink of water. The jurors never took their eyes off me. Refreshed, I walked back to the podium.
“What exactly did Max Ringle say about getting Craig into an elite university?”
“He said there were three doors. You walked through the front door if you’re a valedictorian with perfect college boards, and you’re building houses on weekends for Habitat for Humanity. The back door meant making huge contributions to the university. The more elite the school, the bigger the contribution. Then there was the side door. That’s where the student fabricates his résumé to look like a champion athlete, and the parents give money to the university’s athletic program.”
