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."