There was one teenage black kid with dreadlocks, a dirty T-shirt, holes in his jeans, and a pair of four-hundred-dollar sneakers. I had him pegged for someone who grabbed iPhones from people on the subway. In fact, he was texting on an iPhone at that moment. I assumed he had stolen it because of the feminine-looking pink-and-gold-glitter case.
A middle-aged working class guy sat across from me. He had rheumy eyes and a bulbous nose laced with broken capillaries. I had him figured for a DWI, maybe his third. One more and he might lose his driver’s license for good, which would cost him his job. He looked as depressed as I felt.
A Latino couple sat together on the couch next to me arguing in Spanish. I guessed that one was an American citizen and the other wasn’t. It looked like they were here for some help with immigration. My Italian could help me understand the gist of what was being said in Spanish. But these two were talking fast and with some kind of South American accent that made it hard for me to follow. I heard the words for green card, marriage, and daughter several times.
I realized Michael Willis’s office was the legal equivalent of what my mother scornfully referred to as a Doc-in-the-Box. In the New York City judicial system, freelance public defenders like these were called 18B Lawyers. Eighteen, I presume, because that was their average age. And the B, of course, stood for bad.
Speaking of my mother, I wondered if I should break down and ask my parents to lend me some money for a real attorney. But I was already hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt to them. Starting with graduate school, which wasn’t so bad. After all, it was Dad’s idea for me to go to grad school in the first place. Then there were thousands of dollars that Caitlin and I borrowed from them when I was out of work. My parents helped pay for the rent. They helped pay for the baby. They helped pay for everything. Two years ago, my father said, “Basta!” Enough! He cut me off. No more money for any reason. Now I was afraid to ask. And too proud. I’d have to take my chances with this Shyster-in-a-Box. I glanced at the wall where Michael Willis, Esq., displayed his college diplomas. One was from the University of Kalispell, the other was from the Lake Tahoe Law School.
The University of Kalispell?
I confess to being something of an academic snob. I went to one of the top liberal arts colleges in the country for my BA and followed that up with an MFA from Yale. My father was a full professor at another Ivy League university. My mom did her undergraduate work at Carleton College in Minnesota and got her MD at Johns Hopkins.
The University of Kalispell, as I understood it, was an online correspondence school. They passed out bachelor’s degrees like jellybeans. And the Lake Tahoe Law School? Well, I decided to walk over and take a closer look at that diploma. There was a little gold seal on the diploma saying The Remote Electronic Education Association had granted the school’s accreditation. Remote electronic education? I assumed that meant the Lake Tahoe Law School was online, too. Could you practice law in the City of New York with that kind of academic pedigree?
I guess you could if you passed the bar exam. Someone once told me you could practice law with a kindergarten diploma in some states as long as you passed the bar exam. I’m not sure whether that was true of New York or not. Let’s just say these two diplomas did not fill me with confidence.
“You’re next, Mr. Volpe,” said the Lake Tahoe Law School’s answer to F. Lee Bailey, beckoning me into his tiny office.
“I have some news for you,” he said, as he took his seat behind a large desk and indicated that I should sit in the small folding chair opposite him.
“Good news or bad?”
“Well, that depends on your point of view. The assistant US attorney has offered us a plea bargain.”
“Take it.”
“Wait until you hear it first. It’s five years. But you’ll only serve one. They’ll make sure you go to the cushiest prison in the system, or the one nearest your family, whichever you prefer. Then maybe you’ll do another year or two of probation and community service.”
“Take it.”
“There’s a catch.”
“What?”
“You have to allocute.”
My perfect score of 800 on the verbal part of the SATs suddenly failed me.
“I’m sorry. I forget what that means.”
“Don’t worry, I had to look it up myself.”
This did make me worry. He had to look up a legal term?
“It means you have to stand up in court and admit you did it,” he said. “You’ll have to explain exactly how you planned the crime and how it took place. You’ll also have to reveal the names of your two accomplices.”
“I can’t do that. We discussed this before. They’ll kill me.”
“Are you sure about that, Joey? I mean, we’re talking about two small-time crooks here. All three of you will spend some time in prison to cool off. They can’t hurt you if you go to different prisons, and the judge will make sure you do. It’s not like you’re dealing with the Gambino crime family where they could kill you anywhere. You’re not really in the Mafia, are you?”
“Of course not.”
“So why not give them up and save your own skin?”
“I can’t do it. That’s all I can say about it.”
“Okay. If that’s the way you want it, fine. It’s my duty to present you with all plea bargains and let you make the decision for yourself. But you know what?”
“What?”
“I’m glad you turned it down.”
“You are? Why?”
“Because I’ve been thinking a lot about your case, Joey, and I’ve come up with an idea. I have a little trick up my sleeve. It’s something that can win us an acquittal and let you walk out of that courtroom a free man.”
“What is it?”
“I’m not going to tell you. I want it to be a surprise. To the jury. To the judge. Even to you. The element of surprise is critical. But it might work. You’re going to have to trust me.”
“Are you sure?” I said.
“It’s a bit of a long shot, I admit. But if you’re not going to take the plea bargain, it may be our best shot.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking a lot about the case, too,” I said. “And I’ve come up with an idea of my own.”
“Yes?” he said with an indulgent smile.
“I think they’ve charged me with the wrong crime. I looked up the RICO Act on the internet and I don’t think it applies to me.”
“Joey …”
“Hear me out for a second. It turns out that there are about twenty-five different crimes that are RICO predicates.”
“Like the predicate of a sentence?”
That made two legal terms that our Lake Tahoe Law School graduate failed to recognize. It made me wonder if I’d be better off defending myself. They say the man who acts as his own lawyer has a fool for a client. It was hard to imagine any bigger fool than the one representing me.
“No, not like the predicate of a sentence. These are more like conditions that must be met for the statute to take effect. These crimes include bribery, kidnapping, extortion, gambling, murder … here, I wrote down the whole list for you.”
I pulled a sheet of paper from my men’s carryall bag and put it on his desk. He ignored it, so I continued.
“Of all the crimes on that list, I only committed one of them—robbery.”
“So?”
“Here’s the thing. To convict someone under RICO, you’ve got to prove he committed at least two of those crimes. Or he ordered someone else to commit at least two of those crimes.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“I found it on Wikipedia. They gave the history of RICO. You see, they designed the whole thing to catch Mafia bosses, not two-bit thieves. They wrote the law to prevent bosses from getting off the hook just because they didn’t commit any crimes themselves. RICO says that if you run an organization where you tell people to rob, steal, kidnap, kill, and so on, you’re as guilty as the guy who actually does it. Th
at’s how they finally put John Gotti in jail. Plus all the other heads of the five families in New York. But it has nothing to do with someone like me.”
“I have a cousin who lived near John Gotti in Queens.”
Was this guy even listening to me?
“Look, Michael, they charged me with the wrong crime. They should’ve charged me with plain old armed robbery and let the City of Columbus, Ohio, take the case. They made a stupid mistake by charging me with RICO.”
“It’s a technicality, Joey.”
“Technicalities are what let guys like me go free, Michael!”
“No, no, no, I don’t like it. Trust me. I’ve got a little trick up my sleeve that’s going to work like a charm. You’re going to walk out of there a free man.”
Over the course of the next three months, he must’ve said, “I’ve got a trick up my sleeve,” more often than I said, “I’m just an actor.” We would’ve made a nice pair of parrots in a cage.
“Well, I’m just an actor,” I said. “I guess you know best. I suppose I shouldn’t try to defend myself with legal precedents from Wikipedia.”
“Now you’re talking sense, Joey. Trust me. Everything’s going to be fine. I’ve got a little trick up my sleeve.”
19
“If the defendant’s face looks familiar to you,” said the assistant US attorney, Richard Fineman, “there’s a simple reason for it: he’s a known member of an organized-crime family.”
I grabbed my attorney by the arm, pulled him over to me, and whispered into his ear. “Object to that, for Christ’s sake. I’m not a member of any organized crime family. I’m just an actor.”
“I can’t object during an opening statement,” said my attorney.
“Who made up that rule? He’s telling a flat-out lie.”
“That’s what they told us in law school. You shouldn’t object during the opponent’s opening or closing statement. It’s a matter of professional courtesy.”
“I’m sure you can object. I’ve seen it on TV a hundred times. And I don’t even watch that much television.”
“You can’t get your law degree from watching TV, Joey.”
“But I suppose you can get it from surfing the internet,” I said.
I sat back and listened to the prosecutor tell lie after lie for the next half hour. My dumbass defense attorney, Michael Willis, did nothing but sit there and make stick-figure doodles on his yellow pad.
“We will show you in painstaking detail how the defendant, Joey Volpe—which means The Fox in Italian—conspired with two other Mafia members to steal more than one hundred thousand dollars in cash and jewelry from celebrities who attended the fan convention in Columbus, Ohio.
“We will show how the defendant smuggled two semi-automatic pistols past security by using the entrance reserved for special guests of the convention. In a classic diversionary tactic, his two accomplices brought toy machine guns in through the main entrance. While the firearms experts posted at the main entrance were going over those plastic machine guns to verify that they were toys, Mr. Volpe, aka The Fox, was sneaking two deadly handguns into the side door.
“We will present an eyewitness who was sitting less than two feet away from The Fox when she saw him pass two handguns to his fellow Mafia soldiers. We have pictures taken on the cell phones of convention attendees showing The Fox and his accomplices discussing their strategy for the robbery and deciding when to make their move. When a horn blew to indicate the lunch break was at hand, The Fox’s two accomplices dropped their toy machine guns and began threatening the crowd with genuine handguns loaded with deadly thirty-eight caliber bullets.
“The robbery itself took place in an area called the greenroom. It involved many actors and actresses whose faces you will recognize from stage and screen. We will put several of these celebrities on the witness stand so they can tell you what they saw with their own eyes. They will describe their humiliation when The Fox and his henchmen forced them to strip naked. You will hear one celebrity in particular, Mr. Steven Dubois of Star Trek, recall how he was shot in the foot by one of The Fox’s henchmen as he tried to stop the thugs from getting away. Ladies and gentlemen, you can trust the testimony of these actors and actresses. They have been guests in your homes on television.”
I turned to my attorney. “Object to that! They’re all professional liars, for heaven’s sake.”
“I told you I can’t object to an opening statement.”
“Can’t you at least get him to stop calling me The Fox? It’s prejudicial.”
“I’ve met Mr. Fineman before. I don’t think he’s prejudiced at all.”
The prosecutor continued. “If the defendant has the guts to take the stand in his own defense—and I’m not sure he does—you’re going to hear him say the words ‘I’m just an actor’ often. Let me remind you, ladies and gentlemen, you can be an actor and a member of the Mafia at the same time. David Chase, the producer of The Sopranos, was famous for casting ex-Mafia members. There were rumors that Tony Sirico, the actor who played Paulie Walnuts, was an ex-mobster. One of the other stars of the show, the so-called Bevilaqua Kid, was convicted of burglary. Being an actor and a criminal are not mutually exclusive.”
The Bevilaqua Kid was in prison? That was news to me. But I wasn’t surprised. I heard that kid was a bad seed. When he was seventeen years old, he was in A Bronx Tale with Robert DeNiro. He’d been playing mobsters for so long he was having trouble telling fantasy from reality.
“Finally, ladies and gentlemen,” said Fineman, “you have to ask yourself why The Fox’s two accomplices are not in the courtroom sitting at the defendant’s table today. The answer to that question is simple. It is the Mafia’s code of silence, or omertà in Italian, that prevents The Fox from identifying his accomplices. If he snitched on them, they would kill him. That’s why he refused several plea bargains …”
“Is he allowed to mention plea bargains?” I said to Michael. “I thought those negotiations were confidential.”
“I can’t remember if that’s allowed or not,” said my brilliant attorney.
The prosecutor concluded. “So instead of serving just one or two years in jail, he decided to keep his mouth shut and serve ten years in federal prison. Ladies and gentleman, I would submit to you that if ten years in federal prison is what The Fox wants, then ten years in federal prison is what The Fox should get. Thank you very much.”
“Mr. Willis,” said the judge. “Your opening statement?”
“Yes, Your Honor. The defense is ready to proceed with our opening statement.”
“Well, all righty then. Please proceed.”
“Oh, okay, yes, of course.”
Michael charged up to the jury box, leaving his yellow pad filled with notes behind on the defendant’s table. He got five words into his delivery—“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen”—when he forgot his lines.
Michael stared at the jury for a few moments, and they stared back at him. He decided to repeat his greeting in the hope it would jump-start the opening statement. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”
Again he forgot his lines. The jury took Michael’s repetition to mean he was expecting a response, so they said “Good morning” in ragged unison.
To which Michael replied, “Good morning,” yet again.
“Now that the salutations are out of the way, Mr. Willis,” said the judge, “I suggest you go ahead with the substance of your case.”
At this point Michael realized he was not going to be able to remember his lines, so he scurried back to the defendant’s table to pick his yellow pad. Unfortunately, the yellow pad did not contain a written script for the opening statement. It was several pages of handwritten notes and sentence fragments to jog his memory if he got stuck. By now, Michael’s memory was un-joggable. So he read his notes word for word:
“Good morning … er, good morning again … defendant … Joseph Volpe … innocent … not Mafia … Yale graduate … father professor … mother doctor
… good education … happily married fifteen years … five-year-old child … no criminal record … no Mafia involvement … played mobster on TV … not real life … Italian heritage … victim of racial stereotyping … not involved in robbery … never saw robbers before in his life … robbers planted handguns in Joey’s purse …”
“It’s a men’s carryall bag, goddammit,” I muttered to myself. “Is that so hard to say?”
“Robbers stole Joey’s purse … put guns inside … followed Joey into greenroom … slipped past security guard … robbed celebrities … shot Dubois … Joey forced to strip naked … like the other actors … Joey’s money stolen, too … robbers left scene of crime … Joey left behind naked with other actors … Joey innocent … thank you.”
Michael returned to the defendant’s table and plopped down next to me drenched in flop sweat.
“Please don’t tell me this is your first time in a courtroom, Michael.”
By choosing not to reply, he gave me the answer loud and clear.
“The government calls its first witness, Your Honor,” said Mr. Fineman. “We call Ms. Karen Murray to the stand.”
In walked my loyal assistant Karen dressed in her full Columbus Fan-Con official volunteer regalia, with hat, scarf, epaulets, lanyards, badges, the works.
“Object to the way she’s dressed,” I said to Michael. “That’s outrageous. And it’s prejudicial. I’m surprised the judge would even allow it.”
“No, no, no,” said Michael with a smile. “That’s perfect. It fits with what I have planned later.”
“Your up-the-sleeve trick?”
“Yes. Wait and see. This is perfect.”
“Ms. Murray, could you tell the jury why you’re dressed in this unusual way,” said Fineman.
“Because you told me to.”
“No, I mean, well, let me rephrase the question. Is the manner in which you are dressed today similar to how you were dressed on October 13, 2014?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“And what were you doing on that day?”
The Don Con Page 12