Kick Ass: Selected Columns of Carl Hiaasen

Latest arrests close out bad year for police January I, 1986

I watched them on TV the other night, the beefcake cops charged with murder. As they capered and grinned and blew kisses at the courtroom cameras, I couldn't help but wonder if steroids destroy brain tissue.

Imagine: You're a young policeman.

You are hauled out of your home in the wee hours, handcuffed, fingerprinted and hustled bleary-eyed into the Dade County Jail like a bum.

You are accused of a triple homicide, of racketeering, of stealing cocaine and selling it on the street, of using your badge and oath as instruments of crime. You are accused of being the worst thing that a cop can be—crooked.

Yet when you and your weightlifter pals go to court the next morning, what emotion do you display while the whole city is watching?

Arrogance.You mug for the cameras, laughing and joking while every good and decent cop on the streets feels a hot knot tightening in the gut. The feeling is shame.

But you don't have any.

So you and your buddies cling to the macho routine. Hire a big-shot lawyer and wait for bail. Act like it's no sweat. Act like you're not afraid. Disco all the way to the slammer.

What a way for 1985 to end. It really was a rotten year for integrity.

Don't let anyone try to say South Florida's police corruption is no worse than any other metropolis, because they're wrong. No place else comes close.

Consider the local cavalcade of stars this past 12 months:

A DBA agent goes to jail for peddling computer secrets to dopers; three Customs agents are indicted in a pot smuggling ring; an FBI man pleads guilty to accepting cocaine kickbacks; a Metro-Dade officer is charged as a home-invasion robber; a Hialeah cop plea-bargains a seven-year term for his role in a cold-blooded drug execution; a Miami officer awaits trial for allegedly offering to sell badges and guns to drug dealers.

Now this latest milestone: Eight current or former Miami policemen busted in the past week for a smorgasbord of drug crimes, including the ever-popular trafficking of cocaine. One of them, his pockets stuffed with $ i, 180 cash, fled from fellow officers in a red Porsche, thus ratifying every cheap Miami cliche.

Police Chief Clarence Dickson called the arrests "a total positive," and city leaders were quick to praise the department's housecleaning.

"Housecleaning" seems a polite term for what's going on.

This is not some teensy boo-boo, but a scandal of monstrous dimensions. Arrests were overdue and welcome, but they were not the result of Miami police simply washing their own dirty laundry. The pressure was external and intense: Investigators from Metro-Dade homicide, the Florida Department of Law Enforcement and DEA have been swarming all over the place for weeks. Something was bound to break.

Still, Dickson's cooperation and determination to help solve the Miami River murders are encouraging. I know some cities where it never would have happened, where outside investigators would have hit a wall of hostility. The Key West police force, once a rat's nest of corruption, was famous for this kind of obstruction.

So now a few Miami cops are in jail, but a celebration is premature. Much more is yet to unravel. The full story of what happened last July 27 at the dock of the Mary C is bound to be chilling. No one there was a Boy Scout. Three of them wound up floaters, snagged on a gaff.

Unfortunately, the criminal charges go beyond this one midnight episode. They portray a violent network of cocaine thuggery, a mob in blue. The upcoming testimony will not likely calm the nerves next time you see a flashing light in the rearview mirror.

The trial process will be tedious, and feature some of Miami's top defense lawyers. We'll be hearing a lot about how the three dead guys in the river were nothing but low-life drug dealers, how the witnesses against the police are nothing but liars and scoundrels, how Messrs. Estrada, Garcia, Rodriguez and Co. are nothing but innocent scapegoats.

In dope cases such strategy is predictable, and sometimes effective. It can also be justified. In any event, you can bet that the Merry Weight-lifters will be the picture of restraint in the jury's presence.

Convicting a policeman of any crime is difficult, and there are precious few prosecutors who can't be eaten alive by defense attorneys of Roy Black's caliber. Don't be surprised if some of the cops are acquitted.

River cops tell unique tales of acquiring cash January 12, 1987

As the jury resumes deliberations today in the Miami River Cops case, it's a good time to review some of the most amazing testimony from the last few months.

I'm referring to the various accounts of how some of the seven defendants suddenly came up with so much cash. As U.S. prosecutors have pointed out, it's somewhat peculiar for a young fellow on a city patrolman's salary to all at once start buying new cars, houses, bedroom suites, Caribbean vacations, all kinds of goodies.

To explain the officers' timely good fortune, defense lawyers summoned friends and relatives to present an intriguing look at the family finances. Give credit to the jurors for not falling out of their chairs.

Great Moments in Money Management, Miami-style:

• Officer Armando "Scarface" Garcia testified he removed his family's jewelry from a safe-deposit box because going to the bank was too inconvenient. Instead, Garcia said, he put the jewelry inside a pouch along with $7,000 cash, and cleverly concealed it in a crawl space beneath his parents' home.

• The uncle of indicted patrolman Armando Estrada claimed that over 23 years he scrimped and saved $19,000 in cash, which he stashed in a box in his house. He testified that he used the nest egg to buy a 1985 Trans Am (without even test-driving it), and then decided to give the car to his nephew the policeman to use around town.

• Officer Garcia's girlfriend said she bought a spiffy Datsun 300 ZX with $ 13,000 cash from a metal box on her dresser. She testified that she earned part of the money as a seamstress, while $8,000 was a gift from her father, who kept it hidden in the family piano.

• The mother of accused officer Arturo De La Vega testified that her dying father had given her $25,000 cash, most of which she later gave to her son the policeman—who supposedly used the inheritance to buy furniture and stocks.

• Admitted drug dirtbag Armando Un Roque said that he sometimes stuffed $40,000 to $50,000 cash into his socks.Then, just to be extra safe, he would hide the socks inside a wall.

Whatever happened to banks? Or savings bonds? Or how about wall safes—with real locks and everything?

See, the U.S. government tends to get curious when it discovers that you've got sacks of loose cash stuffed under your waterbed.The government tends to wonder if the money is profit from some questionable enterprise of the type that goes down on a semi-hourly basis on the streets of South Florida.

True, stacks of cash are pleasant to count, fondle and gaze upon—but they can also bring heartache and remorse. The second worst thing that can happen is that some lucky burglar will discover your secret cubbyhole and make off with your entire life's fortune.

The first worst thing that can happen is that you'll be hauled into court and questioned relentlessly about where all the dough came from.

When that dreadful day comes, this is what you do:

1. Don't say a word about stashing the cash in shoe boxes. Shoe boxes are out. Same goes for cookie jars, suitcases, socks, sofas and pianos. Be creative. Tell the jury you hid the money in a tuba.

2. Be careful when identifying which beloved relative gave you all that cash. For example, don't get up on the witness stand and say you got $50,000 from your great-uncle Louie, who makes $3.75 an hour scraping chewing gum off the Metrorail stations.

3. When asked what you planned to do with the cash (besides blowing it on giant-screen TVs and gaudy sports cars), tell them you intended to donate half to the Oliver North Legal Defense Fund and half to the Rev. Oral Roberts, so he won't keel over dead in March like he promised.

A Miami jury just might buy this. What happens to you is up to them. What happens to the remainder of your precious nest egg is obvious.

No matter how large, it will still fit nicely into your lawyer's briefcase.

Here's a quiz for potential federal jurors January 23, 1987

Snide jokes overheard in the wake of the big mistrial: "What's the difference between the Miami River Cops jury and a sack of rocks?"

"Rocks don't snore."

Or: "How many Miami River jurors does it take to change a light bulb?"

"All of them, plus a bailiff to read the directions." To avoid this sort of embarrassment, all potential jurors in Miami federal court should henceforth be required to take the following quiz. To pass, a score of 100 percent is required.

In other words, no wrong answers are allowed.

In other words, every question must be answered correctly.

In other words, NO MISTAKES ARE PERMITTED. GOT IT??? Sure you do.

1. Billy has 12 apples. He gives four apples to Susan. How many apples does Billy have now?

a) Eight.

b) None.

c) Four—no, seven! Did we say seven? No … wait … OK, you said apples, right? So … what was the question?

2. In a courtroom, the person wearing the long black robe is called:

a) The judge.

b) Zorro.

c) Overdressed.

3. When the person in the black robe asks for a well-reasoned verdict, he is:

a) Talking to the bailiff.

b) Talking to the jury.

c) Wasting his time.

4. All citizens should consider their jury duty as:

6. The word "unanimous" means:

a) All in agreement.

b) All in the same language.

c) All in the same time zone.

7. During the trial, jurors should never:

a) Speak directly to the witnesses.

b) Speak rudely to the judge.

c) Take bets as to which of them can spit the farthest.

8. Which of the following is considered a legitimate excuse to be dismissed from a jury:

a) "My mother has the flu."

b) "My Rottweiler has the mange."

c) "I'm missing all my soaps."

9. The best way to break a jury deadlock is:

a) By a careful and thoughtful review of the evidence.

b) By listening to the tapes over and over.

c) By doing one-potato, two-potato.

10. If a jury wishes to communicate with the judge, the proper method is:

a) Writing a brief and simple note.

b) Raising your hand and asking permission to speak.

c) Slapping yourself in the face and shouting "whoop-whoop-whoop!" like Curly of the Three Stooges.

11. When writing a note to the judge, it is advisable to:

a) Print neatly.

b) Try to use at least one verb in each sentence.

c) Try not to refer to the defendants as "slithering vermin."

12. As the trial progresses, most jurors are:

a) Absorbed with the seriousness of their responsibilities.

b) Impressed that lawyers for both sides can be so persuasive.

c) Surprised that they don't really get to meet Judge Wapner in person.

13. When selecting a foreman, the jury should always pick the member who:

a) Is the most reasonable and articulate.

b) Has the keenest grasp of both arguments in the case.

c) Can spit the farthest.

Mob desire backfires on longtime cop August 30, 1989

Today's Episode: Ralph Joins The Mob.

Not Ralph Kramden, but Ralph Finno. He's the former Fort Lauder-dale police captain who last year ran for Broward sheriff, and lost. This year, authorities say, Ralph chose a different line of work.

The scene: a typically tacky office on Commercial Boulevard. Hidden TV cameras are rolling (Ralph doesn't know it).Two other guys in the room aren't real mobsters, they're police informants (Ralph doesn't know this, either).

Bogus Mob Guy # 1: "To swear an oath to us, that your allegiance is with our family, I ask you to bite this bullet. With this bullet, you are now a part of us."

Bogus Mob Guy #2: "That's the bullet that's got your name on it."

Bogus Mob Guy # 1: "Right, that's your bullet. Capisce?"

Ralph Finno: "Capisce." (Uneasily.) "Want me to bite the bullet?"

Bogus Mob Guy # 1: "Just bite it. That's good."

Ralph bites. Gingerly he hands the bullet back to the phony mob guy, who then kisses Ralph on both cheeks.

Unfortunately for Ralph, the bullet later reappeared in an evidence bag after Ralph was arrested for loan sharking, racketeering and running a house of prostitution. Today Ralph says he did nothing wrong.

Over months he'd been videotaped discussing alleged crimes with the phony mob guys. His "initiation" into the Family was to be the climax of these friendships. As silly as it looked, Ralph's ceremony went smoother than his brother Tony's.

In a blood oath, Tony and the phony mobster tried to nick each other with a dagger. The dagger was too dull. "Why don't you get me something, for Chrissake's, that can cut!" complained the phony mobster.

Tony took out his own knife. This time the two men sliced themselves so deeply that they wouldn't stop bleeding. The hidden camera recorded them sitting on the sofa, trying to discuss alleged Mafia business while sucking their own fingers.

When Ralph is on camera, the favorite topic is his old rival, Nick Navarro. The phony mob guys say they can arrange for Ralph to be named acting sheriff, if only something happens to Navarro. Ralph loves the idea of being sheriff ("When the time is right, I've got to get my suit pressed!") but appears nervous at the suggestion of foul play: "If anything happens to this guy [Navarro] … this town'll be turned upside down by all these young investigative reporters."

At one point Ralph asks if the mob is influential enough to get the governor to remove Nick from office. The phony mob guy makes a noise like a gun, and says that's the only way to get rid of Navarro. Ralph looks queasy. "It's a very touchy, touchy, touchy situation," he says.

The phony mobster, doing a swell Luca Brazi: "You want him gone with the fishes? Fine."

Ralph doesn't look thrilled with the idea of knocking off Navarro, but notes, "He did have threats by Colombians."

The phony mobster asks if Ralph has any ethical qualms about jumping to the other side of the law. No, Ralph says, "I always respected a guy who had talent, could make money and not get caught."

There will be criminal activity, the bad guy warns. "It's a business," Ralph replies. "It's like anything else … Even when I was on the job, I had no problem with prostitution, I really don't. Open up 20,000 places, go ahead … You want to run some traffic in gambling? Fine. You want to have some loan sharking? Fine. These things never bothered me."

The phony mobster says there might be times when knees must be broken. Says Ralph: "It's very easy to go out and smack somebody around. At the same time … can we use this person? Why burn bridges?"

In a prelude to the bullet-biting ritual, Ralph expresses one reservation about his pending career change. He wonders if joining the Mafia might tarnish his 27-year record in law enforcement: "I have extensive, extensive—and I'm not trying to blow my own horn—extensive credentials … I don't want this decision to hurt that."

Today Ralph is in jail, no bond. His credentials are in serious jeopardy.

Spotlight on Nick Navarro becoming hot July 1, 1991

It was many months ago that 60 Minutes arrived to do a segment on Broward Sheriff Nick Navarro.

The sheriff reacted as he always does at the prospect of seeing himself on TV—with joyous gusto. Navarro is a publicity junkie, and the idea of appearing on America's most popular (and serious) news show must've sent him into ecstasy.

Sure, he's bosom buddies with Geraldo Rivera, but nobody takes Geraldo seriously. 60 Minutes is the big leagues. A prime-time puff piece would guarantee Navarro's re-election.

But now the picture's gone bad. The Broward Sheriffs Office is the target of a federal investigation into corruption and influence-peddling. The press, which has given Slick Nick such a sweet ride for so long, now snarls at his throat.

Even worse for Navarro, the 60 Minutes producers are reshaping, if not reconsidering, their profile of the dapper sheriff. By the time it's over, the 2 Live Crew fiasco will look like comic relief. Ironically, Navarro's own pathological itch for self-promotion is what caused some of his problems. Back in 1986, the sheriff was too eager to help Geraldo Rivera find a target for a prime-time drug bust. BSO chose a coke dealer named Nelson Scott.

After complaining for years about Scott's activities, neighbors were glad to see him finally arrested. Why it took so long was something of a mystery, until Scott started talking. He testified that he'd been paying off deputies with cash, dope and hookers. A BSO investigation discounted Scott's charges, but the feds are listening to him now.

The scandal has other dimensions. Agents are exploring the lifestyles of some of the sheriffs top guys. One, Ron Cacciatore, managed to build a $69,000 home on a captain's salary. Cacciatore has said his family inherited some money and invested wisely. He was seen socializing with a fugitive smuggler in the Bahamas, but has insisted he didn't know the man's true identity.

Another focal point is Navarro's friendship with auto dealer Jim Moran, the sheriffs most generous campaign contributor. Recently Moran sold BSO a fleet of used cars at new-car prices. Once Navarro hired one of Moran's security men as a BSO commander, even though the man, James Burkett, had failed a polygraph when asked about drug crimes.

Burkett recently was convicted of lying to U.S. agents about a marijuana operation. He was sentenced to 21 months.

The rain of subpoenas is enough to make Navarro's hair turn from white to black. All involved have denied any wrongdoing, while the sheriff clings to the Nixon defense: Bad things might've happened, but I sure didn't know about 'em.

No, Mr. Tough Guy Sheriff was too busy busting rap musicians to pay attention to what was going on inside his own department. Now he's got a mess that will not stop stinking before the '92 election. The media, which had been Navarro's pliant co-conspirators for so long, are now lambasted for their "feeding frenzy."

To scoff at Navarro's past grandstanding is to underestimate his shrewdness. Over the years he has hyped himself into a national personality; he is far more widely known and recognized than his low-key Dade counterpart, Police Director Fred Taylor.

Even Broward commissioners have been intimidated by Navarro's silky celebrity—they've inflated the BSO budget to an outlandish $197 million a year. For reasons still unclear to taxpayers, the sheriff now employs about 3,200 people.

As much as he'd love to duck responsibility for the BSO scandal, Navarro can't. It's his own top, hand-picked men who are in trouble—not the rank-and-file deputies.

These days, the sheriffs moth-like frenzy for the kleig lights has abated. The true test will come if 60 Minutes calls again. Can Nick resist the urge to face the cameras, to beam his suave visage into 2.0 million American homes?

Probably not. He who lives by the tube, dies by the tube.

Personal-injury lawyers back in chase—by mail May 12, 1994

A U.S. appeals court says Florida lawyers don't have to wait 30 days to send advertising material to accident victims. Now solicitations can begin almost as quickly as CPR.

That's great news for starving personal-injury attorneys, since ambulance-chasing by direct mail is more fuel efficient and less hectic than the old way.

Your secretary simply drives to the police station and copies the day's accident reports, which conveniently include the names and addresses of all parties. Soon you've got yourself a lengthy (and potentially lucrative) mailing list.

Disapproval of such tactics caused the Florida Bar to impose the 30-day rule in 1991. Softhearted regulators decided that accident victims should be given a few weeks to collect their wits before being peppered with brochures from lawyers.

The problem was, some accident victims actually got better during that time, and thus had no interest in suing anyone.

It was a sad period for personal-injury attorneys. Some turned to probate law, or even real estate. Others simply went broke. Before long, they were living under the interstate and collecting aluminum.

Fortunately, one brave fellow fought back. His name was G. Stewart McHenry, a disbarred Tampa lawyer with justice on his mind and time on his hands. He hired a non-disbarred lawyer and sued.

McHenry argued it was unconstitutional for the Bar to curb a lawyer's use of the postal system. On Tuesday the nth U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals agreed, tossing out the 30-day waiting rule.

Once again, lawyers may write to crash victims immediately after the mishap. In composing those letters, the tricky part is to avoid coming off as a cold-blooded mercenary. Veracity should always be glossed with compassion:

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 billboards—in 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 method—currently used in 34 states and our own appellate courts—panels 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 politics—yet 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 Davis—a 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, too—as 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 squid—which 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 lunch-time 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 scheme—slimy 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 arrangement—did 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 fee—either 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 money—it 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.

Judge Davis wants the jury to think he's different, special, worthy of forgiveness—as if fixing court cases isn't as bad as stealing car stereos or knocking over ATMs.

The strategy might backfire. Some people, especially those with family members who've struggled with drugs, would say Davis is worse than your average junkie. He wasted chances that most people never get, and he did it for greed.

He had risen to the most honored and powerful position in the justice system. Then, between cases, he'd retreat to his chambers, pack his nose and arrange shakedowns.

A student of drama, Davis poured out his heart on the witness stand: I could have been somebody!

Finish the scene, Phil. You know the rest ...

You coulda had class. You coulda been a contender. You coulda been somebody.

Instead of a bum, which is what you are.

Court Broom's final score warrants Lysol April 29, 1993

Fumigate the courthouse. It's finally over.

The Operation Court Broom corruption trial ended messily this week, and the stench lingers. Even by local standards, it was one maggot-gagging parade of sleaze, and one expensive botch job. Too much time, too many charges and a jury that was (putting it kindly) too easily confused—it added up to bad news for the government.

Start with the key prosecution witnesses: Ray Takiff, a phenomenally crooked lawyer who went undercover to pass out FBI bribes, and Circuit Judge Roy Gelber, a phenomenally crooked judge who brokered corrupt schemes with other judges. Leaving a double-wide trail of slime in court, these guys were so odious that the defendants looked almost harmless by comparison.

Almost, but not quite. The defendants: three judges and a former judge, all accused of taking bribes to fix cases. The FBI had a helluva case, too—videotapes, phone taps, marked money. It looked like a cinch.

Final score: 53 charges, 37 acquittals, three convictions and numerous deadlocks. What happened? Lewis Carroll couldn't have hallucinated it.

The weird, warped verdict pleased Judge Phillip Davis and nobody else. The only defendant to be acquitted of all charges, Davis was also the only one to admit his crookedness. After he told jurors how he packed his nose with cocaine and packed his pockets with bribe money, they let him go.

Afterward, one juror said that Davis was clearly guilty of all charges. But, he added, jurors didn't believe they could convict Davis because the judge claimed to have been impaired by drugs. Really? Blowing coke is a legal excuse for committing crimes? Well, by golly, throw open those prison doors! Every inmate with a drug habit, shoo on outta here!

One juror said the judges deserved leniency because they were "first offenders." Like they'd been spraying graffiti instead of selling their oath.

The panel did manage to convict Judge Harvey Shenberg and ex-judge David Goodhart, while painfully acquitting Judge Al Sepe of most charges and deadlocking on others. Any verdict was a miracle, considering the tension in the jury room. Most jurors felt all the defendants were guilty of something, but one holdout—Gloria Varas—didn't want to convict any of them.

Varas says the other jurors badgered her and made her cry. The others say Varas stubbornly refused to consider the overwhelming evidence of guilt. Video of payoffs and bribery plotting failed to impress her. For instance, Varas discounted a surveillance tape of Shenberg taken moments after he stuffed cash in his trousers because, she said, she couldn't tell if the money was really green.

How did this person get on the jury? Before the trial, Varas revealed her belief that her ex-husband had once wiretapped her laundry room. That statement suggests, among other things, that Varas might think unfavorably of electronic evidence. For some strange reason, prosecutors kept her on the panel.

Varas remained adamant during deliberations, and the partial verdict was a lame compromise. Most of the jurors weren't satisfied with the outcome, and some flatly said the system failed.

While Davis rejoices, Sepe is considering a return to his old job. Why not? Voters blithely put him back on the bench after a previous scandal in which he allegedly solicited sex from a defendant's wife. This time, the snag is a mere $5,000 in marked FBI bills that turned up in the judge's nightstand. Voters will eagerly await his explanation.

Meanwhile, the feds intend to retry Sepe, Shenberg and Goodhart on the unresolved Court Broom charges. Let's hope more attention will be paid to jury selection. Next time, no space cadets.

A floating jail: Flotsam of the Schreiber mind December 10, 1986

Maybe Barry Schreiber's right. Maybe the thing that has been missing from Biscayne Bay all these years is a really nice floating jail.

Sure, we've got porpoises and tarpon, manatees and pelicans—big deal. You can find the same critters at Sebastian Inlet or Marco Island or Key Largo.

But where else except Miami in the modern 20th century would you be able to sail past a shipload of actual hard-core jailbirds? The thought is enough to make you wish Herman Melville or Victor Hugo were alive to write about it. If this had happened years ago, prison lore wouldn't be the same—Steve McQueen would've made his great escape on a jet ski instead of a motorcycle.

Ostensibly the purpose of a Seagoing Slammer would be to temporarily alleviate the well-documented overcrowding in Dade County's landlocked penal institutions. A clever smokescreen, Admiral Schreiber, but we all know the truth: This will be the tourist attraction to end all tourist attractions.

Imagine combining the romance of the Love Boat with the charm of Alcatraz. Even the warden could wear Ocean Pacific.

Think of the headlines, the national publicity, the renewed interest in South Florida's notorious crime rate. And it couldn't come at a better time—the start of the winter season!

If I had the tour boat franchise, I'd already be jacking up the fares and installing extra seats ("On your left, ladies and gentlemen, the home of international singing sensation Julio Iglesias. And on your right, a sweaty boatload of convicted burglars, purse snatchers and sex maniacs … ")

To be fair, Commissioner Schreiber can't take all the credit for the idea of a prison barge. New York City is already converting an old Staten Island Ferry into a floating lockup. It will be anchored off Riker's Island in the scenic East River, an angler's paradise that seasonally yields its share of three-headed mutant carp and trophy-sized dead mobsters.

For all its riches, the East River is no Biscayne Bay. As you might expect, a few of South Florida's know-it-all environmentalists are raising a ruckus about Schreiber's plan. A floating jail, they say, would be nothing but a floating toilet. They say it would degrade, pollute and poison the crystal waters. Last week, the Biscayne Bay Management Committee even passed a resolution condemning Admiral Schreiber's scheme.

Nobody seems willing to acknowledge some obvious advantages, such as mobility. In the past, Metro commissioners have been unable to select a few acres on which to build a new conventional jail. Every time they come up with a site, dozens of nearby and not-so-nearby residents storm the commission to complain.

With a floating jail, the location is no problem. You simply tow it around late at night, when everybody's sleeping. One week you might tie up off Turnberry, the next maybe Star Island, and the week after that, the Cricket Club. When the neighbors start to gripe, you quietly weigh anchor and sail on.

And can you think of a more festive and fitting entry in the annual winter boat parade?

Admittedly, there might be a few problems with the S.S. Minimum Mandatory. The cost, for one—a projected $4.5 million. For that kind of money you could probably lease the Norway for a year.

The next item is deciding who gets to be incarcerated on the jail barge. Certainly not just any old convicts—not with all those tourists gawking. Image-wise, it makes sense to pick only the inmates with the deepest tans and best disciplinary records. It also makes sense to pick those who can't swim very fast.

Security on the floating pokey could pose a challenge, but it's nothing that a trained school of ravenous lemon sharks couldn't solve.

As for the aesthetics, there's no denying that many jails are bleak, fetid, dispiriting hellholes.

Our Hoosegow-on-the-Bay doesn't have to look that way. We'll just get Christo to wrap it in pink.

Mathematician needed to sort prison guidelines January 23, 1994

Florida's new prison-sentencing guidelines are supposed to tell prosecutors which bad guys are the worst, and how long to lock them up.

A prosecutor with many years of trial experience sent me the new rules, along with a gloomy note: "Other than the fact that categories 1-6 do not go to prison, and (categories) 7-9 go for a short time, I have no idea what's going on."

Neither do I. The new method of computing a criminal's sentence is so insanely confusing that Einstein himself would be pulling out his hair.

Crimes are ranked according to seriousness. For instance, passing a bad check or carrying marijuana is Level One. Kidnapping with bodily harm or violent sexual battery on a child is Level 10. Prison time is calculated using points.

Under the rules, 40 points or less means the judge can't send you to state prison. Between 50 and 52 points, the judge may send you to prison. Anything above 52 points is automatic state time. Sound simple? Just wait.

Here's an example from an actual "score sheet" used to train prosecutors. I wish I was making this up:

A bad guy is arrested for aggravated battery—a Level Seven crime worth 42 points. Add another 40 because the victim was severely injured. Plus 2.4 points because the defendant has a prior conviction for auto theft. (Why 2.4 points? Don't ask.) Bottom line: The guy's up to 84.4 points.

Now add four more from a previous prison escape. Add another six because he violated parole. Total points: 94.4. Converted to months, that's almost eight years in the slammer—but hold on.

To finish calculating, take the guy's 94.4 and subtract 28 months off the top. (This innovation replaces "basic gain time," assuring early release.) New answer: 66.4 months.That's 5 1/2 years, right? Guess again.

On a Level Seven felony, a judge may increase or decrease prison time by up to 15 percent. So, our bad guy faces a minimum term of 4.15 years and a maximum of 6.9 years.

Normally he'd get out much sooner, thanks to "incentive" time off for good behavior (for each month served, up to 25 days are cut from a sentence). However, our bad guy is bad enough to earn a mandatory three years, under a separate law.

There. Wasn't that easy? And that's a simple case. It's no wonder that prosecutors are going batty.

Worse, the convoluted new sentencing guidelines don't accomplish what tough-talking lawmakers promised. "Nobody is doing more time," says Assistant State Attorney Michael Band. "It's basically a shell game. Passing the buck."

It's true. Some violent crimes that once earned a trip upstate no longer do: aggravated assault, strong-arm robbery, even battery on a police officer while possessing a gun. Instead of riding a prison bus to Starke, some offenders will serve no more than 364 days in a county jail.

That's because the Legislature is too gutless to raise taxes to build enough new prisons. Under pressure to appear alarmed about crime, lawmakers jiggle a few numbers and call it sentencing reform.

Unfortunately, there are still not enough cells for the most dangerous criminals. "The reality of it is," says Band, "there's no space out there."

Meanwhile, a prosecutor with 100-odd felony cases will spend untold extra hours struggling through the math maze of the new law. When Assistant State Attorney Monica Hofheinz briefed her colleagues on the sentencing changes, she instructed them to bring a calculator and a pencil "with a LARGE eraser."

Wisely, she also recommended Extra-Strength Tylenol.

Miami: No. I destination for crooks September I, 1994

Now the rest of us know what thieves, robbers and rapists have known for a long time.

Miami is the best place in America to be a criminal. It is to hard-core felons what Disneyland is to Michael Jackson.

In a series being published this week, the Herald used computers to study the effectiveness of Dade's justice system. The results are shocking, scary and disgraceful.

Dade has the worst crime rate in the country, and does the laziest job of putting bad criminals behind bars. Unless you shoot a tourist or rob the mayor, the odds of beating the rap are hugely in your favor.

Only 15 of 100 convicted Dade felons go to state prison; the national average is 46 per 100. Out of 24 major metropolitan areas, Dade is dead last in punishing serious crime.

The customary excuse, swallowed so gullibly by us in the media, turns out to be a myth: There are beds available in Florida prisons, but Dade uses less than half its share.

State Attorney Kathy Rundle insists that crooks often serve more time when sent to county jail rather than state prison. Statistics show that's not true.

Moreover, since 1990, inmates in state prisons are serving increasingly longer stretches of their sentences (44.2 percent today, compared with 33.1 percent four years ago).

To appreciate Dade's marshmallow-softness on crime, consider that a robber arrested in neighboring Broward is three times more likely to go to prison.

What's going on? An incredible jamboree of plea-bargaining.

All big-city prosecutors and judges are snowed under by cases, but dumping them has become an art here in Dade. Of 162 felony defendants—one day's worth last spring—only 12 got prison.

Most of the rest got deals. They had the charges dropped, were put on probation, or were sent through pretrial diversion. One such program, the much-hyped Drug Court, was designed to help first offenders. It's now used as a prison-dodging scam by career crooks. One recent enrollee: a burglar with 28 prior convictions.

Much of the blame falls on prosecutors, and the judges who routinely accept (and encourage) outlandish deals for the sake of expediency.

At the State Attorney's Office, a legacy of leniency began under Janet Reno. Back in 1981, the Herald studied a week's worth of Dade felony arrests: Of 407 defendants, 38 went to prison.

Reno lobbied for a bigger budget and more prosecutors, and got both. Nevertheless, benevolent plea-bargaining has continued at a breakneck pace, sometimes with tragic consequences.

Many judges are content to help spin the revolving door, to thin their heavy calendars. The result: plea deals that gladden a mugger's heart.

It's true that Dade's justice system hasn't kept pace with the crime boom. Prosecutors and judges here labor with heavier caseloads than their counterparts in many cities.

But that doesn't account for the outrageous discrepancy in the imprisonment rate. Dade isn't merely the worst, it's the worst by a mile. Obviously there's an institutional philosophy by which prison is the least desirable of prosecutorial options.

Pretrial diversion might make sense for first timers, but it's a ridiculous approach toward a sleazebag with 28 felony raps. What else are prison cells for?

What the Dade courthouse needs is radical attitude adjustment, or an infusion of aggressive new talent. Forget who's governor or attorney general; it's prosecutors and judges who have the power and responsibility to lock up thugs.

That's a rare event in Miami, now a national playground for felons. The rules are different here.

Death penalty should be fair, certain, swift March 27, 1997

Well, they don't call it Old Sparky for nothing.

Florida's infamous electric chair went haywire again Tuesday, and Pedro Medina caught fire.

No big deal, according to Gov. Lawton Chiles and other God-fearing leaders. They say the convicted killer was already unconscious when his hot-wired skullcap lit up like a Roman candle.

The governor cited the account of the prison's medical director, who declared:

"I saw no evidence of pain or suffering by the inmate … In my professional opinion, he died a very quick, humane death."

Thank you, Dr. Quentin Tarantino. (Did he say "humane"? Yeah, sign me up for this guy's HMO.)

But nobody put a rosier spin on the grisly mishap than Attorney General Bob Butterworth, who mused that a faulty electric chair might prove a stronger deterrent to crime.

And, while you're at it, how about a squirt of lighter fluid as they strap the guy in? Just in case he hasn't figured out the program.

That flames shot from Medina's head and the death chamber filled with smoke was politically incidental to the outcome: The man definitely died. No argument there.

But, once again, the state of Florida looks like it's being run by a bunch of dumb-ass rednecks who couldn't fix a toaster, much less an electric chair.

The last time Old Sparky malfunctioned, cop killer Jesse Tafero ignited not once, not twice but three times. That's because some genius decided to substitute a synthetic household sponge for the real thing.

(See, when a sea sponge is moistened and placed under the death cap, it absorbs some of the scorching heat generated by the 2,000-volt surges. Without a buffer, the condemned man tends to catch fire, which is an unsavory advertisement for capital punishment.)

To avert such ghoulish fiascos, many states long ago switched to lethal injections. Typically, the inmate is reclined on a table and hooked to an intravenous tube. Toxic chemicals drip into his veins, and he basically goes to sleep.

Humane it's not. The death penalty isn't supposed to be.

But injection is the most painless method, and it avoids the Gothic grotesqueries of the electric chair: the shaving and lubricating of the doomed man's scalp; the leather bonds; the death mask; the hooded executioner.

So primitive is the ritual of electrocution that even those who advocate capital punishment often are appalled when they finally witness it. I was.

There's no practical reason for keeping Old Sparky plugged in, but state legislators are a nostalgic lot. Some of those Corners would bring back public lynching, if they thought there were enough votes in it.

Polls show that most people want the death penalty to be fair, certain and swift. It's none of that now—a failure as a crime deterrent, and a stupendously expensive one. It costs millions more to execute a man than it does to lock him away forever.

But the one thing capital punishment does accomplish is this: It takes a life for a life. That's all it does—but that's often enough for those who've lost loved ones to murderers.

So the question for modern society becomes, how do we carry out this grave and ultimate act?

Answer: Here in Florida, we use a 74-year-old wooden contraption so crudely engineered that its efficiency depends on a sponge.

But don't think we're just a bunch of ignorant, unenlightened hicks down here. We didn't mean for Pedro to flame up the way he did.

It won't happen again, either. Next time, by God, the warden's bringing a fire extinguisher.

Dade attorney batting zero against graft October 23, 1997

Dade's reputation as the crookedest place in America is secure, thanks to Dade State Attorney Kathy Fernandez Rundle.

On Monday, she declared that no criminal investigation of county paving contracts should begin until an independent audit is done.

And, since Dade commissioners are probably too yellow to order an audit, it's possible that any thieves who skimmed hundreds of thousands of taxpayer dollars will be safe from prosecution.

So what else is new?

When it comes to pursuing corruption, Rundle's record is even more pathetic than that of her see-no-evil, hear-no-evil predecessor, Janet Reno. That's one reason so many crooks flock to public office here—they know that nobody's watching.

The bribery epidemic at Miami City Hall.

Missing and misspent millions at the Port of Miami.

Hundreds of computer-forged housing inspections at the county building department.

All these recent scandals have one thing in common: The State Attorney's Office had virtually nothing to do with exposing them. A perfect batting average of .000.

In some places, prosecutors would be embarrassed if their communities were so visibly a-rot with corruption. In some places, prosecutors actually send out investigators to hunt for dishonest public officials.

And in some places, when wrongdoing is uncovered, indictments are drawn, trials are held and an actual attempt is made to punish the crooks. Can you imagine?

Here in Dade, the task of ferreting out graft is left to the FBI or the media. It's an icky little business, and the state attorney would prefer not to get involved.

The paving scandal is a prime example. In a random examination of three dozen repair jobs, this newspaper documented truckloads of missing materials, projects paid for but never done, and hundreds of thousands of dollars in overcharges.

Sidewalk repairs that should have cost $20,000 were billed (and paid) at $166,024. One homeowner's driveway was replaced for $19,500—six times more than what his own contractor had offered. Another minor patch job cost $9,004 when the price should have been $750.

All the work was done for the water and sewer department as part of a huge county contract with Church & Tower, the firm headed by the loud and politically influential exile leader, Jorge Mas Canosa.

The company says it's "surprised" by the size of the paving bills, and promises to conduct its own investigation, which I'm sure will be relentless, unsparing and thorough. I'm also sure that Chihuahuas can be taught to translate Proust.

Church & Tower's attorney says all the disputed work was performed by subcontractors, and that the county will receive "an appropriate credit" if overcharging occurred.

There is no "if." It happened, and it's no wonder the Church&Tower gravy train has bloated from $21 million to $58 million in 21 months. The tab for "special" concrete repairs alone has soared from $420,000 to $2.3 million.

Perhaps the company is experimenting with a new type of concrete made from diamonds. Or perhaps somebody is simply robbing taxpayers blind.

The county supervisors who approved the outlandish overpayments have been reassigned. (After being questioned by reporters, both men complained of chest pains and hurried to the hospital—a wise move.)

Facing these fresh revelations of money-squandering, the commission has grudgingly agreed to reconsider an audit of the paving contract. Two weeks ago it voted down the idea, after ferocious lobbying by Church&Tower.

The same could happen again, as many commissioners fear antagonizing the Mas family or the Cuban American National Foundation, headed by Mas Canosa.

This would seem an ideal opportunity for a diligent prosecutor, unswayed by politics and suitably appalled by such a massive rip-off, to launch a criminal probe.

Dream on, folks. Kathy Rundle says she wants to see an audit first.

Apparently not quite enough of your money is known to be missing. Oh well. Perhaps her enthusiasm for finding it will be better stoked when the sum exceeds seven figures.

Unfortunately, we might never know how much has vanished in the Church&Tower fiasco. That's because Rundle is leaving the decision to the same knucklehead politicians who approved the contract originally, politicians who've taken plenty of campaign donations from Mas family interests.

And if that doesn't kill the investigation, Rundle has plenty of other options.

Chest pain, for example. I hear that's going around.

State haggles over the cost of stolen days April 26, 1998

What is a day of your life worth?

The answer is $79.46, if you're Freddie Pitts or Wilbert Lee. That's the amount that the Florida House proposes to give the two men, who spent more than 12 years—exactly 4,405 days—in prison for murders they didn't commit.

Pitts and Lee were pardoned two decades ago, and ever since then have been seeking compensation for their time behind bars. And every spring they've been rebuffed by the Legislature, to the everlasting shame of this state.

This year, finally, Pitts and Lee will be paid.

The debate churns around the choice of an appropriate sum. What monetary value can be placed on four thousand days of freedom lost; four thousand days apart from family; four thousand days blanked off a calendar because somebody made a horrendous mistake?

Pitts and Lee had asked for $1.5 million each. House Speaker Dan Webster countered with a degrading offer of $150,000. Last week, the House settled on $350,000, or $79.46 for every day wrongly spent behind bars.

Some would still call that disgraceful. Others would say Pitts and Lee should be grateful to receive anything.

In 1963, the two black men went on trial for murdering two white gas station attendants in the Panhandle town of Port St. Joe, which in those days was segregated. Wilbert Lee was 27 and Freddie Pitts was 19.

They were convicted by an all-white jury, and sentenced to die. Later, somebody else (imprisoned for killing another gas station attendant) confessed to the Port St. Joe murders, and his account was supported by a girlfriend.

Pitts and Lee were granted a new trial in 1972, but a judge wouldn't let the jury hear about the other man's confession.

Again Pitts and Lee were found guilty. Freedom didn't come until three years later, when they were pardoned by then-Gov. Reubin Askew.

The case remains controversial in the Panhandle, where some folks still say Pitts and Lee are guilty. That it's taken Florida so long to compensate the men can be explained by old Dixie politics.

But this year finds a Republican-controlled Legislature that's avidly courting black voters. It's also a year of great bounty in Tallahassee, so lawmakers have been throwing' hundreds of millions of dollars at all kinds of pet projects, causes and schemes.

There's money for jellyfish farming, and for special trucks to haul catfish; money for fairs and zoos and farmers' markets; money for the International Swimming Hall of Fame and even the Palatka Armory ($300,000!).

And at long last there's also some money for Freddie Pitts and Wilbert Lee, 35 years after being sent to Death Row for something they didn't do.

What's right? What's fair? The Senate will decide Monday.

Reparation might be based on the accumulated weight of a dozen productive years gone—the youth of both men, really. Or it could be calculated day-by-day—4,405 of them excised forever from two lives.

A $350,000 lump certainly sounds more generous than $79.46 a day, but it's the same number. Not an insignificant number, either, considering how Pitts and Lee have gotten stiffed in the past.

I don't know what one day in your life is worth in dollars and cents, but $79.46 still seems cheap to me.

Especially considering how lawmakers quietly have set aside $2.5 million for "transition" expenses for Florida's new governor next January—$2.2 million more than what was spent on Lawton Chiles' taking office.

For $2.5 million, it should be quite an arrival. They ought to hold it at the Palatka Armory, and give the rest of the money to Freddie Pitts and Wilbert Lee.