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Judicial race is an exercise in extortion

February 28, 1990

The billboards and bus benches shout the news: Soon it will be time to go to the polls and elect our judges.

What a joke.

All around Florida, circuit and county judges already are out pressing the flesh, leeching campaign contributions from the very attorneys who bring cases before them. It’s as close to naked extortion as you can get, but don’t blame the judges.

It takes loads of money to run a political race. If you’re a candidate for a judgeship, the logical place to solicit is law firms because (a) lawyers have the dough and (b) they’re the only ones who have the remotest idea who you are.

The public, in most instances, hasn’t got a clue.

The average voter walks into the booth and picks a name that looks distinguished or vaguely familiar. He hasn’t the vaguest notion of whether or not the candidate is qualified to sit on the bench. Without reading the small print, he couldn’t even tell you whether the vacancy is in criminal or civil court, county or circuit.

Unless a judge recently has been involved in a steamy scandal or a high-profile criminal trial, he or she remains largely anonymous to everyone but courthouse regulars. By the time the primary rolls around in September, most people will be taxed even to recall the name of the man who sentenced Miami policeman William Lozano.

You can’t blame the voters for not knowing who’s who. In Dade County alone, 97 county and circuit judges must run for office. Broward has 62 judges; Palm Beach County, a mere 39. Says Florida Bar President Steve Zack: “Walk up to your favorite lawyer and ask him to name all the judges. It’s an impossibility.”

The election process is not only shallow but tainted. It rewards the candidates who can afford the best billboardsin other words, those able to squeeze the most money out of lawyers. When the same lawyers later appear in that judge’s courtroom, we are supposed to believe that the judge’s actions will not be swayed by the memory of political generosities, or lack thereof.

The concept of “selling” judges is tricky because they don’t campaign like county commissioners or congressmen; the nuances of someone’s judicial record can’t be compressed into a snappy to-second sound bite. Judges can’t even take a public stand on issues; they are forbidden by a code of ethics.

So what can they talk about on the political trail? Absolutely nothing of substance. Name recognition is everything; billboards, balloons, blarney. Typically we are better informed about our choice of stick deodorant than our choice of judges.

The Florida Bar and many in the judiciary want reform. Several bills have been filed in Tallahassee that could lead to a change in the way we pick circuit and county judges. Merit selection is the most logical option.

Under this methodcurrently used in 34 states and our own appellate courtspanels composed of lawyers, appointees and lay people submit lists of qualified candidates to the governor, who then chooses the judge. Every few years, voters get a chance to decide whether to keep or remove that judge.

Those who support the present charade wave the flag and beat their breasts. They warn that merit appointments could be spoiled by politicsyet what’s more political than the current spectacle of judges out hustling support from law firms?

Critics also wail that merit selection robs the public of the right to choose. It’s nonsense. By voting yes-no on retention, the public will hold the ultimate power to replace any judge.

To argue patriotically in favor of judicial elections is fatuous, because the vast majority of incumbent judges run unopposed. It is no accident. Many of them find campaigning so distasteful that they hire “consultants” to steer potential opponents into other races, or discourage them altogether from running.

It is a loathsome and smelly enterprise, but the hacks who manage these campaigns want to keep things just the way they are.

Judges think fast to explain needles, money

June 17, 1991

Wouldn’t you love to have the Maalox concession at the Metro Justice Building?

“Operation Court Broom” already has ensnared four judges and one well-known defense lawyer. The mood at the courthouse is one of acute gastric distress. Everybody’s wondering who’s next.

Federal raids have turned up wads of $ 100 bills, as well as other suspicious items. Attorneys are talking openly of shakedowns and kickback schemes. A grand jury is following the trail of slime, and indictments certainly will come.

When the going gets tough, the tough get lawyers. And the lawyers get creative.

So far, my favorite line comes from Ron Guralnick, who represents Circuit Judge Phillip Davis. Agents found a metal box of syringes and aluminum foil in Davis’ chambers. Many defense lawyers would’ve been stumped for an explanation, but Guralnick gave it a shot (so to speak). He claimed the material was “evidence” left over from a long-ago case when Davis was a private defense attorney.

It seems like a prudent man moving to a prestigious judgeship wouldn’t bring any syringes, regardless of their origin. Maybe these items held some sentimental value for Davisa reminder of some memorable courtroom battle. Or maybe he collects old drug paraphernalia, the way other guys collect baseball cards (“Here, I’ll trade you three needles for a bong!”). A few other Dade judges would gladly trade Davis’ metal box for what was found in their own homes and offices, namely cash.

The FBI loves to spread it around, and Operation Court Broom was a windfall. Documents show that undercover agents paid out $266,000 in $100 bills between August 1989 and May 1991. It was a simple but time-tested scam: Bribes allegedly were funneled to judges in exchange for reducing criminal bonds, suppressing evidence and divulging confidential police information.

Later the feds went looking for their money. Agents found $1,800 in the home of Circuit Judge Roy Gelber. They discovered $5,100 in a dresser drawer at the home of Circuit Judge Al Sepe. Another $14,000 turned up in County Judge Harvey Shenberg’s bedroom. And at the law office of ex-judge David Goodhart, agents grabbed an envelope containing $3,500.

OK, imagine you’re one of the lawyers for these guys. The first thing you say, with rigid indignation, is, “Hey, it’s not against the law to carry cash!”

No, but here’s the problem. Every printed currency has a unique serial number. No two are alike. Consequently, it doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to trace a certain $100 bill from the hands of an FBI man to the paws of a judge. Numbers don’t lie. On April 2, the feds allegedly handed out a cash payoff to Judge Shenberg. At least $1,200 of those bills allegedly turned up in the raid on Judge Gelber’s home. In legal vernacular, this is known as being in deep doo-doo.

If it wasn’t marked money, he’d have a dozen passable alibis. The judge cashed some traveler’s checks. Or he won the money in the lottery. Or better yet, he was on his way over to Camillus House to make a generous cash donation to the needy!

Not with marked money, he wasn’t. Judge Gelber’s attorney will be doing some fancy dancing on this one. Perhaps he could argue that Judge Shenberg secretly broke into Judge Gelber’s house in the middle of the night and planted the cash. Or maybe Judge Gelber was conducting his own top-secret investigation of courthouse corruption, and had seized the Shenberg money as “evidence.”

There’s more out there, tooas much as $241,600 in payoffs, still unaccounted for. That’s 2,416 $100 bills hidden in shoeboxes, sugar bowls, mattresses, kitty litters, you name it.

If you’re one of the shmucks sitting on that dirty money, waiting for the FBI to crash down your door, you’ve got to be wondering two things. One, how could I have been so greedy? And two, when’s the next flight to Nassau?

Court Broom menu includes well-fed judge

February 16, 1992

The most disheartening revelation of Operation Court Broom is how cheaply some of our judges were bought.

Bribery usually means cash packed in a briefcase, wire transfers to a secret Nassau bank account, or a hidden interest in some juicy real estate deal. Those are the types of payoffs that crooked public officials customarily accept.

The last thing that comes to mind is squid. In this case, fried squidwhich is served in fancy Italian restaurants under the deceptively lyrical alias of “calamari.”

I know what you’re thinking: How much corruption can you buy with a plate of squid? The answer: a whole judge, allegedly.

A federal grand jury has heard evidence that Dade Circuit Judge Al Sepe regularly feasted on calamari and other delicacies at a fancy restaurant called Buccione, in Coconut Grove. According to testimony the judge’s lunch tabs were paid by a local lawyer named Arthur Massey, who was seldom in attendance to enjoy the squidfest.

However, Massey frequently appeared in Judge Sepe’s courtroom because Sepe frequently gave him court-appointed cases. In fact, the judge assigned Massey to 42 criminal cases that brought the lawyer more than $57,000 in fees. Interestingly, during that same 18-month period, Massey allegedly picked up about $10,000 worth of lunch and dinner tabs for the judge.

Now indicted and suspended on other matters, the well-fed Sepe vehemently denies any wrongdoing at the Buccione bistro. He insists there was no squid pro quo.

Massey, who is under investigation, remains silent. Perhaps his lunchtime largess was heartfelt, and in no way meant as a kickback for receiving those 42 cases. Perhaps he bought fried squid for all his favorite judges, so they wouldn’t have to order from the courthouse cafeteria.

Feeding Sepe might have been an act of pure charity. After all, poor Al was barely scraping by on his $90,399 judge’s salary. A man’s gotta eat, right?

Still, prosecutors suspect a bribe. If so, it’s an ingenious schemeslimy and pathetic, but ingenious. What better way to get rid of incriminating evidence than to eat it!

I’m not sure how Massey and Sepe would’ve worked out the specifics. Say the judge got a free meal for every armed-robbery case that he steered to Massey. What were the precise terms of the arrangementdid Sepe order only a la carte? Was wine included? And, most importantly, who left the tip?

The other Operation Court Broom crimes aren’t nearly so complex, and the bribes not nearly so tasty. For instance, when Judge Roy Gelber assigned cases to a sleazoid lawyer buddy, the judge’s kickback was a flat percentage of the feeeither one-fourth or one-third of the total, depending on how greedy Gelber was feeling that morning.

Taking cash is worse than taking calamari, but it’s still graft and taxpayers still pay for it. Besides, $10,090 is a heap of squid. If it was an outright bribe, Sepe has set a cheesy precedent for future corrupt judges and those who seek to enlist them.

Even the dumbest criminal understands the concept of bribing with cash. Bribing with food is much harder. It requires a certain minimum level of savvy and sophistication. Not every case is worthy of Buccione cuisine, but pity the poor shlub who tries to fix a traffic ticket by offering the judge a Big Mac, a large Coke and a side of McNuggets.

Now that the Sepe-squid allegations are public, some defendants will assume the worst about the justice system. Their lawyers will creep into court with brown bags full of menus instead of money. Those facing serious felonies will rely on the Michelin restaurant guide for five-star selections, and hope that their judge is hungry.

The good ones aren’t. After a long day on the bench, they don’t have much of an appetite. Neither would you.

Borrowing lines from Brando won’t help judge

February 4, 1993

Soap-opera time at the Operation Court Broom corruption trial: Confessions of a Newly Reformed Junkie, starring Judge Phillip Davis.

Sure, I took payoffs, he said. But, see, I was hooked on liquor, cocaine and Demerol! The drugs made me crazy.

“I let you down,” Davis lamented in court. “I could have been somebody, I could have been somebody!”

Stop, Phil, you’re breaking our hearts. I could have been somebody? Now you’re swiping lines from Brando.

Here’s the sorry truth: The judge is a crook. He took $30,000 in bribes from an FBI informant. He sold his robe and his honor.

What did Davis say as he grabbed a bundle of dirty cash? “Beautiful.” It was a Kodak moment, preserved on video by the FBI.

Months later, mid trial, Davis suddenly comes clean about the dope and the booze. Turned him into a monster, he says. Made him nutso, fogged his normally impeccable judgment. That’s why he lunged so hungrily for that bribe moneyit was those darn evil drugs, taking over.

A sad tale, all right, accompanied by genuine tears. Maybe jurors bought it, maybe they didn’t.

For the longest time, Davis has denied using drugs. He denied it to friends before his arrest, denied it to cops afterward. When agents found syringes in his office, the judge made up a silly story about how they got there. He gave TV interviews promoting his deception. Months after allegedly entering therapy, he continued to lie publicly about his drug problem. His own lawyer didn’t know the truth.

And exactly when did Judge Davis decide to become an honest man? After sitting through weeks of devastating testimony, seeing the clarity of the FBI videotape, realizing the full weight of the government’s case.

Staring at a possible 100-year prison sentence, the judge experienced a moral awakening. Time to tell the truth. Why? Because he was out of options. All that remained was to play the pity card.

I don’t doubt that Davis was royally screwed up on drugs. Unfortunately, that’s no excuse for being crooked. If it were, you’d have to throw open the doors of the county jail.

In every cell are men and women with wretched drug addictions: the crack head who robbed a Mini-Mart, the drunk who shot his neighbor during an argument, the auto thief who ate amphetamines for breakfast.

Most of them never had the opportunity and good fortune that Phil Davis has. They didn’t have a shot at college or law school, and they didn’t make judge at age 34. Maybe they were offered drug treatment along the way, but most likely not. And when the time came to answer for their crimes, these men went to jail.