by Paul Levine
“I suppose it was aspirational and not technically true at the time.”
“You lied in written materials, did you not?”
“Yes.”
“You lied face-to-face?”
“Yes.”
“You lied on the phone?”
“I’ve also lied to Santa Claus and an ex-wife or two.” His voice ratcheted up a notch. “Maybe you want to add those to your list, Mr. Lassiter.”
Judge Speidel coughed his displeasure. “Mr. Ringle, please just answer the question. If Mr. Lassiter wants to discuss Santa Claus or his reindeer, he’ll tell you.”
I paused to let the jury get a whiff of Ringle’s anger and absorb the judge’s admonition. A two-bagger. Ringle was miffed. Cross-examination reveals the true self under the government’s spit shine and the plastic surgeon’s Botox.
“You are an extremely intelligent man, correct?”
“It would be false modesty to disagree.”
“With a Ph.D. in psychology from UCLA?”
“Yes.”
“A skill you put to use in judging people?”
“I’m sure I do.”
“Knowing which parents would be open to your bribery scheme and which ones you shouldn’t approach because they might blow the whistle?”
He shrugged as if the answer were obvious. “Of course. It requires emotional intelligence to make those decisions.”
“Also knowing what young person might be ripe for picking as your fraudulent test-taker?”
“You mean, did I use my knowledge of psychology to choose your nephew? I would have to say ‘yes.’ And I was right. He was perfect for the job.”
“More than that, you knew he would never turn on you. That loyalty was one of his primary traits, correct?”
“Yes, because of a prior incident in his life when he was away at college. Again, I was correct.”
“But he was wrong in assessing you as a friend, perhaps even as a surrogate father, wasn’t he?”
“Alas, also true. Kip’s stratospheric IQ does not encompass an ability to evaluate the personality characteristics of others.”
I paused a moment. His answer tickled something in my brain, and I knew I would have to ask Melissa about it. But now, it was time to pick up the pace. Effective cross has a rhythm and a beat. My goal was to have the jurors tapping their toes, as if listening to the Coasters singing “Yakety Yak.” Meaning it was time for me to take out the papers and the trash.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Lies, Lies, and More Lies
Before continuing my cross of Max Ringle, I surveyed the courtroom. The first three rows of the gallery were jammed with journalists. At the prosecution table, Margaret Bolden sat poker-faced. A savvy trial lawyer wouldn’t look concerned if her star witness leapt onto the clerk’s table, dropped his drawers, and mooned the jury.
At the defense table, Kip was following instructions, sitting up straight with a pleasant look on his face. He occasionally scribbled on a yellow pad, either notes for me or equations in quantum physics.
Judge Speidel looked directly at me and asked, “Do you have anything further, Mr. Lassiter?”
Oh yes, I certainly do.
“Mr. Ringle,” I said, “Q.E.D. perpetuated a series of frauds from day one, correct?
“Yes.”
“You paid bribes to facilitate that fraud?”
“Yes.”
“You lied to keep the fraud going?”
“Yes.”
“You lied, despite the harm you were doing to others?”
“Yes.”
“Once the FBI uncovered your fraud, you lied to increase others’ culpability?”
“Yes.”
“You lied to decrease the punishment you faced?”
“Yes.”
“You lied to FBI Agent Wisniewski?”
He fidgeted in his chair. “At first, I did. Foolishly.”
“Which itself was a crime.”
“Correct.”
“Did you tell Kip Lassiter that the FBI had approached you?”
“No.”
“In fact, when asked, you lied and said they had not approached you?”
“Correct.”
“Did Kip Lassiter tell you the FBI approached him, seeking his cooperation against you?”
“He did.”
“Did Kip tell you that he refused to cooperate?”
“He did.”
“Did you tell Kip he’d better lawyer up?”
“No.”
“In fact, you told him you had a legal opinion that the scheme was not illegal, and he shouldn’t worry, isn’t that right?”
“It is.”
“And that was a lie.”
“It was.”
“A lie intended to encourage him to continue taking tests for your clients?”
“Yes.”
“To increase his culpability and assist you in your deal with the government?”
Ringle sank back into his chair, his arms no longer comfortably on the railing. I could see beads of sweat on his forehead. He wasn’t beaten, but he was taking painful shots to the kisser. Cross-examination isn’t like one of Kip’s violent eGames where you use an axe to decapitate your opponent with one swing. Rather, like a boxer with a decent jab, you repeatedly smack the witness, pop-pop-pop, snapping his head back, maybe opening a cut over the eye. Knockouts are rare, but winning on points is still a win.
Judge Speidel interjected, “Mr. Ringle, do you need the question repeated? If not, please speed up your answer.”
Ringle emitted a long breath. “As I said before, I tried to live up to my agreement with the government.”
I could see he longed to get off the stand. But I wanted to keep him there, let the jury watch him twitch and wriggle.
Rattle Ringle.
“Thereafter, you surreptitiously recorded conversations with Kip to elicit incriminating evidence against him, correct?”
“Yes, at the FBI’s direction.”
“And you increased Kip’s compensation after you began cooperating with the FBI and he did not?”
“Yes.”
“Having the effect of exaggerating his culpability, correct?”
“I’d say increasing his culpability.”
“So, in summary, upon learning that Kip would not help the government make a case against you, your response was to help make a case against him, correct?”
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “While I’m sure it’s of little solace to Kip, who I have great fondness for, I was thinking of my family when I cut that deal. So, the answer is yes.”
“You wore a wire and allowed your phone calls to be recorded to help the government prosecute your clients, correct?”
“Yes.”
“People you had talked into paying bribes.”
“It didn’t require a lot of talking, but yes, that’s true.”
“Then, after you began cooperating, you lied to clients, to coaches, to test proctors, to athletic department employees, and to Kip Lassiter, correct?”
“Yes.”
“While gathering evidence against them?”
“Yes, already!” He turned to the judge. “I think I’ve said that.”
The judge ignored him, and I kept going. “So, after you began secretly cooperating with the government, virtually every action you took was intended to minimize your culpability and maximize the culpability of more than fifty other people?”
“Many of my actions were so intended, yes.”
“Facilitated by even more lies?”
“Yes! Once more, I’ve said that.”
“On this witness stand, your client, Arthur Kwalick, called you a ‘professional liar.’ Accurate?”
Ringle wrinkled his forehead, which wasn’t easy to do with all that Botox. “As opposed to an amateur liar, yes, I’m quite accomplished at prevarication.”
“Then today, you walk into this courtroom, put your hand on the Bible, and swear to tell the truth?�
�
“I am telling the truth!”
“At this late date, Mr. Ringle, with your history of frauds, bribes, and lies, do you even know the truth?”
“Objection, argumentative!” Bolden called out.
“Sustained,” the judge said.
“I’ll re-phrase. Mr. Ringle, is it your desire that the jury disregard your lifetime of frauds, bribes, and lies and believe you today?”
Unlike the Nazis in Raiders of the Lost Ark, Ringle’s face didn’t melt like molten wax, but he did look haggard as he said, with resignation, “I don’t care what the jury believes or doesn’t believe.”
“Just as you never cared whether you told the truth?”
“I don’t know how to answer that,” he admitted.
“Then, I have nothing further,” I concluded, sounding satisfied, because I was.
The judge looked toward the prosecution table. “Re-direct?”
Margaret Bolden declined. She wanted Ringle the hell out of the courtroom as quickly as possible. “The government rests,” she said.
Judge Speidel cleared his throat and said he thought this was a fine place to stop for the day. Translation: the judge’s bladder was ready to burst.
I sat down and looked at Kip, who appeared stunned. He had finally seen the depths of Max Ringle’s corruption, and it had to be shattering. In my nephew’s naivete, he had revered this man.
Then, with the courtroom emptying, Kip seemed to snap out of it. He rewarded me with a wide smile. “Fan-friggin’-tastic,” he whispered. “You made Max look evil and sound evil.”
“Nah. He did that himself.”
“But you made him reveal his true nature.”
I didn’t tell Kip what I was thinking. That it’s a mistake to get too excited over landing a few punches on cross, especially where the government already has proven its case. And it’s also a mistake to get all giddy when the judge would prefer to see both client and lawyer go to jail.
But I would say nothing to ding Kip’s confidence. Tomorrow would be the big day for him and the case. He would tell his story. I knew it would be the truth, but I did not know if it would set him free.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Reading People
Melissa Gold . . .
Melissa watched Jake devour a 16-ounce ribeye, corn on the cob, and creamed spinach. He washed it all down with one Grolsch, one Anchor Steam, and one Negra Modelo. He called it the “international battle of lagers.” Holland, USA, and Mexico, finally proclaiming a three-way tie. She was studying him, feeling positive about what she saw. He was focused, alert, and in good spirits.
Ever the vegan, Kip had eaten mint and green pea risotto but seemed to be studying the ribeyes with lust in his heart.
“Melissa, I wish you could have seen Uncle Jake today,” he said.
“Me, too,” she said.
Jake had explained that she couldn’t watch the trial because she would be a witness, so she had to be content with getting daily updates from her boys, as she called them.
“Uncle Jake dug Max a second asshole.”
“Watch your lingo, kiddo,” Jake scolded. “Mel, is there any Key lime pie?”
There was, and she cut three slices, squirting whipped cream on two of them. Kip took his pie naked. No dairy products, but again he looked toward their plates with envy. Melissa felt sorry for him, but, honoring his wishes, she wouldn’t try to convert him.
“Jake, tell me about your cross-exam,” she said.
“I scored some points, but that’s not the headline. I had one eye on Ringle and one on the jury box. We have at least a couple jurors who want to acquit if we can give them a reason, something to hang their ballcaps on.”
“How in the world do you know that?”
“Because I’ve been doing this a long time. Kip, were you looking at Ms. Dixon, the mail carrier, and Mr. Mauti, the Army veteran?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you read their faces?”
“I don’t know. Do you mean did I see them smile a couple times?”
“More like their eyes and their body language. I thought you’d notice, because their faces warmed up when looking at you. When they turned to Ringle, their eyes were pinched, their faces registering animosity and disapproval.”
“Okay. If you say so.”
Kip excused himself and retreated to his room.
Jake’s fork was poised above the pie, but his eyes were staring into space.
“I’m reading your face,” Melissa said.
“I hope you’re seeing the reflection of how much I cherish you.”
“Oh, I see that a lot. Just not at this moment. So, what are you thinking?”
He took a bite, savored the tartness, then sighed, “Kip didn’t get it. The faces, the body language.”
“And you’re thinking . . .?”
“Ringle said something today that’s stuck in my brain. ‘Kip’s stratospheric IQ does not encompass an ability to evaluate the personality characteristics of others.’”
“It’s similar to some things you and I have talked about,” she said. “Like Kip being better at video poker than the real thing.”
“Exactly!” Jake dropped his fork, excited. “When he was working only with numbers and probabilities, he was a superb player. When he got to those tables in Atlantic City with real, live players, he couldn’t read them. Did they have a tell? Were they bluffing? Blood pressure rising? Nothing. But they likely read him, and he lost a bundle.”
Melissa loved the way he had locked in. Something new in the case, and she could feel Jake’s excitement. “Are you looking for the name of a condition?” she asked.
“You bet I am.”
“Nonverbal Learning Disorder. N.L.D. It’s related to A.D.H.D.”
“How would you do a diagnosis?”
“I can pull a couple tests off medical websites and do them tonight. You understand there’s no guarantee what they’ll show.”
“Let’s think positive. You’re testifying the day after tomorrow. Can you—”
“Be ready?” Finishing his sentences now came naturally to her. “Easily. With a score sheet, the results are almost instantaneous.”
He wrinkled his forehead. “These are written tests he takes and you score?”
“Yes, why?”
“And your testimony will also be based on your observations of him.”
“Yes. So, what’s the problem?”
“Bolden is going to slam us on bias. First, you’ve got self-reporting bias. Kip will try to answer questions to get the desired diagnosis. Then, you’ll be the first expert witness in history who’s the fiancée of defense counsel and the stepmom of the defendant. Add the fact that your diagnosis will be based on subjective findings, and . . . well, you see the problems.”
She didn’t waste a moment. “You need something objective. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Exactly.”
“What time does Kip have to be in court tomorrow?”
“Nine-thirty a.m., why?”
“I’ll take him to the hospital at seven-thirty and have him in court on time.”
“Want to tell me what you’re gonna do?” he asked.
“Not yet. After we’re done, if that’s okay.”
“Fine. We’re a terrific—”
“Team.”
“Yeah.”
“Jake, if you can prove objectively that Kip has N.L.D., is that—”
“The peg for those jurors’ ballcaps?” He finished her sentence, just as she had done. “I don’t know. I never know. I’ve lost enough times that I don’t get seduced by my own rhetoric. But with an objective diagnosis, we’ve got a chance.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
The Game, Not the Prize
Margaret Bolden and I were standing shoulder to shoulder in Judge Speidel’s chambers at 9:05 a.m. the next day. We were waiting for the judge, and the atmosphere was tense. Other than our exchanges in the courtroom, we hadn’t spoken to each other since she
accused me of committing federal crimes and I threatened to report her to the Inspector General.
“About yesterday,” she said. “I want you to know I had nothing to do with Raymond Pincher spying on you. It was way above my pay grade.”
“Look, I know it was Juan Lucayo. But you used the information Pincher brought you.”
“I did as I was told. What would you have me do, quit?”
“Not my place to give you advice.” We were quiet for a moment before I said, “Okay, listen, I’m not filing a complaint against you. But Lucayo and Pincher? I’m out for their scalps.”
“Thank you. Can we agree to be congenial when we’re out of the courtroom?”
“That’s the way I’ve always played it. Of course, that started with Ray Pincher and look where it got me.”
The judge trundled into chambers and said, “Let’s get this show on the road. Mr. Lassiter?”
“The government having rested, the defense moves for judgment of acquittal on each count under Rule 29 on the ground that there is insufficient evidence to sustain a conviction.”
It was a pro forma motion that almost never gets granted.
“Denied,” Judge Speidel said. “There’s ample evidence on each and every count. Now, Mr. Lassiter, are you prepared to call your first witness?”
“Locked and loaded, Your Honor.”
“Fine. Let’s try to keep the questioning brief, shall we?”
“What! You never said that to the government.”
“That’s because Margie knows the protocol in my courtroom. I do not consider ‘Speed-it-up-Speidel’ a derogatory term.”
“I’m sure Ivan the Terrible felt the same,” I said, the words flying out of my mouth like wasps from a hive.
“Oh, Jesus, here we go.”
“Respectfully, Your Honor . . .”
“Beginning a sentence with ‘respectfully’ does not make it so, Mr. Lassiter.”
“Fine. My questioning will be no longer or shorter than it needs to be, and I ask . . . no, I demand, that you don’t interrupt me. If you do, the jury will believe I’m doing something wrong when it’s Your Honor who mistakenly believes that due process means fast process.”
