Judge Roth's Law

by Bill Sage

  “Being an asshole should be easy for a dickhead like you,” Jake said through clenched teeth. Then he grabbed Goldman’s tie and yanked him back like a yo-yo. “Just be the scumbag you are. You know how to do that very well, don’t you?”

  Jake let go of Goldman’s tie. Goldman straightened up and leaned against the desk again

  “I got it, I got it,” Goldman said.

  Then just before he left, Jake told him that Claudio would take care of him if he got into any trouble with Judge Roth. He ended by saying, “You know what I mean?”

  Goldman looked at him but didn’t say anything.

  “Bye, Arnie,” Jake said as he turned and went for the door.

  20

  NICCOLO A. MANGANO WAS ON TRIAL for first-degree murder. The prosecution was not asking for the death penalty.

  It was a mob hit. Mangano and another mobster waited in the parking lot of Salvatore's restaurant in Mission Viejo for Salvatore Palermo to leave for the night. When Palermo walked to his car, Mangano pumped one shotgun blast into his neck and another into his chest. Then he jumped into a waiting getaway car and they sped away.

  Palermo and a guy in the LA mob owned the restaurant. Palermo was out of Chicago, but moved Lake Forest, a city adjacent to Mission Viejo. Their restaurant was doing well, but it soon became apparent Palermo was skimming the profits.

  The bosses of both families met and agreed Palermo had to pay for his disloyalty. Claudio assigned Nick Mangano, a made guy in the LA crew, to do the job.

  The witnesses against Mangano were Robert and Joyce Madden. At the time of the murder, they were still dating.

  Robert Madden was an engineer at McDonnell Douglas in Huntington Beach. Loved his job, couldn’t wait until Mondays. Usually walked around with a white pocket protector stuck in his shirt pocket. And proud of it.

  Joyce was a native Californian. Taught elementary school in Garden Grove. Loved children and hoped to have two or three herself. Her favorite things were making fruit tarts and taking care of their two cats.

  They both were in their late twenties and had been dating for over a year. Hoping to save enough to buy a house in Irvine or Laguna Niguel.

  On the night of Palermo’s murder, the Maddens had gone to Salvatore’s to have dinner and a little fun. They loved the lasagna and house red wine. It was their special place.

  When they were in their car, getting ready to leave, they saw the murder take place.

  They reported what they saw to the Orange County Sheriff’s Department, but it took the homicide detectives six months to finally crack the case. That’s when sheriff’s deputies arrested Frankie Borelli and two other guys out of San Diego for loansharking and extortion in Orange County.

  Borelli was the driver of Mangano’s getaway car. With prior convictions and time in the joint, Frankie could be looking at serious prison time. Snitching off Mangano as the guy who shot Palermo was a way of working out a deal on his case.

  His plea bargain with the DA’s office was that in exchange for informing on who killed Palermo, Frankie would only do a year in Orange County Jail. They also agreed the DA’s office would keep his identity confidential as long as the eyewitness could identify Mangano at a photo lineup. But if they couldn’t, he’d have to testify at the trial.

  Now that the sheriff’s detectives knew who the murderer was, they showed the Maddens a photo lineup of six mug shots, including one photo of Mangano.

  Without hesitation, they both picked his picture. Based on their identifications, sheriff’s deputies arrested Mangano and he was now facing a first-degree murder charge.

  21

  ON THE FIRST DAY OF TRIAL, Goldman wore a dark blue sport coat, grey, loose-fitting pants, and the same suede slipper loafers. His pants were made from a thin material that billowed when he walked.

  He had his pink tie drawn into a wide knot, making him look clownish. When he buttoned his sport coat, it cut too deeply into his stomach, spreading it open around his waist.

  Craig Wilcox was the DA assigned to prosecute Mangano. A career prosecutor, he was the head of the homicide panel.

  He was a little less than six feet tall, slender, and walked with an almost undetectable limp. His sandy hair was a shade longer than a crew cut. He was wearing a conservative blue suit with a vest and banker cap toe shoes. Highly shined.

  “Get that suit at Goodwill?” Goldman asked Wilcox.

  “Yeah, I thought only one of us should look like a circus clown.”

  Before the trial began, Judge Roth called both attorneys into his chambers to discuss any pretrial motions and any other preliminary matters the attorneys wanted to get resolved before the trial began.

  Judge Roth was at his desk and the two lawyers sat in chairs in front of him.

  “Your Honor, this case shouldn’t take too long. Maybe a little over a week. Maybe two,” Wilcox said.

  “I’ve heard that before,” Roth said.

  “It could be even shorter because this case shouldn’t have even been filed in the first place,” Goldman said.

  “That remains to be seen,” Wilcox said. “That’s what trials are for.”

  “Everyone knows the case is a political thing. It’s an abuse of prosecutorial power, no question about it,” Goldman said, banging his fist on his briefcase. “It's just a piece of crap.”

  Wilcox swung around to check Judge Roth’s reaction, then turned to face Goldman. “Hey, hang on just a minute,” he said, wagging his finger at Goldman.

  “Don’t interrupt me, Wilcox. Let me finish,” Goldman demanded, shaking his finger back at Wilcox. “It's common knowledge Hitchens is seeking to make a name for himself so he can run for Congress. He hopes the Mangano case will bring him some good publicity. He’s exploiting Mangano for his own advantage.”

  Wilcox shook his head and laughed. “Hey, Arnie, you're hallucinating.” He knew Goldman didn’t like being called “Arnie.”

  “You don't know what you're talking about,” Goldman said in an angry voice.

  Wilcox turned away from Goldman and looked at Judge Roth. “He’s a lunatic, Your Honor. He’s making it up as he goes along. He’ll say anything that pops into his brain.”

  Despite what Goldman was claiming in chambers, Roth knew it was a lie. Hitchens never planned on running for congress. In fact, Roth had been at a meeting with Hitchens last week with four other judges. When asked, he said he wouldn’t be running for congress.

  Judge Roth sat back, fighting to keep a perturbed look from spreading across his face. When Goldman finished his bogus tirade, Roth pressed him for details. “Mr. Goldman, you have any evidence to back up any of your assertions? I’d like to hear it.”

  “Yeah, let’s see what you have, Arnie,” Wilcox added.

  Goldman ignored Judge Roth's question and Wilcox’s challenge. “I don’t care what the DA says, this is a half-ass case, and he knows it. It’s being pushed by a publicity-loving district attorney, who doesn't care what he has to do to get his name in the papers.”

  It went like that for several minutes. Roth could see he’d have his hands full. Good for his plan, but bad for being in the same courtroom as Goldman for a week or two.

  The squabbling came to head when Goldman referred to Wilcox as “the Cockman.” It happened when Goldman was tearing away at the district attorney. “Hitchens just wants to make a name for himself, and he's got the cock guy doing his dirty work.

  He turned in his chair and faced Wilcox. “What did you say your name was 'Cockman' or 'Cock' something?”

  “It's Wilcox, Mr. Goldberger,” Wilcox said. “Have you ever thought of practicing law instead of acting like such a buffoon? No one’s buying your lying crap.”

  Goldman glared at Wilcox and was getting ready to respond, when Judge Roth intervened. “Hey, you guys, knock it off,” raising his hand to stop them. “I’m not going to let this case get out of hand. Stop the cheap shots and act like gentlemen.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Wilcox said.

 
; Goldman just sat there, steaming.

  Even though Roth expected him to be this obnoxious, it still bothered him. “Mr. Goldman, don't push your luck in this court. I'll put you behind bars for contempt of court as quickly as I can. Do I make myself clear?”

  Goldman didn’t know when to stop. As he stared first at Wilcox then back at Roth, he assumed his best wide-eyed look of innocence. Then with his mouth slightly ajar and his head bobbing up and down, he said, “Hey, what's this, two against one?”

  “One more wisecrack like that, Mr. Goldman, and I'll remove you from the case.” Judge Roth then leaned forward, staring at Goldman. "Just try me.”

  Roth meant it when he said it, but obviously he didn’t want to remove Goldman from the case. He knew Goldman was doing what Jake had told him to do, and the attorney brawling was what he wanted to happen.

  “All right, Your Honor,” Goldman said in a level voice, “I just don't like someone poking fun at my family name.”

  “Let’s get back to any matters we need to resolve before we start the trial,” Roth said.

  Goldman said unless things changed, he’d only bring one pretrial motion. It was an attack on the photo lineup made during the investigation. He said he expected to show it was conducted in a prejudicial manner.

  That could play right into Roth’s hands. He’d keep his eyes open for anything he could use to advance his plan to get Mangano out of jail.

  Roth recessed the case until the following morning. “I’ll hear the motion when I have time tomorrow.”

  The attorneys packed up their files and left his chambers.

  Roth sat at his desk, thinking about what had just happened. He laughed as he thought about Goldman, he was a bigger asshole than he thought. With Jake pushing him to be even more obnoxious than he ordinarily was, the trial should be quite an experience.

  Roth would only have to put up with him for a week or two, and hopefully his plan would work. He felt a little sorry for Wilcox. He was a fine lawyer who liked trying cases. But this trial would be more like an angry, no-holds-barred, biker brawl. Not a genteel trial governed by the rules of evidence and mutual respect.

  22

  JESSE TORRES WASN’T LOOKING FORWARD to returning to Judge Roth’s court for sentencing on his possession of heroin charge. He was a hopeless hype and with his long record he’d probably do hard time in state prison.

  His attorney, Ron Bradford, had advised him his only chance of staying out of the joint was a possible shot at being sent to a drug rehabilitation center. But Bradford was quick to level with him that with his long rap sheet, his chance of getting a referral was virtually impossible.

  “We have to be realistic. Prepare for going to the joint,” Bradford told him.

  Torres was scheduled for sentencing on February 23rd. But Roth told Judy to call Bradford’s office and asked him if it’d be alright to continue the sentencing to one month later, March 23rd.

  “We have calendar problems in February,” she said. Bradford agreed because there’d be no harm to Torres. The longer he delayed the inevitable, the better.

  Continuing Torres’ sentencing to March 23rd would make his sentencing hearing fall two days after the Mangano trial started. So the Mangano trial would be in progress when Torres came to court. That’s what Roth wanted.

  Torres lived in one of the Santa Ana barrios with his wife and two daughters. On a Wednesday morning, when he was sitting on his porch, he received a visit from a stranger. The man was a Mexican-American and they spoke in Spanish. The stranger never smiled and had a cold edge about him.

  Although the man never said who he was, Torres thought he was a cop. He knew the type. Cops spoke with confidence and displayed contempt for his addict lifestyle. The stranger also knew everything about his prior jail sentences, who his probation officer was, and the facts of the arrest in his pending case.

  After Torres and the stranger talked for five minutes, the man forcefully grabbed Torres’ left arm. “Shit!” he said glaring at him. “You been using smack, haven't you?” he said in English.

  Torres quickly pulled his arm back and held it close against his side. “No man. You crazy?”

  “Don't jive me. I can see you been shootin’. You’re fuckin’ high now.”

  When Torres didn't answer, the man grabbed his arm again and twisted it to expose the puncture mark. He stared at it for a second and then gave Torres a cool stare.

  “Relax, this is between you and me. You know what I'm talking about?” he said, returning to Spanish.

  Torres nodded. “Yeah, okay, man.”

  “I'm in a position to help you,” the man explained, “but only if I can be sure you'll keep your mouth shut.”

  Torres remained silent.

  But the stranger wanted answers. He moved even closer and spoke directly in Torres' face. “I asked you whether you could keep your mouth shut.”

  Torres grumbled and stepped back. “Yeah, sure. What the fuck?”

  “Okay,” the man said, giving him a quick nod. Then he jabbed his finger at Torres. “That better be right. Don’t shit me.”

  “I’m not shittin’ you.”

  “The people I'm dealing with have influential friends in high places. They want to help you because they think you're not responsible for your drug use. They know it's due to a mental problem.”

  He stopped and looked Torres in the eyes.

  Torres nodded once.

  “They don’t think it’s fair. You shouldn’t do time for your illness. You know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “No one wants anything from you. No one wants any money.”

  Torres nodded and waited.

  “I looked at your probation report and know that your mental problem has caused you to do some weird things. You need treatment.”

  Torres knew some of what was in his probation report. His probation officer told him he’d written that most of the time he acted perfectly normal, but occasionally he babbled incoherently. But his probation officer didn’t tell him that he’d also written he couldn’t determine what was behind Torres’ bizarre conduct and that he could be faking it.

  Later in their conversation, the man reminded Torres he faced a stiff state prison sentence.

  “If you don't get my help, you'll end up in the joint. You'll die there.”

  Torres didn’t say anything. Was afraid he'd say something wrong.

  “I'll only help you if you promise not to talk about what we're saying. Not even your lawyer. You understand that?”

  “I hear you.” Torres paused. “But why me? How’d you come up with me?”

  “You don’t have to worry about that. They have their sources, and that’s it.”

  Torres was silent.

  “I can’t talk to you anymore,” the man abruptly said. “I gotta get out of here. Think about what I said, and I’ll be back to see you again.”

  With that, the man turned and left.

  In his long career with LAPD, Carlos Lopez had come across many addicts like Jesse Torres. Torres didn't mean shit to him. If he overdosed, Lopez couldn’t have cared less. It’d be one less dirtbag on the streets.

  The only reason he was talking to Torres was to carry out his part of the plan Roth had put in play for the Mangano case.

  On the following Sunday, Lopez met Torres in a park near his house. This time Torres didn’t shoot up.

  “If you want my help, Jesse,” Lopez began, “you'll have to do exactly as I say. If you don't, state prison will be the least of your problems.”

  “I hear you.” He paused then asked, “Can you tell me a little bit about who’s behind this?”

  “All I can tell you is it’s an unofficial federal drug abuse program. Americans who care. That’s all you need to know.”

  “But why does it have to be done in secret?”

  “Because it’s not yet an official program and some hardliners in the court are against it. So we have to do it behind the scenes. That’s the only way n
ow.”

  Torres didn’t say anything, just stared.

  “Look, you don’t have to do it. I don’t give a shit. I don’t care if you do it or not.”

  “No, man, I understand.”

  Lopez pointed at a bench and motioned for them to sit down. “How’s everything going? You know…”

  “I’m okay. Getting along.”

  “You need anything?” Lopez said, touching Torres’ arm. “Got enough to buy stuff for your daughters?”

  “I’m fine. But, you know, could always use more.”

  Lopez reached into his shirt pocket and handed Torres $200 in cash. “This is from them.” He paused a beat, then muttered, “Good people.”

  “Thanks, man. I can use it. Get something for the kids.” Torres stuffed the bills into his pocket.

  “We’re ready to roll. We’re gonna make it work for you.”

  “Just tell me what you want me to do,” Torres said with a determined look.

  “I'll tell you what to do and I'll be watching you when you’re in court. I’ll be there to make sure everything goes right with you and on the other end.”

  “Okay, man.”

  “If you fuck this up, not only will you go to the joint, but I’ll be coming for you.”

  23

  THE MANGANO TRIAL GOT OFF to a slow start. Judge Roth, Wilcox, and Goldman had to first go over the questions Roth would allow them to ask during voir dire of prospective jurors. And Roth had to handle a few matters left over from prior cases.

  They started late the next day around 3:00 in afternoon.

  Roth started hearing Goldman’s motion asking him to throw out the photo lineup results. Meanwhile, Roth was keeping his eyes open for anything he could use to manipulate the trial.

  Acuna testified that a confidential, reliable informant gave him information about the Palermo murder. The informant told him it was a mob hit. He said the shooter was a guy from the LA Mafia crew named Nick Mangano.