Scores

  One of the more exciting cases assigned to me was on behalf of hundreds of passengers of a well-known cruise ship who’d been food poisoned when the kitchen crew defrosted shrimp using bacteria-filled water from the ship’s fire system. The Centers for Disease Control out of Atlanta boarded the ship while still at sea, fearing plague or worse, and documented the factual cause for the vomiting, diarrhea, and dizziness suffered by every passenger who’d enjoyed a shrimp cocktail as a dinner appetizer.

  The “big” question in the lawsuit was whether the district court would certify our case as a class action. Working alone, I drafted motion papers and was thrilled when the judge announced his decision allowing class status. It meant an impressively large payday for the firm.

  Class certification resulted in a remarkably speedy settlement with the cruise line on the issue of liability. After all, the federal government had unintentionally acted as our private investigation team. All I was left to do was prepare for mini-trials before a special master to assess damages for each individual plaintiff in the class. This turned into endless meetings and telephone calls with clients, each anxious for their piece of the settlement.

  One sunny day, a member of the class dropped by the firm without an appointment. Deciding to spend a few minutes, I asked my secretary to usher the tiny, elderly woman into my office. She declined my offer of coffee or tea, and stared at me with a discerning eye. With an air of conspiracy, she leaned forward and whispered, “I have the evidence to win the case!”

  “Well,” I returned with a benign smile, “we’ve already won. The cruise line has agreed it’s guilty. All that’s left to do is award damages depending on how long and seriously each passenger suffered.”

  Seeming not to hear me, she reached into her large carryall bag, drew out a plastic baggie containing what appeared to me to be dirt, and tossed it on my desk. “Here’s your evidence!” she roared.

  I picked up the bag gingerly and asked, “What’s this?”

  “It’s my diarrhea from the cruise. I’ve saved it all this time and now it’s yours.”

  I dutifully thanked the proud woman and my secretary showed her the door at my request. I remember sitting and staring at the dried-out bag of shit atop my desk. I desperately needed to compose myself from a combination of dread, disgust, and sheer amusement, taking a few moments to again try to remember why I’d gone to law school in the first place.

  When the wave passed, I hit the intercom and cheerily called to my secretary, “Would you mind helping me with a little something in here?”

  By late 1981, I had risen to partner, but was unhappy and unfulfilled. I already knew in my heart I needed a change when I unexpectedly received a call from the most important textile client assigned to my care, Bill Levin of Gold Mills. A secret luncheon invitation was extended, and I accepted without hesitation.

  At lunch, Bill informed me that he was personally close with Mario Cuomo and intended to support him in becoming the next governor of New York. I knew precious little about Cuomo, other than the fact that he was the sitting lieutenant governor, had a well-publicized strained relationship with Governor Hugh Carey, and had earned minor legal celebrity as a lawyer from Queens who’d handled a housing dispute that garnered tons of media attention.

  My reaction was confusion. I told Bill it was common political wisdom that New York City Mayor Ed Koch wanted to be the successor to Carey, and Cuomo stood very little chance of defeating the popular mayor in a Democratic primary.

  “Exactly,” he retorted. “I said I was supporting Cuomo, not that I expected him to win.” He then explained he was bankrolling the formation of a new law firm in which Cuomo would become the senior partner after losing the primary. The firm would consolidate all Levin’s legal needs under one roof, and he’d already arranged for rental of luxury offices.

  Suppressing my normal inability to remain silent, I sat very still, waiting for him to continue. After several pronounced bites of his lunch, and fully aware I was being held spellbound by every crumb, Levin relished in my discomfort during the break in his storytelling.

  Finally, after milking things as far as they could go, he leaned forward. “Here’s the rub. Mario’s chief counsel, Jerry Weiss, has already resigned from government and is at the new firm setting things up. When I gave the order at Gold Mills to fire your firm and move our files to Weiss, I had a fucking mutiny. My people want you to continue as their lawyer and, without the income from Gold Mills, I can’t guarantee the new firm will support itself waiting for Mario. So, I need you to become a partner in the new firm.”

  My mind silently raced. Did I have the balls to just resign and become partners with a group of strangers? Was Cuomo enough of a rainmaker to support a new firm? Would I get a raise?

  As I sputtered to form a reply, Levin seized on my momentarily stunned state. “Listen, Michael, just take one baby step at a time until you get your mind around all of this. Just tell me you’re willing to go to the new place, meet the folks, and share with me what you think.”

  I nodded in assent. As we parted outside the restaurant, I shook Bill’s hand and asked, “What happens to the firm if Cuomo wins?”

  Levin roared with laughter and threw his head back while continuing to grasp my hand. “Michael, we should only be so lucky!”

  After meeting with the partners of the newly created law firm, I accepted their offer to join. To my delight, I immediately bonded with Jerry Weiss, a short, heavyset strawberry blond with an infectious sense of humor. He taught me everything I needed to know about insider politics and thoroughbred racing; we dined together regularly; we gambled together in Atlantic City; and we attended meetings with famous and infamous politicos and political reporters. It was a blast.

  I was happily able to bring many of my clients from the old firm along with me to the new firm, and my practice proved busy and profitable. But our collective eyes were all targeted on the upcoming primary election that we anticipated would herald the coming of Mario Cuomo.

  On an otherwise uneventful day, Jerry called me into his office, where he was sitting with a young man unknown to me. Both men rose as I entered the room and Jerry said, “Michael, say hello to Andrew Cuomo, Mario’s son. I just hired him as our law clerk.”

  Andrew was tall, curly haired, handsome, athletic, and, above all else, charismatic. As I came to recognize, Andrew is one who disarms others by showing compelling interest in them. Before I knew it, over the next few weeks, I’d told Andrew almost everything there was to know about me, and he seemed impressed and fascinated by it all. In retrospect, I found myself clinging to Andrew because he made me feel that I was “special.” He began regularly referring to me as “brother.”

  So, could life be any sweeter? My new best friend was my partner, Jerry Weiss. My new self-proclaimed “brother” was Andrew Cuomo, and Andrew was in love with our partner Lucille Falcone, my legal confidante at the firm. For me, the sun was shining and I could hardly wait for the arrival of our esteemed senior partner. The polls uniformly predicted Cuomo as a sure loser and, to me, that meant everything was right on track.

  It was finally primary eve. The headline on the New York Post’s front page that morning predicted a Koch landslide by double-digit percentages. It appeared the world would begin writing its newest chapter for me in about twenty-four hours.

  After locking up the firm, I made my way downtown to Cuomo headquarters. Everyone had spent the day on campaign business while I held down the fort. When I arrived, the headquarters was empty except for a couple of volunteers, and I asked if Andrew or Jerry had arrived. Told they would be along shortly, I wandered to the back to find a place to wait.

  Leafing through a discarded magazine, I looked up and, through a half-opened door, saw a small office with a man pacing inside. Upon closer scrutiny, I recognized the man to be candidate Cuomo. I walked through the door and found him now leaning against a corner file cabinet. I was always taken aback at how much larger-than-life he appeared in person com
pared to television, with chiseled features and the hands and feet of a virtual giant. His presence dominated every room he entered. But on this night, he looked tired and drawn, projecting loneliness. I quietly said, “Good evening, Lieutenant Governor.”

  He slowly looked up and, without changing his expression, responded with a simple nod.

  For me, this was a special moment. In looking at my new partner, my eyes saw a tired, intense, spent, and dispirited man. But in my heart, I somehow knew, and I mean really knew, he was going to beat the odds and win. Believe me, I’m neither psychic nor given to visions of the future, but I was somehow certain that this virtual stranger was never going to be part of the firm.

  I inched closer to him, and he looked at me as if he’d forgotten I was there. I hesitated and quietly said, “Mario, you’re going to win tomorrow. I feel it in all my bones.”

  He answered with a tired smile, “I hope you’re right, Michael. I really do.”

  I could feel he wanted to be alone so I just turned and silently walked away. And I kept walking, forgetting about dinner with Jerry and Andrew. I didn’t want to discuss the vibrations overwhelming me.

  As soon as the polls closed on primary night, all the major networks unanimously revealed their startling projection that Cuomo had defeated Koch and would be the Democratic Party’s nominee for governor. Press poured in like rain, with all the politicians fleeing Koch headquarters and climbing the dais for Cuomo.

  The joy for everyone in the firm was indescribable, but I wasn’t really part of it. Don’t get me wrong, I was happy for Mario and I wasn’t that concerned about my future, which had probably manifestly brightened. It was just that I had no one to party with. Everyone I knew—Jerry, Andrew, Lucille, even the office secretary—was gathered in a private suite on an upper floor of the hotel with the candidate and his family. I was the only “insider” who’d been inadvertently left off the guest list, and nobody was answering their phones to correct the oversight.

  After a while, I just got bored. I left and drove home to enjoy the enormity of the unfolding political triumph on television. Ironically, my phone rang all night with congratulatory calls from friends.

  When I arrived at the firm the next morning, Jerry was giddy. He was fielding calls from around the world and being interviewed by every reporter who’d ignored Cuomo until the upset victory. I received a hug and a kiss and was directed to a seat. Jerry asked where I’d been last night, and I just shrugged.

  He locked his door, held all calls, and told me the success of the firm was now immeasurable. “Our relationship with the new governor will place us in a unique position of influence and power in the state, even more so than if Mario was here as a partner. We’re going to be New York’s newest legal and political powerhouse.”

  I almost passed out.

  The general election arrived quickly and Mario won in a squeaker. For reasons never explained to me, he decided he’d rather be governor than my law partner. I never saw that coming!

  During that time, two other events dominated my life. First, we moved our offices from modest quarters on Lexington Avenue to spacious, luxurious footage at Two Park Avenue. We now all had large and impressive offices and furniture befitting political dynamos. Second, we all started playing an exciting new game called “Will Andrew Cuomo join our firm?”

  Quite unexpectedly, Andrew had chosen not to continue working for our firm after his graduation from law school but, rather, became an assistant district attorney in Manhattan. After the election, Jerry kicked off the “Andrew” game by telling me the “governor’s son” was now considering becoming our partner. This began a bizarre process of wooing Andrew. Meetings. Dinners. Movies. More meetings. It bordered on the ridiculous. Andrew was dating Lucille and was still calling me “brother.” It became wearing as he seemingly couldn’t reach a decision. I didn’t fathom the problem.

  One night, Andrew asked me to join him and Lucille for dinner at a local Italian bistro. I thought it was to be one more night of Andrew trying to decide what to do, but I was wrong. Over a toast, he announced he’d love to become a partner of the firm if we would have him, and an immeasurable joy filled my heart. I think I cried.

  Events moved quickly after that. Jerry left the firm for personal reasons and Andrew moved into his office. Mario and Andrew agreed the name of the firm should be changed to Blutrich, Falcone & Miller, as adding Cuomo would “overly politicize the works.” At the governor’s suggestion, Robert Seavey resigned from the Battery Park City chairmanship and became “of counsel” to the firm.

  So here I was, the first named partner in, as it would soon become known, the “Cuomo firm.”

  My first job with my lofty new status came on the day Andrew physically moved into Jerry’s office. We all knew Jerry had the habit of compulsively clipping his fingernails. What we didn’t know was he had religiously saved all those clippings. When Andrew tried to transfer his personal possessions into Weiss’s desk, he found two drawers filled to their brims with nails.

  Horrified, he called for my help, and the senior partner of New York’s newly anointed political powerhouse firm was entrusted with the task of removing his dear friend’s nails to the garbage.

  As the transition into the Cuomo administration labored along, it became apparent that Andrew was acting as the new governor’s unofficial (but universally recognized) chief of staff. Virtually every prospective state appointee of importance made the dutiful visit to our office to meet and confer with Andrew. Every political face in New York stopped by for consultations, requests, and to utilize the only surefire message delivery center to the Albany mansion.

  Those days were quite a hoot for me. As a partner in the firm, I was introduced to everyone. I quickly learned to return a knowing smile and project a wry demeanor in response to questions and innuendos. I hid the reality that I was a hapless and uninformed eunuch in the midst of a hotbed of activity and power. Everyone assumed I was an intimate of the new governor, and I never disabused that assumption, as it was good for business and for my own ego.

  The partnership was deluged with publicity. The “Cuomo firm,” as well as Andrew and Lucille’s love affair, were the subject of endless gossip pieces in the local papers, television news, and tabloids. Even the New York Times ran an extensive article entitled “At Andrew Cuomo’s Firm, Politics and the Law Intersect,” exploring the potential ramifications of a governor’s son representing clients before judges appointed by his father. Andrew and I, and Lucille and I, coauthored articles in the prestigious New York Law Journal, a daily publication read by every lawyer in the state.

  There were, of course, some personal perks. I shared a wonderful night with the Cuomos at Andrew’s sister Maria’s engagement party to fashion mogul Kenneth Cole. The party was at Cole’s apartment in Manhattan and was attended by all the faithful. Mario was quite sloshed that night and was an absolute barrel of fun. I spent the night listening to his war stories and he was affectionate and warm toward me to a degree I’d never before experienced.

  The best part of the night was when Robert Morgenthau, the esteemed long-term district attorney of New York County, readied to leave. Mario and I were standing by the door when Morgenthau stopped to pay homage to the governor. With that accomplished, the DA turned to me and said, “Thank you, Mr. Cole, for having me as a guest this evening. Your bride-to-be is stunning and you’re a lucky man.”

  I was about to confess my true identity when Cuomo waved me off. He was silently laughing, leaning onto the wall, and he held his index finger across his lips to silence me. I believe he just didn’t want to embarrass Morgenthau.

  I simply smiled back and said, “Well, thanks for coming.”

  As the door shut, I thought Mario was going to hyperventilate from laughing. He put his arm around me, kissed me on the cheek, and whispered, “Don’t try to sleep with my daughter.”

  As Mario made his way back to his entourage, I called after him, “Can I at least get some free shoes?”
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  There is a postscript to this tale. For the months and years to come, every time I passed Morgenthau in the courthouse or elsewhere, he would stop and introduce me to those accompanying him as Kenneth Cole. After a while, I just hid from him at all costs.

  One afternoon, Andrew popped his head into my office and said, “Michael, I need you for dinner tomorrow night. Make reservations for three people at a really upscale place.”

  “Sure,” I responded, “and who’s our third?”

  Andrew smiled. “John F. Kennedy, Jr.”

  I have to admit, that answer seized my attention and, after some thought, I booked dinner at Nanni’s on East Sixty-First Street. It was Italian cuisine in a very formal setting and I made the reservation in Andrew’s name.

  The next night, Andrew and I arrived at the appointed time wearing our “Sunday best.” Andrew took immediate command, inquiring as to whether our guest had arrived. With an amused grin, the maître d’ confirmed he’d been seated and was awaiting us.

  We strolled to the table, and took a moment to just stare. There was JFK Jr., as advertised, wearing a white T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. He was sucking down a beer out of the bottle, and made no effort to acknowledge our stunned presence.

  Ignoring our guest’s dress and demeanor, Andrew did all the necessaries: made introductions and initiated small talk. Kennedy motioned to the waiter for another beer, and the waiter asked, “May I put this one in a glass for you?”

  “No,” came the response. “I like it straight from the bottle.”

  At one point when Andrew excused himself, the waiter approached our table and addressed me as “Mr. Cuomo.” Grateful that Andrew was out of earshot, I corrected him and added, “By the way, my name is Kenneth Cole.”