In his opening, Stuart Little says it all comes down to greed. Stratton, the government will prove, is just a greedy pig who smuggled dope so he could live like a rock star and thumb his nose at the government, which, by the way, he is still doing as he sits here in this courtroom with his bogus defense.
True that.
In the government’s main case, the most damaging evidence against the defense is the tape recordings of Biff’s meetings with Hammoud and DEA Agent McNeil. In those recorded conversations, brought in to shore up Hammoud’s guttural, inarticulate testimony, Biff talks about the seven-ton load of hash, about Mohammed, and about me, whom he dismisses as a paranoid jerk for warning him that the Arabs were cooperating. We even have the benefit of hearing him on tape ask Hammoud, “Are you working with the DEA?”
“Of course not, Mr. Biff,” Hammoud responds dutifully. “Mr. Richard is crazy.”
Biff then tells undercover DEA Agent McNeil that Mailer was an investor in the smuggle! Fucking asshole! Why would he say such a thing? Why invent a story like that? It could only be because he hoped to impress the agent and lure him into a fictional drug deal. Was Biff that desperate for money? Fucking guy received close to two hundred grand from the hash trip. He had to know the hash was all sold by the time he met with the undercover agent. Yet still he played the role of drug dealer to get the undercover to give him money. And then what? Was he going to rip the guy off? It is all so bizarre; I can’t imagine what Biff was thinking. It smacks of some kind of subconscious desire to do himself in—and me, and all of us—to fuck us over and get everyone busted and locked up.
Biff is shunned like a leper at the defense table. Sammy and his father, owner of the trucking company and bonded warehouse where the hash was unloaded, and Fat Bobby, Sammy’s driver—we all ignore Biff, we act like we don’t even know he exists. Ivan Fisher, as his attorney, questions undercover DEA Agent McNeil and pursues the line: Did Mr. Biff so-and-so ever produce a sample of the so-called hashish? No, McNeil answers. So you never actually saw any hashish? That’s right, McNeil admits.
Where is the hashish?
The prosecution then calls my Austin, Texas, real estate agent, the guy I call Herbert Humbert. Fucking weasel testifies he knew me as Paul Quinlan. And that I bought a total of three ranches and a florist shop through his offices, and that I paid cash. Cash? Cash. Briefcases full of packets of hundred dollar bills.
On cross, I could strangle the little runt. Did you ever see any drugs or drug paraphernalia in Mr. Stratton’s possession? I ask him. No. Did Mr. Stratton, or Mr. Quinlan, as you say you knew him, ever intimate that he was involved in any illegal activity? No. I make the point that Humbert cheated the IRS and state taxman with regard to the large cash transactions he claims he took part in, and that the records of those transactions were fudged to mislead the government as to the amounts of money paid for the properties.
“So … you misled the government then, you lied, and you are attempting to mislead this jury now, is that correct?”
He’s stymied. I point out that the overages all went into Humbert’s pocket. The little rat probably made a few hundred grand. Does he expect to be prosecuted for his financial indiscretions? No. As part of his agreement with the government, in exchange for testifying against me, he expects he will not be charged. Isn’t that good reason to lie? Objection. Sustained.
Okay, fuck Herbert Humbert. He doesn’t really hurt me since I am not denying that I was a dope smuggler or even that I made a lot of money. And the jurors certainly picked up on his motive to testify and possibly lie. Next the government calls some guy who moved into the stash house on Staten Island after our crew moved out. Stuart Little produces a large clear plastic bag that he instructs the jury contains “sweepings” from the stash house basement. Those sweepings, a government chemist testifies, contain microscopic traces of tetrahydrocannabinol, THC, the active ingredient in hashish. What?
Yes. But, upon close inspection of the sweepings in the plastic bag, defense counsel takes note of a seed, and I ask the government chemist if he can identify the seed. No, he says, he cannot, not without laboratory analysis.
One of the defense lawyers asks, “Could it be a marijuana seed?”
“I couldn’t be sure.”
“Does it look like a watermelon seed?”
Laughter causes Judge Motley, who has been dozing on the bench, to rouse herself.
“That’s enough, counsel,” she says. “Move along.”
“Does hashish have seeds?” the lawyer continues.
“I don’t believe it does, no,” the chemist admits.
We have already established that the young man who rented the stash house after Bobby moved out admitted to smoking a joint from time to time, possessing marijuana for personal use. The microscopic traces of THC therefore could be attributed to his droppings.
To me—and I hope to the jury—the plastic bag of sweepings is a pathetic showing. What, fifteen thousand pounds of hash and all you can produce is an empty bag supposedly containing microscopic traces of THC? Fucking ludicrous.
Where is the hashish?
The representative I met with from Bordo Foods, the legitimate company we used as an unwitting cover for the load of hash smuggled in mixed with half a million kilos of Iraqi dates testifies he did business with me under the name Richard Lowell. I facilitated an approximately 1.1-million-pound date shipment from Baghdad to the port of New Jersey through Beirut, Lebanon, he recalls. The bill of lading and other documents are admitted as proof the shipment landed in Newark on the date in question after a lengthy transshipment through the port of Beirut. On cross, I am able to establish that the war in the Gulf had made it nearly impossible to buy and ship dates directly from Iraq, which was why I had arranged to have the dates transported overland to Beirut, where, I establish, the Lebanese civil war created additional delays before the dates were shipped on to the port of Newark, New Jersey. I am also able to show that three of the seven shipment containers full of dates were escorted from the docks by US Customs agents, and that the shipment was given a thorough secondary examination at the bonded warehouse in Jersey City.
The prosecution rests. Mohammed’s son, Nasif, is never called to testify. Word is he has returned to Lebanon and is being used by the DEA to set up other heroin dealers. Nasif did testify against Tamer, a heroin dealer from Detroit, whom I met in a sit-down in the Bekaa Valley in Lebanon. Tamer was convicted and sentenced to forty years in prison. The government feels confident that with Hammoud’s testimony and the tapes, they have proved their case against my co-defendants and me despite the fact that they have been unable to produce any of the hash.
As our first witnesses, the defense calls one of the customs agents who inspected the load.
“Was any hashish detected in the shipment of dates?”
“No.”
“Were trained dogs used to aid in the inspection of the shipment of dates?”
“I believe so. Yes.”
“And did the dogs detect any odor of hashish or any other illegal substances?”
“No.”
“Then you are saying the shipment of dates passed inspection and was legally landed in the United States?”
“Yes.”
This is actually not correct, though the customs guy wouldn’t know it. The dates were rejected by the US Department of Agriculture as having had too high an infestation rate—after all I went through in Baghdad to get quality dates! We had to ship them to Canada where they were sold after all seven tons of hash was removed at the warehouse in Jersey. But the jury will hear none of that. Again, I am struck by how what a jury actually gets to hear and to consider as the so-called evidence in a criminal proceeding is in fact conflicting, often apocryphal versions of events that only approximate what really happened.
On cross-examination, Stuart Little gets the customs guy to state that the smell of the dates could have made it impossible for the dope dogs to pick up the scent of hashish. The defense object
s as the answer calls for speculation. Overruled. The customs inspector also admits that of the seven containers and hundreds of cartons in the shipment, only two containers and perhaps twenty cartons were actually opened and inspected.
“So there could have been seven tons of hashish hidden in the containers—” Stuart Little begins only to be interrupted by Fisher’s objection.
“Calls for speculation.”
Motley overrules.
“It’s possible, yes, and that we could have missed them.”
On redirect, Fisher drives it home. “But you testified that you used dope-sniffing dogs as well in this secondary inspection, correct?”
“Yes, it is my understanding—”
Fisher cuts him off. “Your understanding? You were there, were you not?”
“Yes.”
“You saw the trained dogs used to inspect the shipment?”
“Yes.”
“And did the dogs indicate that they smelled hashish?”
“No, but—”
Fisher turns away. “No further questions.”
BOBBY’S MOTHER IS called to testify as a witness for the defense. She establishes that her son had moved out of the house on Staten Island even before the government alleges it was used as a stash house. Not true, but as a precaution, we did backdate the termination of the lease to make it look like he had moved before we used the place to stash the hash.
The mother is believable, a good Jewish mother who obviously strikes a chord with a number of the jurors. In all the visits she made to her son, she says, when he was living in that house, she never saw any sign of seven tons of hashish. Her son showed no signs of a sudden windfall to his finances. He’s a good boy, a hard-working welder. Stuart Little objects when she says her son could never have been involved in anything like this.
Once again, I begin to entertain the dazzling concept that I might actually win this trial. It’s like the Maine case all over again. The evidence against me simply does not reach the threshold of guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. One sees it in the jurors’ eyes, the shifting of their gaze from the prosecutor and his minions to the defense table, and a certain softening of their stare. Judge Motley, Stuart Little, and the DEA case agent, McNeil—they all appear to sense a shift in the mood. I’m elated, high on junk, weed, and the prospect of victory.
Then, midway through the defense case, as I am gearing up to call Norman Mailer as my first witness, Judge Motley halts the proceedings. She excuses the jury, sends them from the courtroom. Then she addresses me.
“Mr. Stratton, I am not going to allow you to call Mr. Mailer.”
“What? Judge—”
“No. You heard me. Furthermore, I will not allow you to proceed with this defense. I think this is a red herring and you are using it to confuse the jury.”
Fisher gives me a startled look. I glance back at him.
“Object,” he hisses under his breath.
“Your Honor—”
“I have ruled. Do you have any more witnesses?”
“Yes, but they are all being called to prove my theory of defense.”
“Then I will not allow them to be called. Do you have any other witnesses?”
Stuart Little is gloating.
“Judge, this is not fair. I object!” I bellow.
“Your Honor—” Stuart Little is on his feet, looks like he’s ready to approach the bench and kiss Judge Motley.
“You object to what? On what grounds?” Judge Motley demands.
“I object … to your ruling!” I say. “I object to this whole proceeding! What is this? What kind of kangaroo court—?”
“Mr. Stratton, sit down!” she booms from her lofty perch.
“No!”
“I will hold you in contempt.”
“Your Honor, you have stripped me of my defense! I outlined this defense before trial and you gave your permission for me to proceed with this defense!”
“That’s it,” Fisher whispers under his breath. “Make a solid record.”
“Now you’re telling me … halfway through the trial, when I am about to call my first witness, that I can’t go forward with my defense?”
“That’s correct. This defense is inappropriate. And one more thing: I will not allow you to mention to the jury that you are already serving a fifteen-year sentence for your conviction in Maine. That will be unduly prejudicial.”
“Prejudicial to whom? Judge, this is outrageous! How am I supposed to defend myself if you won’t let me—”
“Mr. Stratton, I have ruled. If you don’t like it, you may take it up with the court of appeals. You seem to enjoy writing briefs. Now, bring in the jury and let’s proceed.”
“Proceed with what? This is unbelievable. I can’t understand why you are doing this to me.”
“Proceed! Or I will hold you in contempt.”
This is the way these federal fuckers are. As soon as it looks like you might actually win at trial, they come up with some ruling that cuts you off at the knees. My co-counsel are equally flabbergasted. The wind is utterly sucked out of my defense. Judge Motley goes on to refuse to allow me to call nearly all of my witnesses, including Mailer. When he shows up in the courtroom as a spectator accompanied by a close mutual friend, the professional boxer, former light-heavyweight champion José Torres, the judge banishes them from the courtroom, claiming their presence is meant to intimidate the jury. The next day, Rudy Giuliani makes a brief appearance in the courtroom as if to give his imprimatur to the proceedings. Talk about influencing the jury. Of course, all this is done with the jury out of the room. They have no idea what’s been done to defuse my defense.
I am fucked. I don’t know what to do. My theory of defense has been cast aside. I feel helpless. Adrift in uncharted seas. Can she do this to me? Fisher and the other lawyers assure me that I have solid grounds to have the case overturned on appeal. Yeah, okay, great.
But what do I do now?
IN MY SUMMATION, I have no alternative but to revel in defiance.
“Where is the hashish?” I declare once again to the jury. “The government would have you believe that I am the organizer, the manager of a conspiracy to smuggle seven tons, fifteen thousand pounds, of hashish into the country, enough hashish to fill this entire jury box. And all they are able to produce is an empty bag containing microscopic traces of what they say is the active ingredient in marijuana. Do you know why they are unable to produce any hashish? Because there never was any seven-ton smuggle of hashish from Beirut, Lebanon. The seven containers contained dates, dates, dates, and more dates. A million point one pounds of dates from Iraq. Exactly as shown on the bill of lading and the manifest and all of the customs paperwork submitted to you as evidence in this case. Submitted to you by the government. They certainly proved that seven containers full of Iraqi dates landed and were inspected and cleared by US customs agents using trained drug-sniffing dogs at the port of New Jersey. But they failed utterly to prove that any hashish was imported.”
And then I lose it, and go ethnic.
“This whole case is preposterous,” I declare. “You are led to believe that I, some WASP from Boston was the ringleader of a gang of New York Jews. Please … what, because some taxi driver from Lebanon who was caught trying to sell heroin to an undercover DEA agent says so? I think not. Hammoud—should you believe anything that man says? Why? He’s a heroin dealer. And he never saw any hashish either. It’s ridiculous. I submit this whole fiasco is an affront to your intelligence, ladies and gentlemen. This really is 1984, when the government can concoct such an Orwellian case and hold a trial based on no physical evidence whatsoever and expect the good people of this jury to convict an innocent man based on what? The word of a heroin-dealing taxi driver who was set free to implicate me! No, no, no. I am certain that you will not convict me when the government has failed to prove their case. What they have proved is the lengths they will go to try to make me ‘cooperate’”—I hold up my fingers in quotation marks—“to lie, to
give false evidence against an innocent man.”
Stuart Little objects. He sees where I am going. I ignore him.
“Mr. Stratton,” the Motley judge says.
I ignore her, too.
I am veering very close to violating Motley Crew’s order that I must not present my so-called red herring defense to the jury. But there is no holding me back now. No compromise. No middle ground. I am on a tear. The hero in me, if any such exists, must stand up and make himself heard.
“And, if you find me not guilty,” I say and throw myself on the mercy of the jury, “as I am sure you will, based on the government’s utter failure to prove their case, nevertheless, I will not walk out of here a free man. No. I will go back to prison to finish serving the fifteen years the government has already sentenced me to for—”
“Mr. Stratton!” the judge thunders from the bench. “Stop! Bailiff, remove the jury.”
“—for smuggling marijuana! ”
The jury is hustled from the courtroom. I’m still standing at the podium facing her Honor.
Her Motleyness is enraged. Her black face has turned a deep blue with fury.
“I specifically instructed you not to mention to the jury your prior conviction and sentence in the District of Maine!” the judge warns me.
She is seething. I don’t give a fuck. I’m ready to tell her to kiss my Anglo-Saxon ass.
“I’m sorry, you Honor. I forgot.”
Titters from the spectators and co-counsel.
“I find you in contempt of this court, and I order that you serve an additional six months in prison for contempt.”
“Thank you, your Honor.”
“Sit down, Mr. Stratton!”
“It was worth it,” Ivan Fisher says as I take my seat beside him at the defense table. “You got it in.”
Kingpin Page 15