I was invited to appear on CNBC’s Kudlow and Cramer, and immediately after I shared my observations with Jim Cramer, the Department of Transportation (DOT) issued a statement, saying that what I’d reported was incorrect. Bizarrely, when I asked the DOT for a copy of the statement, they refused. That only made me want to dig deeper to learn about profiling in a pre- and post-9/11 world. What I found appalled me.
In the immediate aftermath of 9/11, the DOT fined four U.S. commercial carriers millions of dollars for alleged discrimination as they sought to prevent a repeat of the terrorism. Stunningly, those punished included United and American Airlines, which had lost two airplanes apiece and a combined total of more than 30 of their own personnel on 9/11. (Continental and Delta were the other two airlines fined.) The DOT, under Norman Mineta, initiated discrimination complaints against United and American that were settled for $1.5 million apiece. I read the litigation files and would later testify before a Senate subcommittee about what I had learned.
As I have previously summarized, the fact patterns were similar: Picture a pilot in the cockpit ready to pull back from the gate. He’s got a schedule to keep. And he has a statutory obligation to see to it that anyone who is perceived to be “inimical to public safety” is removed from the aircraft. Then comes the knock on the cockpit door and the pilot is told, either by someone from the flight crew or by someone in law enforcement, that the person in seat 3C is of Middle Eastern descent, that he has been acting suspiciously, and that his name (or one very similar to it) is on a federal watch list. “What should we do, Captain?” And to the extent that the pilot agrees to have the passenger questioned while he goes ahead and departs, our government perceived his actions to be discriminatory and initiated legal proceedings against his airline. Had the DOT not challenged me for repeating Lehman’s assertions in print and in my interview with Jim Cramer, I probably would never have written Flying Blind.
HOW TO GET QUASIMODO A DATE
Philadelphia Daily News, Thursday, April 22, 2004
LEGALIZE IT.
That’s my reaction to the publication of the photos of 16 “johns” recently arrested for prostitution in Philadelphia.
What an outrage. Just who decided that the press should be judge, jury, and executioner? These men should be facing the wrath of wives and girlfriends, not the Fourth Estate.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s terrible that people wake up to the sight of used condoms on their stoops. The oldest profession has no business in residential communities. But the fact that this seediness is all around is just another justification for making it legit, which would let us control the location, the participants, and the revenue.
No politician is willing to say this. (Good thing columnists don’t have to stand for election.) Instead, they’ll talk about the need to protect neighborhoods by going even further to embarrass the johns, perhaps by putting their faces on cable TV.
Ridiculous, I say.
The mug shots published in the Daily News revealed a random sampling of American men: white, black, Hispanic, and Asian, of all ages. (My first thought: Poll them and find out who’s really winning the presidential race!)
Of course, it’s the school principal among them who is drawing most of the attention. No wonder the police department was reluctant to give up the information. You have to worry that one of these guys will kill himself as a result of this latter-day version of the stocks on the town green. That’s happened elsewhere.
And what happens if one of the guys whose picture was published is exonerated? As Ronald Reagan’s secretary of labor once asked: Where will they go to get their reputation back?
And the attention on the principal is misplaced. I’m more interested in the guy who turned out to have a rap sheet that includes a rape conviction. He did three to seven for it.
Having him pay for sex sounds to me like a good thing. What might he do if he had no place to go and get it? (Spare me the letters saying that rape is a crime of violence, not sex. As far as I’m concerned, when the rapist pays for sex, he’s at least not abusing someone else.)
Want to get sex out of neighborhoods? Then legalize it.
Give those who want to do it a place to go far from our homes. Surely a country that says a woman can determine the fate of her fetus can let her decide to accept cash instead of a few drinks for sex. This way, we not only determine where it happens, but we regulate those involved.
Take a look at the adult-film industry in Los Angeles right now.
The business has gone dark because two stars were determined to have AIDS. This is a billion-dollar industry closing up shop on its own initiative. In L.A., the thousand or so porn stars are all tested monthly, and show the results before they can work. Is the system perfect? No. But it is a helluva lot better than the open season on many urban streets right now.
One of the porn stars returned from shooting a movie in Brazil on March 17. Unfortunately, Brazil doesn’t exercise L.A.’s oversight of the industry. The day this guy returned, he tested negative. Falsely, it turns out, because of his recent infection.
So he went to work. When tested again on April 12, he was diagnosed. It’s an ugly situation. Now 65 people are scared to death that they, too, are infected. But it could have been worse. At least the circle is defined and the initial case was caught within one month.
Imagine if that happened with the hookers on the streets of Philadelphia whose clients were outed last week. How long would it have taken for a diagnosis? How in the world could potential victims be identified?
And there’s one more reason for legalization. Call it the Quasimodo conundrum.
Simply stated, some guys are never going to find companionship. I say guys because women never have this problem.
That’s just the way we’re wired. Aren’t the Quasimodos entitled to a little happiness? Particularly in a world where sexual stimulation is all around us?
It’s all about sex. And if that’s tolerated, so too must a means of dealing with the effects.
AFTERWORD
Yes, legalizing prostitution is still my view, and I’ve repeated it in other columns. Beyond the Quasimodo factor, I’d add the following virtues to legalization: increased odds of sex workers’ reporting crimes against them, a decrease in the spread of sexually transmitted diseases, and a decline in the number of sex workers—all of which came to pass after New Zealand decriminalized prostitution in 2003 (as detailed by a government-commissioned study of the impact). And it’s not just the Quasimodos and sex workers I’m looking out for; I’m protecting politicians too! When in the spring of 2013, former New York governor Eliot Spitzer, the victim of his own prostitution scandal, sought to resurrect his career by running for New York City comptroller, I defended his right to run and said it could well pose the final referendum on sex scandals if he won, even though he didn’t necessarily agree with me. (Maybe he was right; he lost.)
Guest-hosting one night for Chris Matthews on Hardball, I asked Spitzer whether we’d become too intrusive, and he said:
Look, I’m not sure I’m the right person to ask, because I have a perspective that is so tailored to what I have been through. And I might separate those questions. Have we become too intrusive? Have we lost all sense of privacy? Yes. I think that’s a larger issue that we as a society need to confront. . . . I think maybe there’s an important conversation there. Is it the end of the sex scandal? No. Am I in any way condoning what I did? Absolutely not.
I’d argue that we lose potentially good public servants when we evaluate their work capabilities through the prism of their private lives. That’s not a defense of Spitzer’s patronizing hookers but rather an opinion that his inability to honor his marital vows is not necessarily a reflection of his ability to comport himself as a city comptroller. Which is why I told Spitzer that while his wife should have thrown his clothes into Central Park, I didn’t think his stint as Client No. 9 was a job impediment. The following day, again anchoring Hardball, I delivered a commentary an
d said this:
I would argue that it’s time to bring the world’s oldest profession aboveboard in communities willing to allow it, clean up the trade, and clamp down on the exploitation. Let government share in the revenue, but otherwise stay out of the private affairs of consenting adults. Beyond the role of the taxman, prostitution doesn’t warrant the involvement of federal authorities.
That commentary earned me a negative headline at the right-wing website News Busters: “Smerconish Fawns over Spitzer.” No, I was just defending the idea that his sex life was his wife’s business, not ours.
A BRUSH WITH GREATNESS, THANKS TO A LITTLE
TRUANCY AND SOME CONNECTIONS
Philadelphia Daily News, Monday, June 7, 2004
I ONCE SKIPPED SCHOOL just to meet Ronald Reagan. No regrets.
It was the spring of 1980. I was a senior at Central Bucks West and about to vote for the first time. Despite my age, the presidential race had captivated me, largely because of my fondness for a guy running for the office who was 50 years older than I was.
A week or so ahead of the election, a friend named Charlie Gerow, then a regional campaign coordinator for Ronald Reagan, called to say that Reagan would tour the Italian Market in South Philadelphia the next day. He told me that if I was standing inside Esposito’s Meat Market at exactly 2:50 P.M., I’d probably get to shake his hand. I decided to try. I recruited a buddy from my neighborhood, Mike Stachel Jr., and together we rode the train into the old Reading Terminal shed. Then we hoofed it down to 9th Street.
The scene was bedlam. The go-go ’80s were just beginning, but this was old-school politics. Buttons. Bands. Banners. And open access to a man who might be the next leader of the Free World.
From a distance, we watched Ronald Reagan get out of a town car in front of Giordano’s, at 9th and Washington. It was hard to see, much less get close to, the man who people still addressed as “Governor.” So we walked a block or so north and headed into Esposito’s. There was no one around.
“Are you sure he’s coming in here?” my friend asked. I had my doubts. Things were too quiet. Then I spied a large catering plate with a huge length of sausage spelling out “Reagan.” It was a good sign. I figured we must be in the right place.
Sure enough, minutes later, in walked Ronald Reagan and what we then thought was an army of Secret Service, although when viewed through 2004 glasses, it was really just a few guys. That was it. Ronald Reagan. Some security. The meat cutters from Esposito’s. And the two punks from Bucks County who should have been in class.
I had a pocket Instamatic in my hood. They were all the rage at the time. I asked Ronald Reagan for his permission before we used it.
In person, Reagan was a big, broad-shouldered fellow with inviting eyes. And he was a gentleman. “Hold on fellows, I need to blow my nose,” I remember him saying. We did. Then we snapped away as he smiled and gave the feeling that he had all the time in the world for two young men barely of age to vote. The guys from Esposito’s presented the sausage, while we were flies on the wall.
Left to right: Elia Esposito, Senator Richard Schweiker, Louis Esposito Sr. (background, with glasses), unidentified man (background), Ronald Reagan, Helen Sposaro, and Jules Esposito. Photo courtesy of Louis Esposito.
I’d never heard the word “gravitas” back then, but I knew that Ronald Reagan had something special. Something tough to put into words that I immediately felt from being in his presence for a few moments in a meat store in the heart of the Italian Market.
Call it Ronald Reagan’s gift. It was a feeling that he exuded. “Grandfatherly” might sum it up. To be close to him was to trust him, and to feel that he had your back. He emitted strength. And an air of sincerity, a rarity among all people, but particularly in our public servants. Even bad news would be welcome if it were to come from his lips. And while he’d made his name on celluloid, and carried with him a certain formality, he nevertheless had a rugged sense of American independence and grit. He was a man’s man.
We were like giddy schoolkids when we got back on the train. Hell, we were schoolkids! But a few days after the trip to the Italian Market, I was crushed. I hadn’t wanted to carry the flash attachment on the train and, as a result, the photographs were of a terrible quality. I didn’t know it then, but I would soon get another chance.
Late that summer, Charlie Gerow called again. Ronald Reagan, now the Republican Party candidate for president, was coming back to Philadelphia; this time, for a fund-raiser at the Bellevue with Arlen Specter, the GOP nominee for the U.S. Senate. The date was August 18, 1980—the price was $500 per person! Gerow told me that, if I played my cards right, I might be able to crash. There were no guarantees. I put on my only sport coat and headed back into the city. With a purloined nametag, I quickly gained admission. (Ah, the good old, pre-9/11 days!) This time I had not only my pocket Instamatic, but also my flash. I handed the camera to a stranger when Reagan worked the rope line and the mystery man snapped just one shot. That’s all it took. I look at it often. It’s me with a fat, ’70s-era tie and a full head of hair, standing with the Gipper. I treasure it to this day.
While I would be in his presence on several occasions, none would equal the initial feeling I had inside Esposito’s.
Those struggling to understand the enormity of the loss his death represents surely won’t include people who got a chance to meet him.
AFTERWORD
When Charlie Gerow turned 60, Lou Esposito surprised him with the photograph of the unique sausage gift for the future president. Fortunately, he made me a duplicate! It’s just the way I remembered all these years.
Meeting Ronald Reagan in the Bellevue Stratford, August 18, 1980.
JIM BEASLEY,
THE PEOPLE’S LAWYER
Philadelphia Daily News, Thursday, September 23, 2004
A LEGAL GIANT will be laid to rest today. But we’d be doing Jim Beasley a disservice if we were to recall him as a great “Philadelphia lawyer,” a moniker that may still carry a connotation of skill and competence but also conjures up privilege, white shoes, and Ivy League degrees.
Jim Beasley was none of that. He spent most of his 78 years slaying dragons. He was a trial lawyer, and damn proud of it, even when it became a term of derision.
For 50 years, he reigned as the preeminent litigator in all of Pennsylvania. The range of his clients and breadth of his cases was unparalleled. Google “Jim Beasley,” and you’ll read about his beating the Philadelphia Inquirer twice on behalf of Dick Sprague. Or his representation of the family of Holly Maddux against the man who murdered her, Ira Einhorn. He made headlines when he obtained a judgment against Iraq for 9/11 victims. Many thought of suing, but it was Jim Beasley who figured out how to serve the members of the Taliban with legal papers.
But there also were the everyday unpublished stories of thousands of clients who were united only in their status as the underdog: Injured workers. Victims of medical neglect. Consumers injured by unsafe products. Beasley gave a voice to ordinary people who otherwise would never have had the ability to take on large insurance companies and Fortune 500 corporations.
Size mattered to Beasley: The smaller the aggrieved party, the more apt he was to become their champion. And his outrage was palpable. In this day of blow-dried pettifoggers, the jury felt—and shared—his sense of outrage.
Lawyers desperate to learn the secret of Beasley’s success would travel great distances to watch him try a case or host a seminar. “You have to believe in your case,” he’d say, “because a jury can tell when you don’t.”
But the skills that he used so effectively in court didn’t come from a textbook. His roots were the key to his success. His humble upbringing and thorough preparation gave him a unique ability to speak simply and convincingly.
Jim Beasley was once a kid born on the wrong side of the tracks in the midst of the Depression. He grew up poor in West Philadelphia, the son of a factory worker. He spent his summers working his grandparents’ Mississip
pi farm. At 17, he dropped out of high school to join the Navy. After his discharge in 1945, he worked briefly as a cop, and then returned to Philadelphia. He drove a truck, a cab, and a Greyhound bus, and quickly realized that he had to go back to school. So he enrolled in a VA program and put himself through Temple law school (which now bears his name) by working at night. Then came the stuff of legal legend.
Like when he represented the teenage victim of an airline crash and walked into court holding a phone. During his closing speech, Beasley brought out the phone and invited the jurors to imagine themselves in the boy’s home so they could “overhear” the call in which his parents learned of their son’s death.
With the power of his spoken words, he crafted an image of cinematic size that was as poignant as it was vivid. Then, with a blend of common sense and a not-insignificant bit of flair, he told the jury that they would control the message in a call yet to be made—in which the airline lawyer would report the jury’s verdict to the plane’s manufacturer. It would be up to the jurors, he said, to decide what would be reported in that call.
I sat at his elbow and watched him treat all clients, from the mayor of Rome to a welfare mom from North Philly, with the same dignity and respect. Beasley didn’t care about skin color. He wasn’t interested in your politics. Your station in life was irrelevant. His only interest was the plight of his clients. And for them he was a gunslinger.
These days, it’s enough to sneer contemptuously at “those trial lawyers,” as if the title itself connotes dishonesty or opportunism. No need to qualify the title with an adjective (“dishonest”)—it’s bad enough to just call someone a “trial lawyer.” No doubt some will see the career of Jim Beasley as one spent in an attack on American commerce.
Clowns to the Left of Me, Jokers to the Right Page 9