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 triaclass="underline" 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.