by Paul Levine
For a long moment, no one said anything, and the only sound was the quiet hum of the air-conditioning. In the state courthouse, down by the river, the A/C screeches like angry birds.
Finally, the judge cleared his throat and said, “The defense motion, which shall remain under seal, is denied. Mr. Lassiter, you walked a tightrope in your devious little phone call, but you miraculously live to fight another day. That doesn’t mean the court approves of your sharp tactics and slippery conduct. And, assuming your client is convicted, if you think that conduct won’t come into play at sentencing, well, you are as ill-informed about human nature as you are about the federal rules of criminal procedure.”
“Wait a second! In plain English, are you saying that because I’m an asshole, you’re gonna throw the book at my nephew?”
“Did I say that, Margie?” the judge asked, oh-so-innocently.
“Not at all,” Bolden replied.
“When this trial is over,” I vowed, “win or lose, I’m reporting Bolden and her boss to the Inspector General of the Justice Department. I’m reporting Ray Pincher to the Florida Bar, and I’m reporting Your Honor to . . . I don’t know who I report a federal judge to, but I’ll figure it out.”
“Try God,” the judge said, struggling to get his bulk out of the chair. When he did, he grabbed his black robes that might once have been the mainsail of a pirate ship. Bolden started gathering her papers, but I stayed put.
“I’m probably dying,” I told them.
Bolden froze in place, and the judge looked at me, puzzled, before dropping back into his chair.
“At the very least, Your Honor,” I said, feeling agitated, my chest a hive of buzzing bees, “I might soon become a burden to people who care about me. I’m not saying this to get your sympathy. Lord knows, sympathy doesn’t seem to be part of your DNA.”
“What’s your point, Mr. Lassiter?” the judge demanded.
“I’ve got nothing to lose . . . except my nephew. There’s nothing I won’t do to keep him out or prison. Your threats don’t scare me.” I imitated the judge’s officious tone. “‘I’ll drop-kick your ass into jail.’ Go ahead! Do it!”
I stood, opened my suit coat, and reached into the inside pocket. The judge looked alarmed. Did I sneak a gun past security? I pulled out a toothbrush with a Mickey Mouse handle.
“I never go to court unless I’m prepared to spend a couple nights in the stockade.” I reached inside the other pocket and pulled out Melissa’s silk lavender eye mask with white piping. “Those damn fluorescent lights give me headaches when I’m on the top bunk. What I’m saying, Judge Speidel, is you do what you have to do. I don’t give a damn.”
“Sit down, Mr. Lassiter,” the judge said, quietly but firmly.
I sat, keeping my spine straight and my eyes on His Honor.
“I’ve cut you a lot slack,” he continued, “which you fail to appreciate. Now, we’re going to finish this trial, and then we’ll have a hearing on your conduct. And, as you suggest, I will do what I have to do. So, keep that toothbrush handy.”
The judge kept talking but I stopped listening. I could feel my jaw muscles clenching and my heart beating like a blacksmith hammering an anvil. A hot wave of anger flowed through me. I had told the truth. Jail did not concern me. Bar discipline did not concern me. All I could think of was Kip and how he was getting shafted.
I would keep fighting and would never give up. And sure, maybe at the end of the trial, the marshals will drag me from the courtroom. So be it.
For now, a blinding headache pierced my skull and blurred my vision. The recessed lights in the ceiling seemed to be spinning like flying saucers. And still, the judge was yammering away.
“. . . Frankly, I have never encountered such blatant rudeness in my courtroom,” Judge Speidel said.
Then I heard myself reply, “I’m a rude dude, but I’m the real deal.”
“What? What’s that?”
“Cocked, locked, and ready to rock. Rough, tough, and hard to bluff.”
“Mr. Lassiter!”
“I take it slow, I go with the flow. I ride with the tide, I’ve got glide in my stride.”
“You will cease this . . . this poetry at once!”
“I don’t snooze, so I don’t lose.”
“Your Honor,” Bolden said. “I believe that’s a George Carlin routine.”
“Who?”
I exhaled a long, slow breath. “I’m hanging in, there ain’t no doubt. And I’m hanging tough, over and out.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
The Whole Kip and Caboodle
A gaggle of reporters honked and cronked in the corridor like geese around a pond. I cut through the pack, declining all comments. Margaret Bolden followed in my wake. She had one more witness to call, one who was doubtlessly far better prepared than Georgina Suarez had been. The FBI and Justice Department attorneys had spent hundreds of hours with Max Ringle, honing his testimony, encasing him in a knight’s shining—if dented—armor. And I’m the guy who had to knock him off his horse.
“Are you okay, Uncle Jake?” Kip asked when I joined him at the defense table.
“Tip-top.”
“You look . . . I don’t know . . . pissed off.”
“I’m cool, Kippers.”
“The judge ruled against us, didn’t he?”
“For now.”
“And you’re all right?”
“I’m cool,” I repeated.
In fact, I had somehow regained my composure. George Carlin’s monologue was no longer racing through my brain like a runaway train. My headache had come and gone. The judge had not ordered me shackled and gagged. I had work to do.
Ringle slithered toward the witness stand in black slacks, a gray silk shirt with a black tie, and—what the hell!—a form-fitting, alligator-skin jacket dyed a rusty orange. The jacket was the real thing, not faux reptile, which Kip confirmed by whispering, “Ten grand from a store on Rodeo Drive.” Bolden must have told him to wear a coat and tie, rather than one of his cashmere hoodies. Doubtless, Ringle didn’t mention that his taste in jackets ran toward the hide of exotic animals. Fine with me if he looked like a Times Square pimp, circa 1972, but what mattered was what he would say, not what he wore.
Ringle appeared ten years younger than when I had met him, argued with him, and tried to strangle him. His hair, once whitish with yellow nicotine streaks, was now a polished brown. He wore stylish wire-rimmed eyeglasses, probably European, with rose-tinted lenses. His face was still bronzed, but the deep crevices in his cheeks were gone, his face now smooth and shiny. The overall impression was of a pampered man whose manse would have a five-thousand bottle wine cellar. When he took the oath, he smiled at the prosecutor with a stiff upper lip.
Botox!
The bastard had probably been hitting the spa for the past eight months.
Bolden’s direct examination was by the book. Ringle admitted that he was a scoundrel who had taken his academic consulting business into the netherworld of résumé fabrication and bribery of coaches, admissions officers, and test proctors. Yes, he pocketed millions, most of which would be forfeited to the federal government. Yes, he hired young Chester Lassiter, aka Kip, to take tests for under-performing, over-privileged children of wealthy clients. But once confronted by the FBI, Ringle cooperated and allowed himself to be recorded speaking to his employees, clients, and coconspirators. And yes, he expected that his cooperation would be taken into account at time of sentencing.
Reviewing his business records, he ran through every test Kip had taken or altered and the sums paid to him. The repetition of names, places, and dollar amounts were built into a rhythm designed to make the jurors think that Kip was the major player in the scheme. Which, alas, he was with the fraudulent tests, though the government couldn’t resist inflating his part in the overall business.
I sensed Kip squirming in his chair, not from the accusations, but from the pain of Ringle’s colossal betrayal. I put a calming hand on his arm, as I h
ad done so many times during the trial.
“What was the defendant’s position with the company?” Bolden asked.
“Senior vice president of Q.E.D. and president of the separately incorporated division, Personalized Test Enhancement, Inc. I owned all the stock in Q.E.D. Kip owned all the stock in P.T.E.”
“How did it come about that such a young man had a position of such importance in your organization?” she asked.
The jurors shot looks at Kip, sizing him up. To me, he looked like a Boy Scout trying to figure how to make a fire with flint and a piece of steel.
“Let me be honest,” Ringle answered, and I smirked at the novelty of such a concept. “It was my train, but Kip was the engineer. He came up with the standardized test scheme, and he had the cojones to pull it off.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Walking into the test centers pretending to be someone else, he had to avoid detection and then have the focus to get the score he’d promised. I could never have done it. But Kip has the nerves of a lion tamer and the heart of a cat burglar.”
Oh, spare me. The line was so precise, so damaging, so damned perfect, it must been sculpted in rehearsal. And I knew we would hear it repeated in closing argument.
“Did the defendant add substantial value to Q.E.D.?” Bolden asked.
I could have objected to such an obvious leading question, but Bolden would have other ways to get this into evidence, so I stayed seated.
Ringle leaned forward on the witness stand, resting his arms on the railing, looking too damn comfortable. For a moment, I fantasized about strangling him a second time.
“There was a cap on how much we could make from Q.E.D. because we were shut out of many universities,” he said. “I simply didn’t have contacts in enough athletic departments to grow the business.”
“You ran out of people to bribe,” Bolden prompted him.
“Exactly. But Kip Lassiter’s ability to radically improve test scores opened the doors to nearly every elite university. Once he started masterminding that operation, we had what I like to call ‘the whole Kip and caboodle.’”
Yet another phrase they must have worked on over cappuccinos and croissants in the U.S. Attorney’s war room.
“So, the defendant was essential to your business?”
Another lob, another leading question, and still, I stayed quiet. I was grinding my teeth, waiting for my turn.
“Q.E.D. might have existed without him but it would not have been nearly so profitable.”
“Or so illegal?”
“Objection! Leading.” I leapt to my feet, just to remind Bolden I wasn’t a potted plant. Also to unwind my aching back.
“Sustained,” the judge proclaimed.
Bolden wanted to close it out. Ringle’s value to her case had been wearing a wire and furnishing the FBI with incontrovertible recordings. She had already proved her case with Agent Wisniewski. So Ringle’s job today was to corroborate the agent’s testimony, fill in a few gaps, and not screw it up.
Bolden ended with a series of questions about the Grand Cayman account. Ringle identified Kip’s signature on bank documents and asserted that all the money belonged to Kip. Then Bolden sat, clearly pleased with herself and her witness.
At the lunch recess, Kip asked me how I would handle cross-examination.
“Rattle Ringle,” I responded. “And then rattle Ringle some more.”
Kip looked dejected.
“What is it, Kippers?”
“He’s really smooth at conning people. He won’t argue with you and get all flustered. He’ll just slip and slide around tough questions and then lie to your face.”
“Don’t worry, kiddo. I’m gonna let that gasbag fill a Macy’s Parade balloon with all his lies. Then, I’m gonna puncture the bastard and see what spills out.”
Kip didn’t look convinced, and, truthfully, neither was I.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
The Pied Piper, the Drum Major, the Leader of the Pack
With the jury well-fed and the gallery packed with news media, social media influencers, and civilians seeking free entertainment, I revved up my engines. I stood, buttoned my suit coat, and walked to the podium. I carried no notes. They’re a straitjacket, killing spontaneity and slowing down what should be a machine-gun delivery.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Ringle,” I said pleasantly. “Nice to see you again.”
He gave me a half-frozen Botox smile. “Is it? Last time, you assaulted me.”
“If I do my job well today, twelve people will follow my example.”
The judge scowled. “Already, Mr. Lassiter?”
I wanted to say, “He started it,” like a fifth grader, but thankfully, my wiser self prevailed. “Sorry, Your Honor.”
“Please just ask questions and refrain from this byplay.”
The jurors leaned forward, eyes wide, all but licking their lips. Oh, how we all love a fight, whether it’s the thuggery of mixed martial arts or the verbal sparring of the courtroom. As Aristotle said—or maybe it was the Joker in Batman—“Let the games begin.”
“Let’s start with something we can agree on,” I said. “You’re a criminal, correct?”
“While I don’t think of myself in those terms, I suppose you’re correct.”
“You have pled guilty to four counts of fraud, racketeering, money laundering, and conspiracy, correct?
“Yes.”
“Because of your cooperation, you have not been charged with what . . . one hundred additional counts?”
“Oh, heavens, at least that many.”
“And yet you still face more than sixty years in prison?”
“That would be the maximum. One hopes for far, far less.”
“Far less because of your extraordinary assistance in making the case against Kip Lassiter?”
“I don’t know how extraordinary, but yes, I have done my best to honor the conditions of my cooperation agreement.”
“Including getting evidence against the coaches, proctors, and college administrators you bribed, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And getting evidence against your clients, the parents who paid you bribes?”
“Yes.”
“Turning on all of those people who trusted you, correct?”
“Yes.”
“In order to lessen your own punishment?”
“Yes.”
So far, so good. He admits being a rat.
“Let’s talk about your business,” I said. “When it came to getting clients, you were the Pied Piper, not Kip Lassiter, correct?”
“Pied Piper, drum major, leader of the pack, whatever you like, yes.”
“You formed Q.E.D., not Kip Lassiter.”
“True.”
“And own all its stock?”
“Also true.”
“And while you testified that Kip came up with the test-taking idea, are you aware that your daughter Shari testified it was her idea, which she presented to you?”
He made a scoffing sound. “Shari’s a sweet girl but frankly not the brightest bulb in the chandelier.”
I shot a look toward the jurors. Several frowns told me they didn’t like a father belittling his daughter.
“You were the only one with signatory powers on the corporate bank accounts, correct?”
“Yes, except for the Grand Cayman account.”
“A company you registered after you began cooperating with the government?”
“Yes.”
“Which you did at the FBI’s instructions?”
“Yes.”
“And you opened that bank account also at the FBI’s instructions?”
“Yes.”
“You deposited all the funds in that account?”
“Yes.”
“Did the FBI tell you to begin paying Kip bonuses to be deposited into that account?”
“They did. I was told to begin treating him as a partner, rather than an employee.”
�
�It seems the FBI was your partner, Mr. Ringle, not Kip Lassiter.”
“Objection!” Margaret Bolden leaned over the prosecution table, now covered with her associates’ laptops. “That’s not a question.”
“Sustained. Try to refrain from testifying, Mr. Lassiter.”
Fine with me. I’d made my point for the jury.
“Did Kip ever ask for those bonuses?” I said.
“He did not.”
“Did he ever withdraw any of the money?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
Ringle used a thumb and forefinger to smooth the skin beneath his nose and above his lips, the way some men massage their mustaches. Except he had no mustache. Then I realized he was wiping sweat. Maybe all the Botox in his cheeks was heating up. If I caught a break, maybe his face would melt like those Nazis in Raiders of the Lost Ark.
I moved from the podium back behind the defense table. I wanted to be out of the jurors’ line of sight so they could focus on Ringle and try to find his eyes behind his glasses. The greater distance also allowed me to crank up my volume without seeming like I was yelling at the witness.
“You made a conscious decision to become a criminal, correct?” I demanded.
“I suppose I did.”
“And you have a long history of deception and telling lies, isn’t that right?”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
“Your Q.E.D. materials state that you were previously an admissions officer at Arizona State. Was that true?”
“Well . . . more like puffery.”
“Meaning false? A fraudulent representation? A lie?”
“Yes.”
“You also claimed to have been a vice president of admissions at the University of Miami. Was that a lie?”
“Yes.”
“Those same materials claimed that your clients had been admitted to every Ivy League institution, even though you had not even started the business, correct?”