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.