Conrad Black

by A Matter of Principle

  I had planned to speak at length about the nonsense of the convictions and the whole lethal assault of the U.S. government and its accomplices, but Jeffrey and Carolyn persuaded me that this wasn’t the place for that, and that Judge St. Eve could raise the sentence if I did so. They understood there would be no statement of remorse, even if making such a statement was the only way to spare me the fate Sussman had been seeking. I had no notes and spoke from memory in an even voice. After all I had been through, I did not find addressing the court and the media in the slightest unnerving, and spoke for less than five minutes.

  I referred to arguments and filings made on my behalf, especially Marc Martin’s Basta filing from July 2006, which detailed Sussman’s false accusations to the court, and Carolyn Gurland’s letter to the judge of two days before, debunking the madly delusional Sun-Times victim statement. The fact that we were appealing the remaining counts “speaks for itself.” I later said that I would have “no difficulty at all rebutting the most recent statements of the prosecutor, and of Mr. Fox.” I offered to explain my public comments on the prosecutors, but St. Eve shook her locks unthreateningly to confirm that that was not necessary. Thus, as she doubtless foresaw, she spared the court and media what would have been a calmly delivered but pyrotechnic summary of the prosecution’s more outlandish infelicities.

  “We have the verdicts we have and we can’t retry the case here … I do wish to express my very profound regret and deep sadness” (the press strained audibly to hear) “at the severe hardship inflicted upon all of the shareholders, including a great many employees, by the evaporation of $1.85 billion of shareholder value under my successors.” (And the press sank back, denied the Sussmaniacal “remorse.”) This not only laid the lash where it belonged, but emphasized that I had no apology to make for my own conduct. I denied that I had ever uttered a disrespectful word about the judge, court, jury, or process (a slight liberty with the facts) but declined to withdraw or modify my reflections on the prosecutors. I made the point that the stock price had remained between $18 and $22 for a year after I retired, and was then under $1, largely because my successors ignored my advice as a continuing director, to avoid many of the catastrophic errors they plunged into like beasts into well-set traps.

  I concluded: “It only remains for me to thank Your Honor for the unfailing courtesy and efficiency with which you have conducted this trial. Prior to arriving under your jurisdiction, I was the subject of an almost universal presumption of guilt, including the theory that I violated a Canadian court order, which I did not and have never been accused of doing. This presumption of guilt applied to all counts and prevailed in almost every court, both of law, and of public opinion.” I thanked her and she thanked me.

  She rather mechanically read assertions that I had been convicted of serious offences, and implicitly acknowledged that I had had an impressive career (and added with a smile that I would not need vocational training). I was not particularly tense, as the probation report was favourable and the judge was very deferential to Sheila Lally in court, and I was satisfied we had a strong appeal, and that I was putting the worries generated by the Eddies behind me. I did not see this as the end of the line, whatever her sentence.

  She expressed no objection at all to my comments on the prosecution. Her disdain for Sussman was fairly well known, as was the fact that Sussman was desperately and unsuccessfully seeking a legal position in the private sector. (He did eventually find one. So did Cramer, two years later.) That very day a Supreme Court judgment had confirmed her ability to vary sentencing guidelines; but while this ruling was referred to in court, she chose not to follow Sheila Lally’s advice to go below the guidelines and took the low end of them, clearly thinking she was being merciful. She acknowledged that I was appealing the sentence, imposed a sentence of seventy-eight months, recommended minimum security, and again ignored Sussman’s request for immediate imprisonment. She gave the maximum time to self-surrender (twelve weeks) and imposed a fine of just $125,000. Even more important, the judge threw out the request for forfeiture based on the claim that the government had proved that I was guilty of the acquitted acts under a civil standard of proof. Judge St. Eve’s assertion that they had not even met a civil standard of proof was the victorious end of the financial struggle and effectively sank most of the civil suits against me.

  We felt that the letters, Carolyn’s written arguments, and Sheila’s recommendations made a useful difference and Mayer Brown had set no store by any of it. Andy Schapiro of that firm had said that we should just send a pro forma response to the the Probation Office, and that the officer would “not have the intelligence to understand anything we wrote anyway, and no one would pay any attention to it.” My evaluation of Ms. Lally was that she was a serious and credible person who would be listened to by the judge and was favourably disposed and should not be treated cavalierly.

  The long-standing pattern was retained: taking custodial and financial matters together, we had won about four-fifths of what was in dispute with the prosecutors. The six years and six months would really, in practice, and after accessing certain programs, be about four years, in fairly manageable conditions. This was a long way from the “conspiracy so immense”* that gave rise to the demands for life imprisonment with hardened criminals and sodomites and complete impoverishment. And the battle continued; we would seek continuation of bail, and I had already engaged appellate counsel in whom I tentatively had confidence, despite their advice virtually to ignore the probation officers.

  Two days later, a month-old Greenspan interview with the National Post was disembargoed, as the revisionist campaign heated up; he attacked Genson as an incompetent, and blamed Barbara for “insinuating” herself into the case. He had no criticism of Alana, Jonathan, or me. I declined to reply. It was objectively sad and that chapter was over.

  THE NEXT TWELVE WEEKS IN Palm Beach became steadily more Damoclean, as the self-surrender date approached. Judge St. Eve, true to her new persona as a virtual bailiff cleaving like a limpet to the fiction that the process had produced condign verdicts, declined bond pending appeal. We applied to the Circuit Court of Appeals. Bill Buckley and I exchanged comments in published columns in the New York Sun and National Post about my case. (See appendices.) He came to Fort Lauderdale for a month, and we had dinner twice in Palm Beach. He was approaching death, was almost looking forward to it. Pat, his devoted and riotously witty Canadian wife of more than fifty years, had died in 2007. I was, he thought, reasonably prepared for what I was fairly convinced was coming next (though not quite as sanguine about it as he was about what he was facing). The coils were tightening and the fanatical determination of the U.S. justice system, as manipulated by Breeden, to send me to prison, was coming to pass. There would be nothing for it but to prove that theirs was a hollow and fleeting victory; that I was unintimidated, unjustly confined, and undaunted by the vast machinery of incarceration, humiliation, and stigmatization that had assaulted me. And I would continue to pursue victory: appeals, and if necessary, evocation of the whole sordid proceeding to the judgment of an unbiased foreign jurisdiction.*

  Barbara and I went to Fort Lauderdale to have lunch with Bill Buckley the day before he returned north. It was an exquisite occasion, but we all knew it was goodbye. He was a great man and a dear friend, and he died about three weeks later, February 27, and I was just finishing a remembrance of him for the National Post when Andy Frey of Mayer Brown telephoned to confirm that the Circuit Court had refused bail. I was to report to prison four days later.

  * I early developed the habit of replying only to questions put to me in French; initially to assist the French over the British (whose journalists never spoke a word of French despite their communautaire enthusiasm), and to favour the French Canadians, who would feel themselves in a very foreign city in Chicago, where almost every Western language except French is widely spoken. When asked why I did this, I explained to the French that I was a zealous European and to the French Cana
dians that I was demonstrating my love of minorities, “shareholding and otherwise.”

  * George Glezos, a good lawyer and a delightful man, died of a coronary a few weeks later. He was fifty-three and apparently very fit. He had a bad lottery ticket and is much missed.

  * Senator Joseph R. McCarthy’s attack on General George C. Marshall, U.S. Senate, June 14, 1951.

  * This was my plan, referred to earlier, of taking some attempt in Canada or Britain to remove me from a club or some other association, as the opportunity to go to court to apply the test of whether any guilty verdicts would have been returned on the same evidence in that other jurisdiction. Of course, none would have been in Canada or Britain, where prosecutors would not be allowed to offer the inducements Fitzgerald and his entourage had to some of the witnesses.

  Hundreds of journalists were present when I appeared in November 2005 and entered a plea of not guilty. Some journalists still expected me to flee the jurisdiction, which was never considered. I was under no illusions about the odds against me and the fact that U.S. prosecutors won more than 90 per cent of their cases. But there was no alternative to fighting it out to the end, especially as I was not guilty. (photo credit 3.1)

  The trial judge, Amy J. St. Eve, was extremely courteous and very efficient. There was never any apparent repercussion for the many occasions on which the prosecutors made untruthful assertions. I think that she actually believed that I was guilty of something, at least almost until resentencing. She wished me well after reducing the sentence by three years and remitting over $6 million (including interest). But I don’t think she grasps how innately unfair the system is and how many people it unjustly grinds to powder. At sentencing and resentencing, as she sent me to prison, she smiled as she stated that she did “not believe vocational training will be necessary.” On the bench, any sense of humour is better than none. (photo credit 3.2)

  Richard Posner is an inveterate seeker of publicity and lover of controversy, and has described himself as “callous” and “cruel.” In both our hearings he was querulous, abrasive, and extremely insulting, and his judgments were extremely unrigorous and the first was so described by the Supreme Court. Though I have never seen him in person, he is one of the most obnoxious people I have ever encountered. (photo credit 3.3)

  Former U.S. ambassador to the United Kingdom Raymond Seitz (left), whom I recruited as a director and Special Committee member, and the committee counsel, former SEC chairman Richard Breeden. (photo credit 3.4)

  Richard Breeden accused me in 2004 of leading a “$500-million corporate kleptocracy.” (photo credit 3.5)

  Mark Kipnis, legal vice president of our American company, was overworked and not a specialist in asset sales, but was ultimately acquitted, after we took the whole case to the U.S. Supreme Court. He is an honest and fine and brave man, and it is shameful that he was ever accused of anything illegal. I spent pleasant moments at the trial speaking with his mother, who sat with my wife and daughter. (photo credit 3.6)

  Jack Boultbee was one of Canada’s greatest tax experts in a leading accounting firm before joining us as group financial vice president. He is an eccentric, brilliant, and delightful man who never flinched and contemptuously dismissed all attempts at intimidation. (photo credit 3.8)

  I encountered Peter Atkinson for the first time in two years in the lock-up, where the accused are processed. He was badly ground down by our legal problems, but is an absolutely honest man and capable lawyer. (photo credit 3.7)

  David Radler, my associate of thirty-five years, who cut a deal for a sweetheart sentence in exchange for testifying against the rest of us. We were never close personally, but his behaviour was the greatest personal disappointment I have ever suffered, as pathetic as it was contemptible. (photo credit 3.9)

  Brendan V. Sullivan, a brilliant lawyer, best known for his defence of Colonel Oliver North in the Iran-Contra affair in 1987, and successor to the legendary Edward Bennett Williams. We got on well, but he was never really engaged with us and withdrew as counsel after the main part of the retainer I had set up for him was improperly seized in an ex parte proceeding and a “mistaken” FBI affidavit, although I assured him he would be paid soon from another source. Leading American lawyers are very expensive and require to be paid in advance. (photo credit 3.10)

  The U.S. Attorney in Chicago, Patrick Fitzgerald. We never met, though he attended the more critical days of our trial. He held frequent inflammatory press conferences, poisoning public (and jury pool) opinion in the manner that is routine in the U.S., which would lead to instant mistrials in Britain and Canada. I believe him to be a zealous fanatic and a threat to justice by any civilized definition, rather than an upholder of it. It was an honour to engineer the voiding of the Honest Services statute that he and other prosecutors had used as a catchment for anyone they targeted. (photo credit 3.12)

  Left to right: The prosecutors in our case, assistant U.S. attorneys Ed Siskel, Julie Ruder, Jeff Cramer, and Eric Sussman. Siskel was reasonably inoffensive. (photo credit 3.11)

  Photographs of me taken at the time I surrendered to custody in March 2008. Though the day of my imprisonment (March 3) began as the worst moment of my life, I soon saw that prison would be survivable, though Spartan, and felt my fortunes, which had plunged so deeply, had begun to recover. So they had.

  A sketch of me by a fellow prisoner in the middle of my sentence. There was an immense amount of talent among the prisoners, in all arts and crafts as well as electrical, mechanical, and other trades.

  At Coleman Low Security Prison with three inmate friends, Jacques (left), a colourful French Canadian who taught me a rudimentary knowledge of the piano and was a gourmet cook; Tony (centre), an Ecuadorian “exporter” to Russia (both were released while I was in prison); and Jackie, a Colombian in the clothing business. They were memorable characters and I would be happy to see them again.

  Granted bail: leaving Coleman Federal Correctional Facility, July 21, 2010. (photo credit 3.16)

  Here, Barbara was still recovering from a fainting spell on mishearing the resentencing on June 24, 2011. Though it was nonsense, we weren’t surprised by the seven-and-a-half-month sentence, as a fig leaf for the whole misconceived prosecution. We detested the Chicago courthouse as a palace of corruption and hypocrisy and were happy to depart it for the last time. (photo credit 3.17)

  [CHAPTER FIFTEEN]

  ON MONDAY, MARCH 3, Barbara and I got up wordlessly. We had held each other during the night. Barbara walked her puppy in the garden to the pleasure of the press who were on the other side of the road waiting for my departure. The puppy was too young to understand his routine anywhere but on the little strip of grass that had become familiar to him – and now to the press. This tiny, white, lamblike puppy: I wondered if he would remember me.* I looked at the sparkling-blue, foam-capped Atlantic crashing onto our beach from our drawing room for a couple of minutes and then the stately progress of yachts and criss-crossing of small boats in the placid Intracoastal Waterway out our loggia windows for a little longer. The recollection of these perspectives would be a source of serenity in the sober, contemplative times to come.

  We drove away in a rented SUV that had windows largely impenetrable to cameras. The trip was uneventful after we got clear of the photographers outside our gate at Palm Beach, who pressed their cameras against the windows. They were only doing their jobs, but to what awful tastes they pandered.

  Barbara and I held hands during the ride and spoke little. There wasn’t much left to say. The scrubby topography of the Florida interior, with its endless commercial signs, strip malls, and one-storey buildings, provided little visual diversion. The only phone call was to the tireless Carolyn Gurland, who was already hard at work on the menu of strategies we had developed for mitigating my stay in the prison I was now approaching. The long struggle against my accusers could have gone much worse, but it had gone badly. Therefore, it must continue.

  My thoughts were that this was the worst the enemy cou
ld do, that it had loomed darkly in my thoughts for four and a half years, and that if I could endure it, the end of the ordeal would finally be in sight. My imprisonment should also slake the blood thirst of my more vociferous enemies. The sated prosecutocracy and its cheerleaders would move on to other prosecutions of real or imagined crimes. I was determined, above all things, whatever indignities might occur that I would not give way to self-pity, affected hauteur, or anger, much less despair.

  To the chroniclers, I had had a crushing reversal. I had. It was all that and more. Having hoped so much and proclaimed so forthrightly that I would be vindicated, I had lost more than I could ever have imagined. That is what made it also a huge challenge and opportunity. To rise above what I was about to face after years of calumny, persecution, and heavy collateral financial damage would at least temper in my mind the unjust and fleeting victory my opponents had achieved. I was sustained, on that and future days, by the solidarity of the growing army of my supporters; thousands of messages of goodwill arrived in the last days before I passed through the prison gate. I would keep faith with those who had maintained or developed faith in me, and especially with those who had loved me, living and dead, above all with my magnificent wife and family.