The Pa-la-ti-'shan

by Neal Goldstein

  “Well sir, you may consider putting out a press release that announces a comprehensive plan to overhaul the payroll practices of House members’ staffs. Have one of your staffers describe the plan in excruciating detail. After that the release can disclose the discovery of the pay discrepancy and announce that all of the funds have been accounted for. The release can indicate that had Johnson survived he would have been censured by the House and prosecuted. However, in light of his passing your focus will be on taking corrective measures to assure that nothing like this can happen in the future.”

  The Speaker digested my suggestion. “OK, I get it bury the lead. That’s smart, but what about the money?”

  “You could demand that all of the money be returned. That would require you to file an appropriate motion in Orphan’s Court in Philadelphia. Of course, if you do that the press will be all over it. Or, you could reach out to the heads of the FOP and Firefighters and let them know you could take the money back, but you’ve decided that even though Johnson’s actions were improper, the intent to benefit the families of our finest public servants is worthy. Rather than hurt the families who need the money you decided not to contest the will. Instead you’re going to cut the future allocations to the Survivors Fund, say $25, 000 a year, that’s so insignificant they won’t even notice it, until all of the money plus interest is recovered.

  You can also subtlety mention that you’ll expect their support in the next election.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “I ran it by one of the public sector guys at Brinkley Smoot. They told me it passes the line. If anyone makes a fuss, you can also point out it saves the cost of litigating the claim in Orphan’s Court. This way, everyone wins even the late District Representative.”

  “I like the way you think. You made it sound so reasonable, even though it’s outrageous. When you come to the capitol make sure you stop by my office. The governor was right about you. You’ve got a real future in this game.”

  “Thank you Mr. Speaker.” I assumed the Speaker meant that as a compliment, but again I wasn’t so sure I liked the sound of it.

  When I finished my conversation with the Speaker Carlota told me my mother had called. With studying for the bar exam and everything else I had missed our weekly call.

  “Are you all of a sudden such a big shot you don’t have time to call your mother?”

  “No mom. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “It’s all right; Nicky called and told me you were working hard trying to catch up on the prep sessions you missed. She’s a lovely girl; so thoughtful.”

  “Yes she is mom,” I love you Nicky for getting me off the hook I thought.

  “So when are you going to get married?”

  “Jeez mom, I haven’t asked her yet. I mean, I want to it’s just rushing it a bit. Don’t you think?”

  “Do you love this girl?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “So what are you waiting for?”

  I had no answer.

  “Listen to me. You gotta go to Jeweler’s Row on Sansom Street. Go see David Rosen. I’ll call him. I’ll tell him what you need. A beautiful girl like Nicky deserves a big diamond ring. So you’ll go, won’t you?”

  “Yes mom.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  One Hundred and Thirteen Counts

  The bar exams were two weeks away. The prep courses had covered every conceivable area of the law that could be included in the test. Joel and the other instructors walked the law clerks through the actual questions that had been included in the last five years of exams. If you could not pass the test after all of that, you flat out didn’t deserve to be admitted to the bar. Having dealt with attorneys who could barely string two sentences together without tripping over their tongues in my former life as a constituent services representative, I was fairly confident that I could get a passing grade.

  Brinkley Smoot gave the clerks two weeks off to study on their own. I took the opportunity to sleep in, work out and goof off. I tried to report to the 127th District Office in the afternoons. Carlota and Mike Zeebooker, who had taken a leave of absence from the governor’s office, sent me home to study, so after the second attempt I stayed at the apartment and watched old movies on TV until Nicky came home. The lack of activity was making me crazy.

  Like the good son I was, I followed my mother’s advice and went to Jeweler’s Row. David Rosen had been fully briefed by my mother. They had already selected a 2 and a half-carat diamond ring that met my mother’s approval. Rosen emailed her pictures of the ring so she could be satisfied the diamond and setting were to her satisfaction. The Brinkley Smoot signing bonus and the money I had been putting aside to replace the Chevy Cobalt covered the cost. Both my mother and Rosen assured me Nicky would love it.

  With all the idle time on my hands when I was supposed to be studying for the bar exams I tried to come up with a romantic plan to propose to Nicky. I kept coming up with one stupid idea after another. I sought the advice of my mother who suggested that I take Nicky to some fancy restaurant and ask the Maitre D to put the ring in Nicky’s favorite dessert. I found the thought of putting a diamond ring in food unappetizing. What if god-forbid she swallowed the ring?

  One afternoon I went to the 127th office and asked Carlota and the ladies for their suggestions. Mike Zeebooker overheard the ideas the ladies conjured up. As I was leaving he said, “You’ll know when it’s the right time to propose.”

  Marti Gronski asked me if I could drive Bob to the VA for his follow up on Saturday morning. Marti and Greg were going to State College for the day for Greg to visit the campus. Greg’s older brothers were away.

  It was a beautiful day. Nicky came along with us, and Bob talked non-stop as we drove to the VA. He was, as usual, remarkably up beat.

  “Marti and I want to help you with your election campaign. We can make calls, stuff envelopes, you know. The boys want to help too.”

  “Sarge, I’m unopposed. I don’t know how much campaigning I’m going to do.”

  “You can’t short change your constituents. You’ve got to get out there and make sure the voters know who you are.”

  “My friends at the FOP will let us have the hall for your victory party. They’ll also help out in the campaign. You’ll see it will all work out.”

  Bob Gronski had been a member of the Philadelphia Police force for 24 years. He had been a decorated and well-respected Homicide detective. He also had been active in the FOP.

  “OK. After the bar exams we’ll get together. You can be my campaign manager. You always told me how to lead the platoon.”

  “Ain’t that the truth? Nicky, your man was the greenest first lieutenant I ever met. But he’s a real fast learner. He turned out to be one outstanding platoon leader. We would go to hell for him if he asked, every last SD.”

  “What’s an SD?” Nicky asked.

  Gronski blushed.

  “That would be, a swinging dick, but since there were some women in the platoon, that wouldn’t be accurate, and definitely not PC. The sarge is old school.” I said, coming to his defense.

  We dropped Gronski off for his appointment and walked across the street to the little park we had visited four months before when we helped bring Bob home. We walked past what appeared to be the same group of bikers and patients that had congregated there the last time. The congregation was still smoking grass and drinking beer.

  Nicky and I declined the offer to join in and sat down at the same bench at the far end of the park. Nicky took my hand in hers, just as she had in April.

  We sat in silence lost in our respective memories of that chilly morning.

  “Nicky, I remember the last time we sat here. I was so afraid to tell you about myself and about what happened to Bob and me.”

  “I remember. You know, that’s when I fell in love with you,” she said.

  “I was crazy about you long before that.”

  “Why did you wait so long to ask me out?”


  I took the ring box out of my pocket. “Nicky I love you and I want us to spend the rest of our lives together.” I opened the box; the ring sparkled brilliantly in the sunlight.

  “Will you marry me?”

  She looked at the ring her eyes welled up. She kissed me.

  “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

  The biker party yelled out “HOO- RAH” and applauded.

  Mike Zeebooker had been right I knew the right moment.

  By the time Bob’s therapy was over we had called my mother and Nicky’s father. My mother was ecstatic; the Major was a little less enthusiastic. Bob called Marti and broke the good news. I could hardly believe that my life had changed so dramatically in such a short time. I listened to Bob Gronski tell Nicky about how he and Marti had met, and how wonderful married life would be for the two of us.

  Nicky’s cell phone rang as we were driving home.

  Nicky handed me the phone, “It’s the governor. He sounds anxious.”

  “Bernie, have you heard the news?”

  “What news?” I thought for a moment that Dan Gross had already blogged about our engagement.

  “They indicted Cinaglia! One hundred and thirteen counts. Turn on KYW. It’s the top story of the day. They made the poor bastard do the perp walk in front of his neighbors and everything.”

  “One hundred and thirteen counts. That’s bad very bad.”

  “I guess it is governor.”

  “I didn’t know there were even that many laws.

  Bernie, do you think you can come into the office on Monday. I’d like to discuss the implications of this.”

  “Well Governor, I’m going to be a little busy next week. I’m taking the bar exam. Remember, you insisted that I sit for the test.”

  “Yes, I remember,” he said. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. But now, it’s inconvenient. Do you think they would reschedule the test if I ask?”

  “I don’t think so Governor.”

  “Jesus, what the fuck good is it to be governor, if I can’t have a silly test rescheduled?”

  “The nerve of them,” I said.

  “Honey, what did the Governor want?” Nicky asked as I gave her back her cell phone.

  “He wanted to know if we were registered at Bed Bath and Beyond. He had some 20% off coupons.”

  She laughed.

  “Turn on KYW. Senator Cinaglia’s been indicted. Apparently the governor is concerned.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Bris

  The bar exam was administered in one of the large exhibition halls in the Pennsylvania Convention Center. There must have been 500 test takers assembled at the site. I looked around the room. Except for a hand full of gray hairs, who I assumed were second career lawyer want-a-bees, or corporate types transferred to Pennsylvania, the room was filled with eager young men and women who probably had gone straight from college to law school.

  I saw the legacies from the Brinkley prep class who the rest of the clerks had dubbed Moe, Larry and Curly, the Three Stooges. They looked scared shitless. One of the proctors stood by them, an obvious sign that they were suspected of cheating. I couldn’t help feeling that somewhere in the cosmos all the people the Three Stooges had dumped on throughout their privileged lives were deriving a modicum of satisfaction as the three of them sweated through the exam.

  No doubt, back in the day the Stooges’ parents would have paid someone to take their exams. Since 911, the increased security measures had even spread to the bar examiners thus eliminating the possibility of having a surrogate take the test for them. Too bad for the Stooges, sooner or later they’d have to fend for themselves.

  The instructors at the Brinkley Smoot cram classes must have had access to the bar exam. The test questions were virtually identical to the ones they had reviewed during the prep sessions. By the time I had completed the second day of the Pennsylvania exam I was confident I would get my ticket. Another two days and the New Jersey bar would be history and then I would never have to take another test for the rest of my life.

  Every day as soon as I finished, I grabbed the daily News and read the latest developments in the Cinaglia case. The senator had been charged with, among other things, shaking down utility companies and other large corporations for millions of dollars by threatening to pass legislation that would hamper their style by eating into their obscene profit margins. The money was allegedly somehow channeled to him through a series of non-profit organizations he had created that were supposed to exist for the benefit of the community.

  The senator was also accused of using his paid senate staff as his personal employees. They cleaned his homes, groomed his pets and performed sundry other mundane tasks while on the public’s payroll.

  Cinaglia had retained Monroe Sterling, the dean of the local criminal defense bar to mount his defense. Sterling was, according to his press releases, the last of the ‘Great Lawyers’, in the same class as F. Lee Bailey, Melvin Belli and Clarence Darrow. While Sterling was probably as old as Clarence Darrow, as far as I was aware, the only time Sterling was mentioned in the same sentence with the giants of the legal profession was in his own press releases.

  Sterling assured the media the charges against his client would ultimately be exposed as baseless. He claimed Cinaglia was the victim of a political witch-hunt. A conspiracy mastered minded by ‘feckless politicians’ who were jealous of his client’s remarkable record of success.

  When Nicky came home from work she filled me in on the comings and goings at the governor’s office.

  “The governor is acting weird.”

  “Weirder than usual?”

  “Uh–huh.” She nodded.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, I overheard him screaming at Earl Samson. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but the next thing I saw was Samson stomping out of the governor’s office. The governor told me afterwards that Earl had been called away on personal business and wasn’t expected back.

  The governor asked me several times when you would be finished taking the bar exams. I think he really wants to talk to you.”

  “You know something I’m kind of glad I’m out of the loop. I got a feeling this Cinaglia thing is gonna get real messy.”

  Nicky spent most of the evenings on the telephone talking with my mother and her father about our wedding plans. Both Nicky and I wanted a small wedding. My mother and Nicky’s father wanted a more elaborate affair.

  “If they want a big party, tell them they should get married.”

  “Shoosh. Everything will work out. Anyway, Marti Gronski and Marilyn Solomon are helping me plan everything. Don’t forget, this Friday is Marilyn and Joel’s son Matthew’s bris. You’re holding the baby. It’s an honor you know.” She kissed me, “It will be so much fun.”

  “Not for the baby.”

  A bris is a ceremonial circumcision. Leave it to us Jews we can make a party out of anything. A crowd of 60 or so people had assembled in the Solomons’ living room. Matthew, the guest of honor, was sleeping peacefully in his mother’s arms. Marilyn and Joel and the Moyel stood at the front of the room. The Moyel chanted prayers and took the unsuspecting infant from his mother’s embrace.

  As he prepared the baby for the procedure I was called to the front of the room. I noticed that all the other Jewish men in the room had retreated as far as possible from the action. They knew what was about to unfold. The rest of the group moved forward to get a better view. The Moyel handed the baby to me. “Hold the kinder while I prepare,” he said in a heavy Yiddish accent.

  Poor Matthew.

  The Moyel chanted a few more prayers, waking the sleeping baby. Matthew, no doubt, sensing something unpleasant was about to occur began to scream. When the Moyel removed the baby’s diaper, Matthew in a last act of defiance squirted a healthy stream of urine in the Moyel’s face. Good for you Matthew!

  Undaunted, the Moyel took out an instrument that looked like a cigar clipper. I looked away, the baby screamed. The crowd
shouted “Mazol Tov” and it was over.

  “What a beautiful ceremony,” Nicky said as we drove home. “Marilyn told me that it’s part of the tradition that the man who holds the baby during the ceremony is the baby’s godfather.”

  “When they asked me to be Matthew’s godfather, they forgot to tell me the part about holding the baby during the bris,” I replied. Somehow, I couldn’t imagine Al Pacino holding a Corleone baby in similar circumstances.

  “I took the Moyel’s card. I can’t wait until we have a son,” she said.

  As I drove home I silently prayed that we would only have daughters.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  Ashburn Alley

  I like the old standards. One of my favorites is Jimmy Durante’s rendition of “The September Song.” Like most of my favorite singers I’m pretty sure Durante died many years ago. Someone told me there’s a web site you can check, ‘Dead or Alive’, or something like that, to find out. You’d be surprised to learn there are a lot of people you thought had passed on who are still hanging around and vice versa.

  Anyway, the opening line of the song goes, “Oh it’s a long, long while from May to December. But the days grow short, when you reach, September.” I could still hear Durante’s Brooklyn accent in my mind’s ear, or maybe it was actually one of the songs playing on my I-pod playlist.

  Either way, that’s exactly where I was, it was September and like the lyrics in the song the days were indeed growing short. However, unlike the song I was waiting for November. There had been many changes in my life since May. I fell in love, or perhaps more accurately stated, I openly acknowledged that I was in love. I had decided to run for office, or once again to be accurate, I was pushed into the race. I got engaged to the most beautiful girl in the world, another old standard, or to be accurate, well you get it by now. In any case, I wasn’t so sure if I was actually making these decisions, or if I was, more or less, just going with the flow.