Summer of '83

It was short commute, thirty minutes door-to-door. I hopped the A-train at 42^nd Street and emerged at Chambers Street to join a sea of grey and blue flowing in waves towards the city’s financial, business and legal centers.

One Hogan Plaza housed the offices of Robert Morgenthau, District Attorney for New York County since 1975. It was the summer after my first year of law school and I had been hired as an intern by Morgenthau’s office, a position that paid little but offered opportunities to delve into the law and observe trials. This was my first job within my chosen profession, and would help shape later decisions in my career.

I had been assigned to “Rackets,” a division housed by young, ambitious and idealistic professionals with the unenviable task of attempting to control the city’s organized crime. I was one of three interns with the Division. The others were Lisa, a pretty first-year student from St. John’s who, for some reason, spoke with a British accent despite her Brooklyn upbringing, and Jerry, a second-year student from Brooklyn Law, whose father was a judge in a civil division. We worked together in a common area, researching legal issues and helping the ADA’s prepare for hearings and trials.

“Rackets” was an elite division within the D.A.’s office. Most divisions were trial-oriented, its attorneys assigned to particular judges. ADA’s in trial divisions had virtually no down time; they moved from one trial to the next, with little time to prepare, relying on secretaries and interns to fill in gaps. “Rackets” was different. Trials were few, and preparation abundant. The ADA’s worked with investigators to prepare their cases and only filed charges when cases were ready.

Investigations often involved field work, and one of the highlights of my summer was a visit with an ADA to a temporary surveillance center in the basement of a building across the street from a target, a seller of furs suspected of trading in stolen merchandise. The center was everything that I imagined: televisions screens depicting activity inside the target’s store, detectives watching the screens and listening over earphones to selected conversation, with audio and video recorded for further analysis. I would later spend time reading through transcripts of audio recordings, highlighting those portions that would help make the case.

Because trials in “Rackets” were scarce, I was given the chance to observe trials in other divisions. I selected a second-degree murder case involving guns, drugs and adultery. The trial lasted three days and the jury deliberated less than two hours before returning a guilty verdict. Later that day, as I related my experience to one of the senior members of “Rackets,” he smiled and nodded. “Convicting the guilty is simple,” he said. “Only the great ones convict the innocent.”

When I think back over my career, I can attribute my decision to become a litigator to my experience that summer. I pictured myself standing before the court, putting on evidence, cross-examining witnesses. I imagined the adrenaline, the rush that every litigator experiences when a trial begins, and I knew that is what I wanted.

I told this to Jerry, my fellow intern, over lunch one day. Jerry was an expert on the local cuisine, having learned of the best places from his father, who presided in a nearby courthouse. We ate that day at what Jerry referred to as “the Chinese McDonald’s,” a small basement restaurant on Mott Street decorated with police photographs and memorabilia. It was a favored destination of the NYPD and featured the best Sesame Noodles in the city. Jerry and I spoke of our experiences, our goals and ambitions, all-the-while dining on Chinatown’s best.

After lunch we took a shortcut through a small alley to Baxter Street and walked south towards One Hogan Plaza. As we approached our building the crowds suddenly appeared, men and women in suits, walking briskly in every direction, heading back to their offices while lost in thought. The revolving doors to our building offered refuge from the waves, thousands of people pondering life, love, and future, lost in a dance of perpetual motion in the shadows of the World Trade Center.

In the Eye of the Storm

They were ahead of their time - a team built on speed, while others plodded.

The University of Miami Hurricanes of the 1980’s helped reinvent the sport of college football. Before Miami unleashed its aerial attack and defeated previously unbeaten and overwhelming favorite Nebraska for the national championship on January 2, 1984, the college gridiron was dominated by running games. Dominant teams like Oklahoma, Alabama and Georgia followed a simple formula for success: build offenses around big, wide country boys on the lines to open gaping holes for sure-handed running backs. The ball was only aired when absolutely necessary. Even Joe Namath, whose aerial heroics in the AFL and NFL would later earn him a spot in the pro football hall of fame, took a back seat to the running game with Coach Bear Bryant’s Crimson Tide.

The Hurricanes, under coaches Howard Schnellenberger and Jimmy Johnson, took a different approach to the top. They developed a pro-style offense, throwing the ball frequently and sacrificing girth for agility. One by one, the traditional powerhouses fell to Miami’s inventive strategy. It soon became clear that the only way that others would successfully compete against the Hurricanes would be to emulate their approach. This forever changed the sport of college football.

Yet there was more to the evolution of the Hurricanes than a creative offense. The teams that Schnellenberger and Johnson put on the field, the teams that consistently defeated all others, were unlike any previously seen in the sport. The players were arrogant, unabashed, and decidedly urban, many emerging from inner city high schools (which often scared away recruiters) with apparent chips on their shoulders, a sense that they had something to prove.

The Hurricanes’ rise to the top was far from universally embraced. There was a sense of outrage that these players, so unlike anything previously seen in the sport, could so successfully thumb their noses at the establishment. Their antics were criticized, their accomplishments besmirched to such an extent that games against the University of Notre Dame were dubbed “Catholics vs. Convicts.” In the mid-1990’s Sports Illustrated columnist Rick Reilly, never a fan of the Hurricanes, went so far as to suggest that the University of Miami football program should be disbanded.

Recent revelations about problems with the university’s athletic program have unleashed a new bout of anti-Hurricane sentiment. Yahoo.com’s story about booster (and incarcerated ponzi schemer) Nevin Shapiro’s ties to the football team have reawakened university critics, with Sports Illustrated once more calling for the disbanding of the football program.

The story is decidedly not pretty, replete with allegations of millions of dollars spent by Shapiro over a decade on gifts for athletes while administration and coaches looked the other way, content to focus their attention on the thousands of dollars (reportedly ponzi funds) that Shapiro donated to the university. There are stories of South Beach parties, luxury yachts, big screen televisions, strippers, and even an abortion, paid by Shapiro for Hurricane players.

When questioned about these allegations, former Hurricanes now in the NFL did not issue the expected denials. Their attitude was not “that did not happen,” but rather “I don’t have time to deal with this.” The reality is that, if the money flowed as freely and openly as the Yahoo.com story suggests, denials would be useless. Thus, the former Hurricanes’ “candor” is as smart as it is refreshing in a sport where hypocrisy rules.

In January of this year, the college football national championship game was played between Auburn and Oregon, two schools under investigation for major NCAA violations. It was alleged, for example, that, before he settled on Auburn, the father of star quarterback and Heisman Trophy winner Cam Newton (the first pick in this year’s NFL draft), tried to sell his son’s services to other schools. While conducting its investigation (an investigation that is still ongoing) the NCAA cleared Newton to play in the championship game, thus ensuring big television ratings and big paydays for both schools, their conferences, and the NCAA.

The NCAA acts only when compelled. Its stripping USC of a national title was effectively forced upon it by a story (with an eerie similarity to that of the Hurricanes) about the lavish lifestyle of star running back and Heisman Trophy winner Reggie Bush funded by a generous booster. The NCAA (like the universities themselves) looks the other way until it no longer can, and then acts belatedly, after all (athletes and coaches) involved in the scandal of the month are no longer with the universities. When the NCAA brings down its enforcement hammer, it is usually on athletes and coaches who were not around when the infractions occurred.

That is what is happening at the University of Miami today. There is a new athletic director and a new football coach, neither of whom was reportedly alerted of the NCAA’s pending investigation and its possible consequences when they were offered their jobs. There is talk of the “death penalty,” the enforced closing of the university’s football program, which will effectively put the new coach out of a job, and leave many student-athletes, who may or may not have been involved in the sanctioned conduct, in a state of limbo.

The reality is that the NCAA is unlikely to impose the “death penalty” on UM, much to the chagrin of its critics. University President Donna Shalala is too politically well-connected, and the NCAA’s prior limited experience with the “death penalty” has not been favorable. Thus, if the allegations are proven, the University of Miami will likely be fined, stripped of scholarships and TV appearances, and forced to endure a decade of futility on the football field.

Like many other penalized schools, UM will survive its moment in the NCAA spotlight. There is little new about the Hurricanes’ story. The major difference between this and prior scandals, such as Ohio State’s “tattoos for memorabilia” allegations that cost coach Jim Tressel his job, is the apparent openness with which UM athletes thwarted the system.

The University of Miami is, once again, a groundbreaker in the sport of college football. Rather than hide their transgressions, Hurricanes past and present appear to be embracing their renewed “outlaw” image. And perhaps the public should, as well. After all, the Hurricane name is now universally associated with money, parties and strippers – and isn’t that what college football is all about?

Milestone

Twenty five years.

Much happens in a quarter century.

In 1986, I was a first-year attorney, learning my craft, beginning to understand the elusive concept of “the law.” I had moved to Miami from New York the prior June after graduating from NYU. For the first time in two decades I had no classes to attend. I was a grown-up working in a grown-up world – or at least pretending to be.

Patricia moved to Miami in early summer and enrolled in the MBA program at UM. Our wedding was scheduled for December, two days after Christmas. We bought our first house, a pre-construction, zero-property line dollhouse, designed with the look of New England in a small, un-gated community called “Hampshire Homes.” We awaited our nuptials, and completion of our home’s construction, in a small, second-story apartment in a lesser part of Coral Gables.

I was an avid sports follower back then – much more passionate than I am today. I was particularly enamored of the Mets, and 1986 was a great year to be a Mets fan.

They were the best and most colorful team in baseball, a collection of characters with nicknames such as Mookie, Nails, Mex and The Kid. While first baseman Keith Hernandez and catcher Gary Carter were the leaders of the team, veteran all-stars with an affinity for the media, the future of the franchise was in the hands of two young players approaching superstar status. It was universally assumed that Dwight Gooden and Darryl Strawberry were launching what would assuredly be Hall-of-Fame careers. They were young, tall, athletic and very talented. Their future appeared boundless.

The Mets dominated the National League East, winning a major league high 108 games, and finishing 21.5 games ahead of the runner-up Phillies. After edging the Houston Astros in an exciting six games in the National League Championship Series, the team squared off against the Boston Red Sox and their own assured future Hall-of-Famer, Roger Clemens, in what would be acknowledged as one of the best World Series ever played.

Game six was the classic. Trailing by two runs with two out in the tenth inning, and two strikes on Gary Carter, the Mets staged an improbable comeback, highlighted by Mookie Wilson’s slow roller through the legs of Bill Buckner that allowed the winning run to score. I watched the entire rally on a small bedroom black and white set, while Patricia studied for an exam in the living room. My hand rested on the on/off button during the entire bottom half of the tenth inning. I resolved to stay with the game through its conclusion, but had no intention of watching the Red Sox celebrate after the final out. The final out never came, my fingers left the on/off button when I leapt into the air as Ray Knight crossed home with the winning run. There was then no doubt that the Mets would win the Series, and the Curse of the Bambino, which had plagued the Sox for more than sixty years, since the team sold soon-to-be immortal Babe Ruth to the hated Yankees, would again become the subject of sporting conversation.

I look back at our wedding photos from that December and can not believe how young we looked. Many of the faces on those photos have disappeared, taken by age, illness or distance. Much happens in a quarter century.

Patricia and I are celebrating our twenty-fifth anniversary this December. The intervening years saw us celebrate the birth of our twins, mourn the loss of Patricia’s father, and survive the devastation of Hurricane Andrew. Through it all our love and commitment for each other has endured. When I look at her, I still see the girl with whom I fell in love.

The Mets have not won another championship. Sure Hall-of-Famers Gooden and Strawberry saw their careers derailed by drugs and alcohol. Roger Clemens stands accused of lying to Congress concerning his use of performance-enhancing drugs. He will likely be boycotted by Hall-of-Fame voters. The Red Sox forever put to rest the Curse of the Bambino, winning two championships after the millennium, and leaving the Chicago Cubs alone in lamenting their own Curse of the Billy Goat. “The Kid,” Gary Carter, is fighting for his life, trying to overcome a series of brain tumors.

My office near the center of the Gables overlooks a small movie theater featuring foreign and independent films. It is a recent addition to our neighborhood and brings to mind the days of my youth in New York, before multiplexes spawned and standing in line for a movie was a regular weekend event.

I am no longer the bright-eyed novice embarking on a legal career. I am instead a partner in a firm of fourteen that bears my name, charged with management of people and cases. I like to think of myself as I once was, but the reality is that change comes to all, and we either embrace it or mourn an unattainable past.

Turning the Page

You’ve got mail.

The iconic AOL tagline was also the title for the 1998 Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan vehicle, which failed to match the popular and critical success of their prior collaboration, Sleepless in Seattle (1993). The film dealt with the struggles of a small children’s bookstore confronted by a mega-chain, which usurped business through lower prices. The film was effectively a morality tale about the evils of “big business” and its adverse effect on “the little guy.” Technology, in the form of the then surging AOL e-mail service, played a role in the film, symbolizing the inevitable change that ultimately doomed the local bookstore. Despite a lukewarm ending necessary for box office success (the film was marketed as a romantic comedy) the message was clear: times are changing, and the wave of the new will sweep away the familiar.

Fast forward thirteen years: last week Borders, one of the largest bookstore chains in the United States, announced the imminent closing of all stores. Borders opened its first store in Ann Arbor, Michigan in 1971, and over the next forty years grew into the type of mega-chain vilified by the film. Ironically, the cause of the chain’s demise was the very evolution and technology credited for the rise of the mega-chain in the 1990’s.

The public’s widespread access to, and use of, the internet as vehicle of purchase, coupled with the rise of Amazon, has forever changed the way books are sold. The ease of Amazon’s one-stop shopping has made the traditional trip to the bookstore all but obsolete. Moreover, the recent rise of e-books (again led by Amazon with Kindle) threatens to make traditional book publishing (and consequently traditional book selling) a thing of the past.

Barnes and Noble, Borders’ principal competitor until Amazon came along, has made significant strides in adapting to the realities of the new book selling world. B&N jazzed up its on-line bookstore, contracted with Starbucks to open coffee houses within its stores, established relationships with universities (college bookstores are one of the few remaining links to the book selling past – although this also is changing) and even developed its own e-reader, NOOK, to compete with Amazon’s Kindle. Despite its efforts, B&N’s profits are significantly down, and it remains to be seen whether it can successfully navigate the waters of the new book market. Still, while Borders’ stores are holding closeout sales, B&N’s operations continue uninterrupted.

Borders failed because it was slow to react to the changes in book selling technology. Its efforts to modernize lagged well behind B&N’s, thereby cementing its fate as the first of the mega-chains to fall.

I have very fond memories of Borders. During my children’s early years, our local Borders store became a frequent weekend destination. We would arrive as a family and quickly scatter, my kids scurrying to the children’s section, while my wife and I traversed the literature and mystery stacks. My kids learned about such authors as Dr. Seuss at Borders, which helped develop their appreciation for the written word.

Over the years my own approach to books and book purchasing has changed. I am a frequent visitor to Amazon.com, and my Kindle has become a favorite traveling companion when business takes me on the road. Still, whenever I visit a new city, I like to wander through the stacks at the local Borders or B&N, comparing the items on display to those featured at Miami locations. This helps me better understand the culture and, consequently, the people of the city.

The failure of Borders may mark the beginning of the end of book selling as we once knew it. Ironically, the sole surviving traditional bookstores may be local, specialized shops which develop community presence and local following through support of local authors and book signings.

I will miss my Sundays at the bookstore, even as I order the latest releases for immediate delivery with the touch of a button on my Kindle. Our evolving technology makes book buying much easier, but it will never truly replace, nor even approach, the smell of musty stacks, the breaking of the binding, or the anticipation that accompanies the turning of a page as we dive headlong into the world of the written.

Harry Potter and the Lost Crusade

The countdown has begun. After years of buildup, the final chapter is at hand. Crowds are forming, many camping out for days in anticipation of the opening of doors. All minds are on the conclusion of the saga, with little talk of anything else. It is the most anticipated media event of the year.

And it will take place the same week as the release of the final Harry Potter movie.

Orlando is a city renown for entertainment. Its amusement parks draw millions of visitors annually, with The Wizarding World of Harry Potter the latest and most popular of Universal Studios’ attractions. Yet the focus of most Orlando eyes this week will be not on amusement park rides or cinematic premieres, but on the doors of the county jail, from which Casey Anthony will soon emerge a free woman.

It was not supposed to end this way. The talking heads at HLN (new motto: “All Casey Anthony, All The Time”) assured us that she would be convicted of first-degree murder. When the CNN affiliate decided to alter its format from news to scandal, it expected to carry the story through its logical conclusion: Casey Anthony’s death at the hands of the State.

Yet something happened on the way to better ratings. Despite all assurances, despite network plans to further enhance its coverage of the story, a jury of twelve convened and found Anthony “not guilty” of the most serious charges against her. They acknowledged that she lied to police, and Anthony’s final days in custody will complete a four-year sentence imposed by the judge on those charges. But there will be no execution, no stories about death row appeals or Anthony’s last days on earth. Instead, Anthony will emerge from the Orlando jail to face angry crowds, civil litigation, and disappointed “journalists.”

The media personalities at HLN are trying to make the most of a bad situation. With their credibility questioned, they are attacking the intelligence of the jury and the effectiveness of our judicial system.

HLN’s Nancy Grace, the self-anointed leader of the “Anthony Death Sentence” movement, an apparent graduate of the Hogwarts School of Journalism, would prefer to believe that Lord Voldemort cast a spell on the proceedings. It would be easier to blame the “not guilty” verdict on dark powers, rather than inconclusive evidence and prosecutorial overreach.

But, with Anthony’s image fading from our television screens, the focus of public frustration and scrutiny is increasingly shifting to television commentators and legal analysts. The public feels manipulated and misled by Grace and her counterparts, who may have violated a public trust by placing self-interest before journalistic integrity.

Nancy Grace refuses to acknowledge either responsibility or defeat. She continues to highlight Anthony on her nightly show, refusing to refer to her by name, and instead calling her “Tot Mom.” She has gone on the offensive against those who would find fault with her approach to the case – yet arrogance and self-righteousness make for bad television.

After the jury returned its verdict, a friend confessed that she would watch Nancy Grace that evening because she wanted “to see her head explode.” Had HLN’s management arranged for such a spectacle, ratings would have been substantially higher.

Storm Warning

We seldom recognize evil at its birth. We see warning signs, but fail to grasp their meaning. It is only later, when the unthinkable occurs, when lives are shattered and we stare in disbelief at the desolate landscape left behind that we realize the significance of what we have witnessed. Yet by then it is too late and we are left to wonder whether things might have been different had we seen through the façade to the darkness that lay within.

In 1933, President Franklin D. Roosevelt appointed William E. Dodd as United States ambassador to Germany. Dodd was not Roosevelt’s first choice for the post. His was the third name on a list of possibles, and he was selected only after the first two turned the President down.

Dodd was an academic, a University of Chicago professor whose principal goal was to write a history of the South during the Civil War. He had no political aspirations and no desire to represent the U.S. abroad. He accepted the post due to a sense of patriotism and out of deep respect for Roosevelt, who personally entreated Dodd to take the position after being rejected by his preferred candidates.

Dodd and his family arrived in Berlin at the outset of the Nazi regime. He was skeptical of rumors about Nazi mistreatment of Jews, and assumed that they were exaggerated. His daughter Martha, a twentyish divorcee with liberal sexual attitudes and a thirst for adventure, immediately fell for the pageantry of Nazi parades and the contagious excitement with which the German populace embraced their leader, Adolph Hitler. Over the next three years, however, the veil of deception lifted and the Dodds were able to witness firsthand the brutality and amorality that would eventually define the Nazi government.

The story of the Dodds and their time in Berlin, during the formative years of Nazi Germany, is powerfully related by Erik Larson in his gripping In the Garden of Beasts: Love, Terror, and an American Family in Hitler’s Berlin (2011). Larsen, the author of The Devil in the White City: Murder, Magic and Madness at the Fair that Changed America (2003), one of the better works of American non-fiction of the new millennium, uses journals, correspondence and writings of the time, to bring to life the tale of the Dodds’ awakening to the evils of the Nazi world.

Told in a style reminiscent of the stories of spy novelists John le Carre and Len Deighton, In the Garden of Beasts reads like a work of fiction. Larson’s short, unswerving chapters operate as a series of doors opening gradually to the reality of Nazi Germany. Dodd’s growing alarm at the unabashed violence around him is at times matched by the apathy and thinly-veiled anti-semitism he encounters within the American State Department. His warnings are not heeded, and the Nazi brutality against Jews, Americans and all who pose opposition to the National Socialist German Workers’ Party continues unabated.

The story climaxes in what has become known as The Night of the Long Knives, Hitler’s purge and execution of actual and potential political opponents between June 30 and July 2, 1934. Shortly after the bloody events that cemented Hitler’s grip over the German nation, Dodd was recalled by Roosevelt at the urging of State Department officials who felt he had become too critical of the German government. History tells us what followed, but that part of the story falls outside the pages of Larson’s enthralling tale.

Larson’s story is filled with historical figures who today seem a distant memory: Hitler, Goring, Goebbels, Himmler – all the Nazi leaders are there, interacting with the Dodds and members of their social and diplomatic circles. We know who and what they are because we have the benefit of hindsight, which Dodd lacked. His was a gradual awakening to the horrors of Nazism, and that awakening is vividly related in the pages of Larson’s book. We see the evil as it grows, and the lapse of nearly eighty years is insufficient to insulate us from the feelings of unease we experience as the curtain draws upon a world soon to be forever altered by a monster in its formative stage.

Oh Canada!

Nothing happened. There were no reports of riots, no instances of tourist attacks in an area that historically has seen its share of street violence.

When the Miami Heat, consensus favorites to win the NBA championship, blew the final series and lost the deciding game at home to an underdog and less talented Dallas team, fans strolled out of the American Airlines Arena, got into their cars, exited lots with inflated prices, and quietly drove home. There were no demonstrations of angst or anger outside the sporting venue, no confrontations with men in blue. All that police officers assigned to the event were left to do was stop traffic on Biscayne Boulevard long enough for departing fans to cross safely.

Contrast this with images from Vancouver a few days later. The Canucks attained the best record in the NHL during the regular season, and marched to the Stanley Cup finals as the favorite to defeat the Boston Bruins, a team with more grit than goals. The series went to a deciding game seven, played in Vancouver, where the home team had not lost. Then it all fell apart. Roberto Luongo, the all-star goaltender whom many have for years contended is the best in the game despite a scarcity of playoff accomplishments, gave up four goals to an underwhelming Boston offense. The rest of the Canucks team fared no better, succumbing 4-0 to the Bruins.

While the visitors celebrated their first Stanley Cup championship in nearly forty years, taking turns skating around the playing ice with the trophy held aloft, things quickly turned ugly outside the Rogers Arena. Film and photos from Vancouver displayed a city in chaos. Disgruntled fans looted nearby businesses, vandalized property and set police cars on fire. Police officers squared off against rioters, dodging flying objects, while non-participating fans stood by and watched.

Vancouver officials have blamed the violent display on fifty thugs whom they insist do not represent Canucks fans or the city of Vancouver. But in 1994, when the New York Rangers overcame a three-games-to-two deficit to defeat the Canucks in the series finale, Vancouver fans had a similar reaction.

I have been to Vancouver twice and my memories of the area are quite different from the media images of recent days. I recall a clean, inviting, pedestrian-friendly city with ethnic neighborhoods, restaurants and parks overlooking a picturesque bay. People were so friendly that it aroused my New Yorker’s mistrust: surely, the strangers who came up to us and offered help when they saw us struggling with a city map were up to no good!

The riots which last week engulfed the city were likely the result of national frustration. It has been nearly two decades since a Canadian team took home the ultimate prize in a sport Canadians claim as their own. Since 1993, five Canadian teams reached the Stanley Cup finals, all losing to American teams, with four of the five series extending to seven games. The latest near miss caused an eruption of emotion by the frustrated Vancouver fans, ardent in their support of their sport and their team.

There is a reason why Miami fans reacted differently. The city has long been dubbed a haven of frontrunners, with sporting events routinely playing before half-empty stadiums and arenas. The season-long excitement caused by LeBron James’ decision to bring his talents to South Beach waned as fans began their parade from the American Airlines Arena with time expiring in game six.

Miami fans will not change. They will exercise selective passion and sell out only big events, not the Thursday afternoon matchup of losing teams. Thus, Miami will never match Vancouver as a sports town. After all, nothing says “fan loyalty” like burning police cars.