Vince Macchiavelli: Sado-Fumochism
AS TOLD BY OUR LEGAL CORRESPONDENT, J. CONOR CORCORAN, ESQ.: Standing on State Road in the great Northeast, outside the four houses of correction for Philadelphia, one can often hear the dulcet tones of a jailhouse full of cherubs, wailing cries of injustice because of their lawyers. Nevermind being caught in flagrante delicto with a schlacked body, rotting in your closet; pish-posh on the pounds of pot in your Point Breeze apartment. “My attorney done me wrong.” The road to convenient, felonious delusion is paved with countless shimmering nuggets of such nonsense.
Not for nothing, sometimes they’re right. The papers are full of lawyers falling asleep at the wheel, quite literally, in the midst of a trial. But it’s a rare bird, indeed, who claims before trial, that his counsel failed him, and he should therefore be absolved of all sins.
Vince Fumo is blaming it on his lawyer: Dick Sprague, the most storied living member of the Philadelphia bar.
After the jump, Counselor Corcoran literally cannot believe his ears — and neither can Sprague.
Fumo claims an advise of counsel defense — in simple terms, it’s the “my lawyer said it’s kosher” defense — knowing full well that if he does so, the prosecution will then call his lawyer, with an ego matched only by his fiscal largesse, to the stand. How collossally stupid could this defense be? What’s that lawyer going to say? “Yep, I told him to do something illegal” – of course not! Fumo and his defense team opened up a door to a whole new world of hurt, and they did it to themselves.
The content of the testimony yesterday was incredible, and Fumo’s attorney did something so remarkably feckless, Sprague even called him on it from on the stand.
It went a little something like this: Sprague’s up beside the judge, and he testifies that he and Fumo had a wee meeting. Fumo says something to the effect of, “Well, if they haven’t subpoenaed me yet, then it’s perfectly okay to destroy documents.” Somebody in the room, according to Sprague, tells Fumo he’s crazy, and Fumo responds, “Well, what if I have a lawyer’s advice telling me it’s okay?” Fumo then steps out of the room and calls Robert Scandone, Sprague’s associate, and returns, saying Scandone will give him that advice.
The two things they teach you about cross-examination in law school is that #1) never ask a question you don’t know the answer to already, and #2) don’t ask too many questions, because you’ll get too much information, and will likely boot thyself in the tookus.
I wonder if Dennis Cogan, Fumo’s attorney, was in class that day. In a turn of unfathomable thoughtlessness, Cogan then asked Sprague what he thought when Fumo returned into the room and announced that Scandone, the very consiligere to the capo di tutti capos, would give that advice.
Sprague must not have believed his ears, replying with shock and, more importantly, stern admonition, “Do you really want me to answer that?”
Right there, Cogan should have realized that he was exposing his client, right in front of the goddamn jury. Prudence would have said to Cogan, “Withdraw the fucking question, you idiot!” In so many words. Litigation lends itself to vulgar articulation.
“Yes,” says Cogan, as blind as Stevie Wonder on a starless, prairie night. “I doubted the truth of it from the very beginning,” says the old litigious sage, his authoritarian baritone shattering all reasonable doubt, and thunderously sealing the coffin of Vince Fumo’s defense. I’m not much on predicitions, people, but remember: You heard it here, first.
With the Fumo case now resting, I’ve gotten the sense throughout the trial that the defense strategy has operated in a wildly naive vacuum. Make no bones about it – most American voters aren’t qualified to make concerted, discerning choices about their president, let alone the fate of a criminal defendant. As one potential juror alluded during voir dire, “If the Feds have gone to all this trouble, you MUST have done something wrong.” To allow a jury to witness your own lawyer call you a liar, well – you must have it in for yourself. Indeed, throughout his testimony, Fumo was whiter than a manager’s towel, mid-flight at a championship bout. Nevermind the thrashing from the feds; Fumo’s own defense has left him a bloody pulp on the floor of the federal courthouse.
It’s a tremendous shame – for Fumo, of course, but moreso for the City, and not because we have lost our most gifted advocate in Harrisburg. Perhaps the most important undercurrent in this entire rhapsody has been its service as an overdue blow to our City’s moral sternum. We’ve allowed a political culture, such as this, to flourish for decades. There’s a certain joie de triste about the Fumo affair, amongst local politicians, in between the lines of copy at the Inquirer and the Daily News, and indeed, peppering the consciousness of our citizenry. Witness Rendell’s reluctant testimony, literally slipping in through the back door of the courtroom. See the sighs of our journalists for the modus operandi that once was. Hear the statements of disbelief from our brethren, who now slowly realize that Vincent Fumo, a man of such boundless, benevolent advocacy, really wasn’t such a great guy for the City after all. Confessions of shame, aren’t they? Each and every one.
Weep not for the loss of Philadelphia’s most effective advocate. The cemetaries are full of “irreplaceable” politicians. What should be noted is how subtly this trial revealed how we’re all a little disappointed in ourselves, and how we, as a city, can instigate a proper political climate, one which is so devastatingly overdue. Philadelphia – get to know us, indeed.
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.
