Cheater's Game

by Paul Levine

  “Really? I thought it might be GQ.”

  “You probably don’t remember me. Rudy Schulian.”

  “Rudy! You’re the intern who thought I was going to die after the Thunder Thurston murder trial.”

  “No, sir. I merely wrote your obit. We do that in advance for prominent Miamians.”

  “Are you here to see if I drop out of that category? Or just drop dead?”

  “Now I cover federal court, state court, the city commission, the zoning appeals board, South Beach nightclubs, and I’m the weekend deputy city editor.”

  “No delivery route in Opa-Locka?”

  “We’ve had some cutbacks. As for your prominence, this trial raises your profile. I predict a front-page obit.”

  “Now there’s something to look forward to. What do you need, Rudy?”

  “Is it true you used to spar with State Attorney Pincher at the gym?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “It’s a neat metaphor. Boxing in the ring, fighting in court. In the old days, I mean.”

  “You want a metaphor? Pincher used to hit me in the nuts.”

  “I’ll take that as a confirmation.”

  “Are you writing his obit, too? He’s an asshole, and you can quote me.”

  “I don’t think I’ll do that, sir.” He thumbed through his notepad. “I need to confirm a quote, something you supposedly said to a class at F.I.U. law school.”

  “Florida International has a law school?”

  He studied me a second to see if I was serious, decided I was, and answered, “Since about 2000 or so.”

  “Hah! Who knew the new century dawned with Miami needing more lawyers?”

  “Do you remember speaking to students there a couple years ago?”

  “Let’s say I do. What did I allegedly say?”

  “The professor quoted you as saying, ‘I lose most of my cases. That’s true, even with the big-name lawyers. If our customers knew our real winning percentage, they’d either cop a quick plea or jump bail and flee to Argentina.’”

  “I regret saying ‘customers.’ But it sounds about right. Say, Rudy, have you been watching the trial?”

  “Every day, except when I had to cover the commission vote on the new sewage plant.”

  “What do you think about my chances?”

  “Hard to say. The government has all the evidence. But you’re known for your summations. There are young lawyers lined up outside to see you.”

  “Really?”

  “I heard one of them say you always have a strong theme and you repeat it several times for emphasis.”

  “Either that, or I forget I’ve already said it.”

  “Someone else said you’re always flirting with contempt.”

  “I don’t flirt, Rudy. I take her all the way.”

  Schulian scribbled something on his pad.

  “Take a stab at it,” I said. “What’s the jury’s going to do?”

  He shrugged, helplessly. “No idea. What happened to your posse, those retirees who follow you from courtroom to courtroom?”

  “The courthouse gang,” I said. “No longer with us, Rudy.”

  I missed my old friends who dispensed advice and complained about the air-conditioning. Marvin the Maven. Cadillac Johnson. Teresa Toraño. All gone. As were Doc Charlie Riggs and Granny Lassiter.

  Rudy wished me luck and left me standing there, feeling old and tired and weighed down by responsibility. I wondered if I was up to the task before me. All I had in the world were Kip and Melissa, and it seemed inevitable I would lose one to prison and leave the other a young widow. In short, I was not in the best frame of mind when the courtroom deputy strode into the corridor and advised everyone that court was about to resume.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  Smart Kid, Dumb Kid

  My pants were belted, my tie knotted, my suit coat buttoned, and yet I felt naked standing in front of the jury. Ordinarily, summation is my favorite part of every trial. Unshackled from the formality of the Q & A, it’s a chance to soar with the ghosts of courtroom lore. Clarence Darrow comes to mind. “You can only protect your liberties in this world by protecting the other man’s freedom. You can only be free if I am free.”

  Today, my hands were moist and my temples throbbed. I am never nervous in court. What the hell was going on? I hoped the jury would not see the flop sweat threatening to pour down my face.

  Breathe in, breathe out. Repeat.

  Standing five feet from the jury box, I exhaled a long breath and began in my friendly neighbor tone. “How can someone so smart do something so stupid? I’ve asked myself that a thousand times, but I needed this trial to learn the answer.”

  The jurors waited, expectantly. They wanted to know, too.

  “Sometimes, the smartest kid in school is the dumbest kid on the street. That’s my nephew. That’s Kip Lassiter.”

  I pointed at him and shook my head, letting the jury feel my disappointment, and letting my theme sink in. I hoped the parents would relate to my anguish. I hoped they would worry about their own kids going astray. I hoped they believed in second chances.

  “Kip is living proof that a perfect score on a test doesn’t help you navigate the river of life, doesn’t protect you from those deadly rocks and those treacherous rapids. And it surely doesn’t give you the skills to deal with a sociopath like Max Ringle. That’s right, a man without a conscience who only cares about himself. If you’re on a raft with Ringle and you both go overboard, he’ll pry your fingers off the hand strap and climb over you to save himself. He’s the cockroach who will always survive.”

  I paused again. Like an actor delivering a soliloquy, a lawyer uses pace to propel the story and emphasis to pound home the theme.

  “You saw Kip solve that SAT math problem. He didn’t need a calculator or scratch paper or multiple-choice answers. He did it in his head. Something in his brain works differently than yours or mine. His synapses crackle and pop at the speed of light. How I wish he could read people the way he solves equations! Sometimes, the smartest kid in school is the dumbest kid on the street.”

  A couple jurors nodded. If I kept repeating the line, I wondered how many more jurors might join in.

  “The prosecutor told you this was a ‘nationwide criminal conspiracy that wreaked havoc on our system of higher education.’ Was it? Fifty young people cheated their way into college. My nephew helped some of them. None of those fifty—zero—were prosecuted. Were they any less culpable than Kip? Many of them have profited from their cheating. Advertising contracts and clothing lines and music deals. And yet Kip Lassiter is on trial, and they are not. What about fundamental fairness?

  “Look at Craig Kwalick and his clothing line. He got ‘framous’ with an ‘r’ because of the scandal. Look at the Hallinan twins and their hip-hop careers. Look at Shari Ringle and her eleven million-dollar business. What did she say about my client? ‘I thank Kip for making me what I am today.’

  “These young people are enmeshed in a strange new culture that I barely understand. They want the easy road, even if it is the low road. They worship not only money, but also celebrity. And in their world, infamy gets you more Twitter followers than achievement does.

  “It’s a world I find bewildering. In a society without shame, where faking it is making it and deceit trumps virtue, integrity is for losers and cheaters win. Fairness? Forget about it! A meritocracy? In your dreams! Earn your diploma? Why bother, when you can buy it?

  “Is this the message we want to send to the young? That the vapid and vacuous and amoral achieve happiness. And yet, I think there’s hope for those young people whose values are so foreign to me. Why? Because they are young and still learning. And they haven’t been charged with crimes that will destroy their lives. The government has chosen to let them mature and grow wiser with age. What about Kip? What about fundamental fairness? Will you let him have that same opportunity?”

  I paused and tried to be inconspicuous as I gave my head a li
ttle shake, as if clearing water out of an ear. My tinnitus was kicking up with the sharp staccato beat of a snare drum, irritating but not so loud as to drown out my thoughts. My headache, too, was still in the moderate zone.

  “How about those parents who got slapped on the wrists? You saw some of them. What about Harman Fisher, the guy from Star Island who could buy and sell me a hundred times? Max Ringle and Harman Fisher—what a quinella! The two faces of the prosecution’s case.

  “Ringle is a fraudster, a con man, a cheat, a professional liar, a scam artist, and a low life. To make his fortune, he needs the Harman Fishers of the world. Greedy, arrogant, avaricious, immoral, vicious . . . and those are his best qualities.”

  The jurors rewarded me with chuckles and small smiles. Oh, they remembered Fisher. They probably raced home that night and, in violation of the judge’s orders, excitedly told their spouses about the wealthy asshole who said he hoped Kip would be sexually assaulted in prison.

  “I asked Fisher if he should teach his kids about integrity. Remember his answer? ‘Better to teach them it’s a dog-eat-dog world.’ Now, there’s a role model! Speaking of fathers, how about Ringle? Remember what he said about his daughter Shari? ‘She’s not the brightest bulb in the chandelier.’

  “A vote to convict my nephew is a vote for these two men. Ringle has secretly pled guilty, and his sentencing awaits the outcome of this trial. He’s praying for a conviction to help his own cause. He’s the one prying Kip’s fingers off that hand strap to save himself as the raft heads toward the rapids. What about fundamental fairness?

  “Ringle expertly preyed on Kip’s weaknesses. He rationed the video games. Why? To make Kip thirsty for the dopamine rush. When up against Ringle, Kip never had a chance. You heard the testimony of Dr. Melissa Gold. Objective evidence. The brain scan proves that Kip has Nonverbal Learning Disorder. He misses personality cues and fails to read faces and body language. Kip is a lot smarter than I am, but I can spot a phony and he can’t. He has what my granny used to call ‘book smarts.’ But he lacks ‘street smarts.’”

  I waited a moment before delivering my theme a third time, and I spoke slowly to convey the importance of the words. “Sometimes, the smartest kid in school is the dumbest kid on the street.”

  A beat, and then I continued. “Now, a word about those surreptitious tape recordings. Altogether, they have Kip recorded for thirty hours and thirty-nine minutes in sixty-two different conversations. Agent Wisniewski admitted that Kip never said anything that indicated he knew he was committing a crime. Of course, he didn’t know. Ringle, master liar, told Kip he has a legal opinion that there’s no crime. And what does Kip say when Wisniewski approaches him to cooperate in the investigation against Max Ringle? ‘I don’t need to cooperate. I haven’t done anything wrong.’ What does Ringle do when he’s approached by the FBI? Knowing full well his guilt, he races to inform on the parents, kids, coaches, proctors, admissions officers, and, of course, my nephew. What about fundamental fairness?

  “Now, this is going to surprise you . . .”

  I paused. No one would fall asleep with that bait dangling in the air.

  “Maybe Max Ringle was right. Maybe inside all his lies was one kernel of truth. He didn’t have a legal opinion, but maybe it’s not a federal crime. And you’re the ones who get to decide that. Not the government. Not me. Not even Judge Speidel. So, what am I talking about when I say maybe it’s not a crime? Well, I have a confession to make.”

  Again, the jurors waited. They seemed to be enjoying each little mystery.

  “Despite my gray hair and membership in AARP, I’ve never been lead counsel in federal court before. I never tried a mail fraud case. So, I asked a state prosecutor, ‘What the heck is mail fraud?’”

  A couple jurors smiled. Maybe they had the same question. Or maybe they liked a lawyer who confessed he wasn’t a legal eagle.

  “And this prosecutor says—”

  “Your Honor,” Bolden interrupted. “This is not proper commentary on the evidence.”

  “Overruled. I’ve always allowed a little storytelling.”

  “The prosecutor says that mail fraud is what the feds use when they don’t have anything else. See, there’s no statute saying, ‘Thou shalt not cheat on the SAT exam.’ So, they use this catch-all mail fraud statute. The state prosecutor gave me an example. ‘Assume I go to Hawaii, and I send you a postcard saying I’m having a wonderful time, wish you were here. But I’m lying. I’m having a lousy time, and I don’t want you here. The feds would say that’s mail fraud.’”

  Four out of twelve jurors laughed. So did a healthy percentage of spectators. It would be supremely ironic if that bastard Ray Pincher inadvertently helped me win. But I couldn’t get too carried away with my own—or Ray’s—imagery. I knew that in her rebuttal, Bolden would tell the jury that Judge Speidel, not some state prosecutor, would deliver instructions on just what constitutes mail fraud.

  “This splendid courtroom in this magnificent courthouse has seen the worst humanity can dish out. Colombian drug cartels, human traffickers, sex slavers, terrorists bent on mass murder, billion-dollar Medicare fraudsters . . . and now this case: some teenagers cheating to get into one college instead of another. When I was a snot-nosed kid and would fuss about something, my granny would say, ‘For crying out loud, Jake, don’t make a federal case out of it.’ And today, I say the same to you.

  “You heard the testimony of Georgina Suarez. The admissions process is broken and corrupt. Those admissions slots, treated as holy artifacts by the prosecution, are traded like pork bellies in the real world. If you’re an athlete, if your family donates millions, if you’re a legacy, welcome aboard! It’s not a level playing field, and it was ripe for plundering by the likes of Max Ringle.

  “What happened here? The parents bribed the wrong people. They should have gone straight to the development departments. Fund a scholarship and get junior into college.”

  My tinnitus had gone up in volume and lower in pitch. The snare drums had turned into bass drums, reverberating with deep sonic booms each time the mallet struck. The headache that had begun in my temples now enveloped my head, as if a torturer were hammering rivets into my skull. I needed to move swiftly.

  “You also heard about the twenty-six parents who weren’t charged. One was the Chinese billionaire who paid a five million-dollar bribe to get his daughter into Stanford. Why wasn’t he indicted? Agent Wisniewski said it was because the man didn’t know it was crime. Well, neither did Kip Lassiter! What about fundamental fairness? It’s time to answer that question. This prosecution has been tainted from the outset. They charged Kip Lassiter and let others equally culpable go free. You may consider all of that in reaching your verdict.”

  “Objection! Objection!” Bolden must have been serious, or else why the repetition? “That’s an incorrect statement of the law, and a blatant attempt to urge the jury to violate Your Honor’s instructions.”

  Translation, that shyster is shooting for jury nullification, a major no-no.

  “Sustained. The court will determine just what the jury may consider in reaching its verdict.”

  “Let’s go back to Max Ringle for a moment,” I said, as if leading a tour group through the Louvre and wanting a second look at the Mona Lisa. “How did he pull this off? How did he convince parents and kids and coaches and proctors and admissions officers to dance with him? I don’t know how many of you are fans of Star Trek . . .”

  Okay, that’s a white lie. I know from voir dire that three of my dozen are Trekkies.

  “You may remember an episode where aliens from the planet Talos create a reality distortion field, where illusions are indistinguishable from reality. They could make humans see things that weren’t there. Ladies and gentlemen, Max Ringle is a Talosian. He created a reality distortion field that fooled a lot of people, including Kip Lassiter.

  “The prosecutor told you to hold Kip Lassiter to the standard of a reasonable person. Let’s consider that. Max R
ingle, a man who can conjure mythical worlds out of thin air, told my young, inexperienced nephew that his actions did not constitute a federal crime. I submit that Kip was reasonable in believing the man’s lies.”

  I waited a moment and closed my eyes. Either there was a thunderstorm inside the courtroom, or my brain pan had decided to slam itself against the inside of my skull. I needed to wrap this up before the jury mistook my pained facial expressions for fear.

  “Years ago, in state court, I represented a client from South America who was unfamiliar with our justice system. He asked me, ‘Who owns this courthouse?’ I told him the government. He asked, ‘Who pays the judge and the court staff?’ Same answer, the government. ‘Who pays the prosecutors and their investigators and the police?’ The government. Not surprisingly, my client seemed worried. But I explained that no one owns the jury. The jury is independent, and that’s what guarantees a fair trial. Ladies and gentlemen, no one owns you. No one can question what you do in this case. Today, you are the law.

  “I will close with this. At the Justice Department in Washington, there’s a sign over the entrance that reads, ‘The government of the United States, the people of our country, never lose a case, despite a not guilty verdict, so long as justice is done.’

  “In this case, the government has not proved guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. Rather, the government has proved that Kip Lassiter, the smartest kid in school, was the dumbest kid on the street. A verdict of not guilty on all counts will satisfy the government’s own standard that justice be done. Thank you.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  Lunch Date

  Margaret Bolden’s rebuttal was uneventful. The jurors, some of whom had been perched on the edge of their swivel chairs when she spoke the first time, now settled back into the cushions. They had already made up their minds, but in which direction? I had no idea.