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:
Dear Mr. Doe,
It has come to our professional attention that you were recently involved in an unfortunate (plane, bus, train, boat, moped or automobile) accident. We sincerely hope that you and your (wife, children or co-workers) were unharmed and have no cause to take legal action, despite the many millions of dollars you might be able to collect.
However, in the tragic event that you now find yourself (maimed, dismembered, bruised, stiff, achy, queasy, sneezy, dizzy or sexually lethargic), we advise you to visit our office for a free legal consultation.
We apologize for contacting you so soon after your accident. Seeing our postal carrier at the hospital must have been quite a surprise! We sincerely hope his presence did not interfere with any emergency medical procedures.
But experience has taught us that the sooner we can reach victims and inform them of their rights, the more assistance we can give. That's why our firm communicates only by registered mail.