I should confess. I have been rightfully accused, on occasion and with some pride, of fostering a reputation for a rhapsodic and concupiscient interest in prurient pastimes of the First Order (which, I might add, the sailors of the Good Ship Philebrity have often aided and abetted, and which, come to think of it, bears reminding Captains Sweeney and Carpenter that in my office, attorney-client privilege runs both ways, by God, come hell or high water).
It was with such salivating expectation that I arrived at the first full morning of Voir Dire (or “jury pickin’,” as they say in Français) in the matter of U.S. v. Vincent Fumo, et. al. It quickly became apparent, dear reader, that any such lascivious interest in this apotheosis of Philadelphia political life shall not be satisfied with the swift and succulent pace of the Spring Garden Ballet; no, this Le Bec Fin of litigious feasts is going to be a long, 3 month course, with all the lugubrious service you’d expect from the wheels of justice. They move slow, indeed. This salacious soufflé needs some time to cook.
Aspirations for the narrative of U.S. v. Fumo are understandably lofty. Philadelphia is, yet again, hosting a tremendous piece of litigation, and certainly the greatest political corruption trial in Pennsylvania since the era of Buddy Cianfrani and, well, the last time Fumo was prosecuted in federal court, some twenty or thirty years ago.
In the interests of full disclosure, I must further confess that I attended law school with Nicole Fumo and her husband, Christian Marrone (who is apparently, given recent reports, a star witness for the prosecution). My recollection of Ms. Fumo is based upon some classes we had taken together, and that she was a lovely woman, thoroughly charming, though a passing acquaintance of no consequence whatsoever; Mr. Marrone sat in the back of some of my classes, his silence as large as his physical stature, participating (if at all) only slightly. For years. Whenever he gets up to testify, his voice (to me, at least) will be brand new.

After the jump, further musings on Marrone, the Dick Sprague/Fumo/La Colombe connection, and reports from today’s jury selection proceedings.

It appears that Mr. Marrone’s time at law school is of some interest to the Fumo defense. They recently attempted to subpoena Marrone’s records, including his application file, in an effort (one can only assume) to survey whatever statements are contained therein that may contradict Marrone’s expected future testimony against Fumo.

This tidbit of information provided, for this observer, perhaps the initial, amuse bouche of the feast. As I recall, in my opinion, Marrone was not a scholarly powerhouse, and his attainment of considerable legal positions (first, in the Montgomery County D.A.’s office, and subsequently, with the Department of Defense as a liaison between the military and Congress?! Really?!) betray his certain beneficence as patron of the Fumo machine. Though Fumo abandoned his pursuit of Marrone’s records, the mere attempt begs the question as to Marrone’s favorable characterization therein of his time under the tutelage of the Senator. It whets the appetite.

And today, the Daily News reports that Fumo shall claim he deleted emails at the direction of his former counsel, Dick Sprague. I suspect those two aren’t drinkin’ coffee at La Colombe together, no’ mo’. Sprague’s office is in the apartment building, directly across from the fancy bean on 19th Street. Fumo would park his Cadillac right in front of La Colombe, while in consultation. Often, for great amounts of time. And periodically, Sprague would come out, the mere sight of whom (shrunken, and therefore Yoda-esque, in excess of some 80 + years of age), is like Mohammed coming down from the mountain. To see them in the street was a great little glimpse of considerable Philadelphia power in action. To see them in court would be colossal.

Jury selection began today with its usual, fascinating insights into the concept of a jury of one’s peers. One grandparent wanted out because of a pending vacation, and upon reasonable conclusion, simply didn’t want to be there. One Pennsyltucky denizen claimed that the vulgar language surely forthcoming during the trial would generate a particular bias, to his own mind, because he was a BABBler (Born-Again Bible Beater). One hipster, with the concerted naivete of the demographic, couldn’t be fair because if the government puts all this effort into an investigation, Fumo “must be guilty.” With Americans like this, it may well be a wise criminal defendant who runs for the hills rather than face such a motley crew. It bore me some comfort to see attorneys for both the prosecution and the defense work, in earnest, to separate the kooky wheat from the chaff. There are some suitable individuals to pick for jury service. It just takes some time. Like Waiting for Godot.

With a jury pool like this, it appears that both sides, as well as the Court, have quite an uphill battle with the preliminary jury proceedings. Stay tuned, my litigious gourmands, for the main course. Dinner will be served.

– Conor Corcoran

Here at Philebrity, we are no strangers to reaching for the telephone in a cold sweat, fingers trembling in fear, punching in a few numbers and asking as soon as someone answers, asking “Fuck! Are we gonna get sued for this?” Always, on the end of the other line is one Conor Corcoran, Esq., our resident go-to guy for all things scary and legal. Read more of his missives to Philebrity here.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, September 9th, 2008 at 2:26 pm.