Being Oscar (14 page)

He was a Joe Louis fan, and Joe Louis was Izzy’s friend.

“Guilty,” the judge said. Then, he added, “Probation.”

We couldn’t have asked for more.

Joe Louis wasn’t my only heavyweight. I once represented Frans Botha, the South African boxer known as “The White Buffalo.” Botha had defeated Axel Schulz in New Jersey to win the International Boxing Federation heavyweight title. But after the match, he had tested positive for a steroid. I represented Botha
in a hearing before the New Jersey Boxing Commission, which planned to strip him of his title. Everyone thought we were going to concede and plead for mercy, but I put on a defense. We argued that the drug had been prescribed by a doctor for an arm injury, and that Frans had no idea it was a banned substance or that it was still in his system when he fought Schulz. Frans wasn’t stripped of his title, and he went on to fight several other memorable matches. He was beating Mike Tyson, according to all three judges, when Tyson knocked him out in the fifth round of their match.

Tyson was another heavyweight whom I represented. You may have heard about the incident; Tyson bit off a piece of Evander Holyfield’s ear during their heavyweight fight. I can’t begin to offer an explanation for why he did that; “heat of the battle” doesn’t come anywhere close to justifying it.

But from my perspective, after the fact, that wasn’t the issue. Tyson had bitten off a piece of Holyfield’s ear. That wasn’t in dispute. What I was trying to do was save Tyson’s career.

My good friend Mills Lane had been the referee at that fight. Mills and I went back a long way, trying cases against one another. He had been a prosecutor in the district attorney’s office up in Reno, and then became a district court judge. He also had a part-time job as a fight referee. The fight was at the MGM Grand Arena. Many people might not remember this, but Tyson bit Holyfield twice. The first time, Mills stopped the fight temporarily and issued a warning. The second time, after a piece of Holyfield’s right ear fell onto the canvas, Mills stopped the fight and awarded Holyfield the victory.

The Nevada Athletic Commission withheld $3 million from Tyson’s $30 million purse, which was the most they could withhold. And then the commission scheduled a hearing to consider banning Tyson from the sport. Don King hired me to represent Iron Mike.

Dr. Elias Ghanem, another friend of mine, was the chairman of the Athletic Commission. I had successfully represented him in an IRS case many years before, and we had remained friends. He was also my doctor; he was the only one who could get my gout under control.

Everyone knew about our friendship, but everyone also knew that he was a straight-shooter who would call the issues as he saw them. This was another case where the evidence was not in dispute. Holyfield’s ear—at least a piece of it—had been bitten off by Tyson. The state’s attorney wanted Tyson’s license suspended. This would have resulted in an indefinite suspension before he could box again, if ever.

The media, as you can imagine, was all over this case, and everyone was waiting to see what was going to happen. Tyson, who was considered one of the greatest heavyweights of all time, was now vilified as an animal.

Dr. Ghanem called me aside before the hearing started. He said that the best we could hope for, with all the heat this case had attracted, was license revocation and a fine of $3 million, which is what the commission had already withheld. Then he whispered to me, “With revocation, he can reapply in a year.”

That sounded great to me, since I knew Tyson’s entire life revolved around his ability to box. Without boxing, I don’t know what he would have done. Say what you will about the incident, Mike Tyson was one of the faces of boxing. The bout with Holyfield had grossed $100 million. Boxing was a major event in Las Vegas, the “Fight Capital of the World,” and Tyson, like it or not, was a big part of the sport. Events like heavyweight title bouts filled hotel rooms, brought thousands of people to the city, and drove the economy. Those were the kinds of things I was thinking of.

So we went for the revocation rather than the suspension. The revocation took effect on July 9, 1997. Tyson reapplied for a
license, and the revocation was lifted on October 18, 1998. He was out of boxing for a little over a year. If his license had been suspended, we might still be appealing for its restoration.

Mike Tyson was a great boxer, but you could get into a serious debate about the other parts of his life. However, Barney Ross was a great man who happened to be a great boxer.

I love the sport, but I never lose sight of the difference.

M
any people in law enforcement tried to say that I was more than just the legal representative of the mobsters who were my clients. They wanted to make me out as a criminal “consigliere,” a guy who counseled gangsters on illegal activities.

That’s never who I was, but I have to admit there was one time when I did provide counsel that helped avoid a major underworld confrontation between two of the most dynamic and dangerous clients I ever represented.

Tony Spilotro used to hang out at a club on Paradise Road called Jubilation. It was a fancy bar-restaurant owned by the singer Paul Anka, and lots of important people would go there. Tony was a creature of habit and always sat in the same booth. It was toward the back of the room and up against a wall. If you sat there you could see the rest of the restaurant and everyone else in the room. Guys like Tony always had their own booth, usually up against a wall. There was no need to look over your shoulder.

One night, around midnight, Tony went into the club. Jimmy Chagra, another of my clients, was sitting in Tony’s booth along with his entourage, including the usual sycophants and beautiful women. Tony told him to get out of the booth. Chagra had no
idea who Tony was, and he refused. They had words. I think Jimmy called Tony “a midget” and said, “Get lost.”

Tony left the place steaming. He had been embarrassed. If this had taken place in Chicago or Philadelphia, Chagra probably would have left the place in pieces. As it was, he was in more danger than he knew. But this was Las Vegas, and if anything was going to happen, it wasn’t going to be in a public place.

Chagra was an interesting guy. The feds alleged he made his millions dealing drugs, but Jimmy liked to represent himself as a professional gambler, which explained his frequent visits to Las Vegas.

Chagra was the son of Lebanese immigrants, and growing up he had worked in his father’s carpet store in El Paso, Texas. He looked like a handsome Saddam Hussein with soulful dark eyes that could be piercing when he looked at you. He was always personable, but I found him to be moody, and at times it seemed like he was depressed. He had an older and a younger brother, both of whom became lawyers. Jimmy was apparently the only non-student in the family. But he was entrepreneurial, and he liked being center stage and having a good time. He could also be aggressive and would sometimes shoot from the hip, which was at the heart of his confrontation with Spilotro. If Jimmy had known who he was dealing with, I doubt that he would have called Tony a “midget.”

The next day Tony came to my law office. He stopped by most days, because so many things were going on that there was always some legal issue that had to be discussed. But all he could talk about that day was “this jerk who was sitting in my booth.” As he was talking and describing the guy, I realized it was Jimmy Chagra. This was bad; I immediately got on the phone and called Chagra.

“Get down to my office now,” I said. “It’s very important.”

“What’s going on?” he said.

“Don’t worry about it. Just get over here.”

Chagra arrived, and before they could get into it, I made introductions and told them to resolve the problem right there, shake hands, and forget about it.

“You’re both good guys,” I said. “Let’s not have any problems.”

Some people think I saved Jimmy’s life that day. If I did, it would have been the first, but not the last time.

I met Jimmy’s brother Lee about a year before I met Jimmy. Lee was a prominent defense attorney in El Paso. He represented a lot of drug dealers and was involved in high-profile cases. He wasn’t quite as flamboyant as Jimmy, but he lived the good life.

He was a regular at the Kentucky Derby, where he moved in the best circles. He placed his bets in the Colonel Winn Room, which was an exclusive dining area on the third floor of the clubhouse with its own betting windows. The minimum bet was $100. He’d be there dressed in a white suit, a cowboy hat, boots, and a fancy cane. When he bet, he’d go up to the window and tell the clerk to keep his hand on the button, running up bets in the thousands. Sometimes his actions alone would change the odds on a race.

I was familiar with the set-up because I had been there as a guest of the Chandler family. Happy Chandler, the patriarch of the family, had been the governor of Kentucky at one time, and later was the Commissioner of Major League Baseball.

The Chandlers had hired me to represent a family member who had been charged—and this was unbelievable—with possession of a small cannon that had been stolen from a military base in California. My client was Brad Bryant, a Chandler cousin. The cannon was in a storage locker leased by Bryant. The combination to the locker was Bryant’s birth date, and Bryant’s prints had been found on the cannon.

The case looked insurmountable, but somehow we got a jury to come back with a “Not guilty.” I attacked the credibility of some witnesses and made a strong closing argument about reasonable doubt. You never know with a jury.

In fact, I wasn’t even there when the verdict was announced. I had to fly to Kansas City for the start of jury selection in a case against Nick Civella. My co-counsel, a local attorney from Lexington, called me when the verdict came in. To tell the truth, I couldn’t believe it.

Anyway, in appreciation, the Chandler family invited me to the Derby. I went with my friend Billy Walters, a legendary gambler. We were treated like royalty, and that’s how I got to see the Colonel Winn Room.

While we were there, we went to a party and I met Phyllis George, the former Miss America who was married to the governor of Kentucky. I also ran into George Steinbrenner. We sat next to each other to watch the race. Lee Chagra, in all his sartorial splendor, probably fit right in with the Derby crowd. I didn’t meet him until after this, but I could see how he would be in his element. I clearly wasn’t in mine. But that didn’t stop Billy Walters and me from having a great time.

The Chagras had plenty of money. The government, of course, implied that it came from drug dealing, even insinuating that Lee, who was a lawyer, had a role in his brother Jimmy’s drug network. That was never proven.

The allegation was that Jimmy had a pipeline into Mexico and South America, and that he was a major distributor—a supplier to the suppliers—of marijuana and cocaine. Some speculated that he had direct ties to the Colombian cocaine cartels.

Lee Chagra had contacted me sometime in 1977 or 1978. He wanted me to represent him in a civil rights suit against a federal judge, John H. Wood, Jr., “Maximum John,” they called him.
Lee had tried several cases in front of the judge, and he was convinced Wood harbored bias and that he wasn’t giving Lee’s clients, and other clients for that matter, a fair trial. To many in the defense bar, Judge Wood was viewed as a second prosecutor in the courtroom.

Wood seldom ruled in favor of any defense motions, and at sentencing, he could be brutal. I went down to El Paso, which is where Lee practiced law, and I met him to discuss the civil suit. I had been in enough courtrooms to know how the game was played, and like Lee, I had tried cases where I felt as if the deck was already stacked against me. Lee represented drug dealers; I represented mobsters. But both groups of clients got the same kind of treatment.

Lee also thought that Judge Wood didn’t like him personally, and that that had an impact on the way the judge dealt with his clients at trial and at sentencing. Lee Chagra was one of the best defense attorneys in Texas. He could be colorful at times, and he certainly was fearless and controversial. But in a courtroom, he knew what he was doing.

I didn’t know Jimmy at the time, but I knew of him. He was a regular in Las Vegas and had a reputation as a big-time gambler. He loved to throw his money around, and he had a lot of it. He would come into town with suitcases full of cash, check into the Frank Sinatra Suite at Caesars Palace, and gamble all his money away. Even if he won in the casinos, he was a sucker on the golf course. Guys would line up to play him. He’d lose $50,000 or $100,000 playing a round of golf, and be right out there the next day playing again. Then he’d hang out at the country club and get involved in a high-stakes rummy game where he’d drop even more cash.