Merkle for the Defense (Florida Business/Tampa Bay)

Manuel Noriega image via Wikipedia

By Bob Andelman

(Originally written in November 1989 for Florida Business/Tampa Bay; also published the same year in the Orlando Sentinel Sunday magazine.)

The man who stared down Panamanian strongman Manuel Noriega, the man who sent Colombian drug lord Carlos Lehder to prison, the man who challenged Connie Mack for the Republican nomination to the U.S. Senate-yes, Bob "Mad Dog" Merkle-couldn't turn on a telephone.

He'd never before seen a phone that ran on batteries. The federal government didn't buy 'em that way.

That wasn't Merkle's only problem in setting up his first business since running a lemonade stand as a kid. There was all that governmental red tape, all the bureaus to visit and license fees to be paid. For a man who had spent his entire career in government, it was an eye-opening experience being on the other side.

Until he could afford a secretary, Merkle did his own typing. He rented office space within another law firm until he could get on his feet. Merkle only had two phones-one in his office and one for a parade of temporary secretaries. That left his partner, Joe Magri, in the cold. When someone called for Magri, he'd have to use Merkle's phone and Merkle would have to wait outside the office.

Then there was the problem of research. Unable to afford their own law library, Merkle and Magri had to spend nights and weekends looking up cases in the Pinellas County Courthouse law library. "It was inconvenient as hell," says Merkle. "It's very inefficient having to leave your office, especially when you're the only one there. You go downtown, look for a parking space then find you don't have any change for the meter." Merkle's notoriety didn't help; everyone he ran into wondered why the infamous attorney was doing his own searches through the stacks.

When they finally bought their own statutes, Merkle and Magri discovered a new problem: no room in their makeshift office for book shelves. So the lawyers took out the indexes and had to leave the rest of the books in boxes. To find something, whole cartons would have to be shuffled.

"It's one of those things you look back fondly on," says Magri, "and thank God it didn't last long."

Welcome to the world of private lawyering, former federal prosecutor style.

Among modern U.S. attorneys, only New York-based Rudolph Giuliani enjoyed more renown and infamy in the 1980s than Bob "Mad Dog" Merkle. While Giuliani played the game of federal prosecutor in a bigger arena, there are many similarities between him and Merkle, including national television profiles in 1987-Giuliani on ABC's "20/20," Merkle on CBS's "60 Minutes"-and the failure of both to leapfrog from appointed to elected office. (Giuliani wanted to be mayor of New York in '89; Merkle chased the role of U.S. Senator in '88). Now both face at least the immediate future in private practice.

From 1982 to 1988, Merkle went after the biggest fish in the sea of 32 counties making up the Middle District of Florida. His office's cases never failed to make headlines: the corruption trials of members of the Hillsborough County Commission and Nelson Italiano, a once-prominent figure in Hillsborough County Democratic politics; drug indictments brought against Lehder, Noriega and ex-baseball star Denny McLain; perjury charges against State Rep. Elvin Martinez; investigation of former Hillsborough State Attorney E.J. Salcines; and the prosecution of plastic surgeon Dr. Dale B. Dubin on child-pornography charges.

"We didn't win all the cases, but nobody does," says Merkle. "It was claimed I only went after Democrats, that I only went after lawyers-depending on whose ox was being gored, that defined 'the problem with Merkle.' If there's a rap there, it was that I went after everybody. Nobody was above the law."

Merkle was the first U.S. attorney to successfully extradite and prosecute a member of Colombia's feared Medellin Cartel. The life sentence drug lord Carlos Lehder received in 1988 was a precursor of the bloody civil war that has since wracked Colombia.

When he won, Merkle lavished compliments upon the American legal system, judge and jurors. When he lost, Merkle explained it away by saying the jurors and judge didn't understand the case.

Along the way, many respected voices called for his firing, including Florida Governor Bob Martinez (cross-examined by Merkle in the Italiano case), Barry Cohen (Salcines' attorney), a majority of Florida's sheriffs, the Tampa Tribune and the St. Petersburg Times. Senators Bob Graham and Lawton Chiles were openly critical of Merkle. (The Times eventually recommended Merkle over Connie Mack in the Senate primary; he refused to accept.)

Clearly, not everyone will be rooting for Merkle to succeed in private practice. Not Tampa attorney Barry Cohen, who sought Merkle's removal from office with a full-page newspaper ad and petition campaign after the U.S. attorney's three-year, public investigation of Cohen;s client, E.J. Salcines, damaged the former Hillsborough State Attorney's reputation. Merkle never brought charges against Salcines, but all the negative publicity probably costing Salcines re-election.

Although Cohen declined comment for Florida Business, he did describe to Morley Safer of "60 Minutes" what he called Merkle's "McCarthy mentality." On the nationally broadcast television program, Cohen accused Merkle of " ... inducing people to tell untruths ... threatening people that they'll be indicted if they don't tell you what you want to hear so that you can manipulate the facts ... telling witnesses that you'd better testify in a particular way."

Merkle and Magri have both had run-ins with Cohen over the years. They say Cohen is an expert at trying cases in the media. "Barry Cohen is a good defense attorney in that he knows how to utilize the media," says Magri. "He gives talks on how to use the media to help defend a case." Cohen used a Florida Bar seminar in October as a forum to criticize Pinellas-Pasco Chief Assistant State Attorney Richard Mensch for prosecuting chiropractor William LaTorre as a way of getting back at Cohen for winning a drug case.

After leaving office, Merkle continued to lose friends and influence enemies. He called his former boss, Attorney General Edwin Meese III, a liar and described Connie Mack and Bob Martinez as a "dynamic duo of sleaze." When Mack refused to debate him, Merkle traveled the state with a lifesize representation of Mack, which he dubbed "Cardboard Connie."

Whatever his faults, the sleepy-eyed, sharp-tongued Merkle has never been dull.

* * *

Merkle, a graduate of Notre Dame and reserve fullback on the football team in 1964, spent 17 years in professional law enforcement as a trial attorney for the U.S. Department of Justice and as an assistant state attorney in Pinellas County for the Sixth Judicial Circuit before being recommended by then-Senator Paula Hawkins to be U.S. Attorney for the Middle District of Florida in 1982. Merkle left office in mid-1988 to challenge Connie Mack for the Republican nomination for the U.S. Senate, which Mack later won.

After the campaign, Merkle set about finding a job to feed his wife Angela and their nine children. He set up an independent law office in downtown Clearwater and, at age 45, began competing for the first time for clients.

Merkle has done his best to make the setting of private law as similar to public work as possible. He took on his former chief assistant, Joe Magri, as equal partner and hired his former secretary, Dot Bunger, as office manager. Also joining the firm from the U.S. Attorney's office was Ward Meythaler, who spent five years as an assistant under Merkle; Jeff Albinson spent five years as an assistant state attorney in Pinellas County; Robert Persante, a nationally ranked chess player, folded his sole practitioner office in Tampa to sign on; Dayra Morales is the freshman member of Merkle & Magri, having just graduated University of Florida Law School.

The Merkle & Magri team goes back to a time shortly after Merkle's appointment by Ronald Reagan in 1982. "I met him at a party that my law firm threw on Capitol Hill," recalls Magri. An uncle of Merkle's was a partner in Cummings and Lockwood, the firm where Magri worked. "We got talking about doing some prosecutions and it really sounded good to me. And he liked to play golf."

Over the years, a good working relationship developed into a deep friendship and respect between the two men. "We complement each other well," says Merkle. "There are certain talents he has and certain talents I have that mesh. It's a very good relationship."

Magri, 41, was promoted to acting U.S. attorney when Merkle left office in June 1988 to run for the Republican senate nomination vs. Connie Mack. Less than six weeks later, then-U.S. Attorney General Ed Meese announced Robert Genzman of Orlando would be the new U.S. attorney for the middle district of Florida. The announcement may have been timed to embarrass Merkle just days before the Republican Senate primary; Merkle has said he had an understanding with Meese that Magri would be his permanent successor. Had he known otherwise, Merkle has publicly suggested, he might not have left office. (Magri served as acting U.S. attorney until early 1989.)

"We've been about as close as two lawyers could be in terms of our working relationship over seven years," says Magri. "I have a great deal of respect for his ethics, his approach to the law. He's a very aggressive lawyer. He fights very hard for his position. I think he's an exceptional lawyer."

There are enough rooms with a Rocky Point waterfront view for five more attorneys in the spacious, 11th-floor Waterford Plaza law offices of Merkle & Magri. There is plenty of work to go around; Merkle himself is likely to surpassed his $70,000 federal salary in the firm's first year of business. "I wouldn't commit myself to significant salaries if I didn't have the work to support it," he says. Then, adds Merkle with a twinkling eye on the bottom line, "That's a fundamental business decision."

One of the advantages to private practice for an attorney with Merkle's celebrity status is that it draws in all kinds of people with unusual problems. That is also the chief drawback of being Bob Merkle, P.A.

"I get people who, frankly, are nuts," he says. "I had one guy who claimed he was the past owner of Amtrak, Yankee Stadium and the Skyway Bridge. This was a conspiracy to involve all sorts of people. I didn't accept him as a client. I used to get these people at the U.S. Attorney's office but I had a screening process where we could file a letter in the nut file and let it go.

"I spend an awful lot of time talking to people who have no intention, no wherewithal to hire me. They're looking for emotional support, free advice."

Then there are clients operating under what might be called "Mad Dog Fever," which Merkle says has been spread by defense attorneys and newspaper reporters. The "Mad Dog" nickname began in his assistant state attorney days when he took on unwinnable cases and won them.

"My clients have hired me," says Merkle, "because they perceived I was the meanest, nastiest sonuvabitch in the valley. They feel, 'I don't like you, but I want you as my attorney.' They perceive that I can walk in, wave a wand and they get what they want. But that's not the way the system works."

Merkle insists he's no frothing wild animal; it's not practical. "I have always been in total control of myself in the courtroom. The image of a mad dog is certainly a repugnant image for a lawyer to have. A mad dog foams at the mouth and attacks everything in a mindless fashion." The image has been built out of proportion but he hesitates to reject it entirely. "The good side is the way it was coined. It connotes tenacity and fearlessness. The irony is that that fiction hasn't hurt my business," he says. "But there's another side of that. Sometimes when I walk into a courtroom, a judge who hasn't met me operates on the same principle."

Joe Magri is the perfect partner for Bob Merkle: he's used to standing in the "Mad Dog's" shadow. For seven years of federal prosecutions-successful or not-it was "Merkle this, Merkle that." Guys like Magri and Meythaler worked just as hard but in relative anonymity. "Joe Magri deserves every bit as much credit as I do for what we did at the U.S. attorney's office," says Merkle.

In the private sector, the magnetism of Merkle's name will be a mixed blessing. It will keep Magri in the shadows but probably make him a rich man.

"I don't consider that a real issue," says Magri. "If you want to talk about it from a business standpoint, an attorney that has the ability to attract attention generally attracts cases. That's very good. That's what we're here for. If things go well for me and Bob does well, I'm going to be happy. What's important is that the firm do well. If that results in Bob Merkle gaining publicity or continuing what he has, that's something we should embrace."

* * *

The days of chasing corrupt county commissioners and drug lords are over.

Bob Merkle has made a conscious decision to generally refuse criminal cases. He doesn't want to belittle a long career of criminal prosecution by switching sides to defend drug dealers. Instead, he has chosen the more dignified civil arena, specializing in lender-liability, environmental and land-use litigation.

"There are obviously differences," he says. "But there are some fundamental things that remain the same. A hearing is a hearing. A deposition is a deposition. The law is the law. Clients come to me because there's the prospect of real litigation experience."

Merkle says he's not ruling out criminal defense work entirely, but he is unlikely to accept it unless "there is a situation where I can work to further both the client's interests and the government's interests at the same time. (Otherwise) it would be an abrupt and unacceptable jolt from what I've been committed to for my entire professional career. That's a prospect when I'm using my skills to defend people who are otherwise guilty. I will not do drug work. I happen to have a personal experience in which I have a very high anti-drug profile. I don't want to be in the position where I get people off as a routine manner of the way I work. I'm aware of the recidivism rate. I've known lawyers who've represented criminals and gotten them off. I don't feel comfortable in using my talents to get these people off. Why should I be a mouthpiece for the Mob? Why should I be in-house counsel for a drug organization, insuring their people get back on the street?"

George Tragos was a chief assistant under Merkle at the U.S. attorney's office; like Merkle, Tragos also put in time at the state attorney's office. But when Tragos left the federal prosecution business, he had no trouble working for the other side.

"I made the transition from prosecuting criminals to defending criminals," says Tragos. "I've done it twice. I just wake up one morning and see the Constitution from the other side. I see words I never saw before. I enjoy practicing law and I enjoy trying cases. I don't care if I'm prosecuting or defending.

"Bob-his personality didn't allow him to make that transition," according to Tragos. "He's a person that didn't feel psychologically he could defend criminals. Some people can, some people can't. (Merkle) has a very negative idea of criminal defense lawyers. If you're talking political ambition, representing drug smugglers and criminals doesn't get you a lot of votes. He's doing the right thing not tarnishing his image as a crimebuster."

Tragos believes that the different directions he and Merkle have taken has been largely responsible for the end of their social contacts. But, notes Tragos, "In the civil work I've done, some of the people I've met have been bigger crooks than in criminal."

Denis M. de Vlaming is another former assistant state attorney who turned the tables on the system and now makes his living as a criminal defense specialist. He expects Merkle's aggressive style and tactics will be preferred by a certain type of client and that the former prosecutor will do very well in private practice.

"I admire him for not accepting criminal cases," says de Vlaming. "I'm sure Mr. Merkle could win six-figure fees for drug dealer cases."

de Vlaming says he once had a client who had been charged with three different burglaries. The man was acquitted of the first two charges. This occurred when Bob Merkle was an assistant state attorney. "The third time, Merkle came in and said, 'You're not winning this one,'" recalls de Vlaming. "Judge Fred Bryson has since said it was one of the most enjoyable cases he ever had. We went after each other, nose to nose. And he topped me. He did a good job."

* * *

Attorneys who have spent a portion of their careers in public service say there are a number of differences between working for Uncle Sam and Joe Shmo.

For one thing, there's money. When you work for Uncle Sam, he pays all the bills no matter what the cost and whether or not he can cover the debt. That's important when a Carlos Lehder can pay a reported $2.5 million for his defense. And there's a regular paycheck to depend on, utility bills are paid and plenty of No. 2 pencils and yellow legal pads. In the case of Merkle and Magri, there were also 47 assistant U.S. attorneys to share the work load.

Joe Shmo, on the other hand, won't necessarily pay his bill on time. He'll pay it late if he can and it's no fun for a dignified attorney to chase down deadbeat clients. And if the firm doesn't get paid, there's no blank check from the government to keep the wheels turning. It's a quick lesson in business for lawyers who haven't had to worry about such details in government service.

"When you're a U.S. attorney," says Merkle, "you're here for the United States. You have a client who exists, from a certain perspective, in the abstract. When you are a private lawyer, you find out how many problems there are out in the world and how many there are that can't be solved."

When you're with the government, you're 100 percent lawyer. But when you're in private practice, you're 50 percent lawyer and 50 percent businessman. And the business responsibilities can really get out of hand.

"If you open an office and make lots of money, it's easy. If you're not making money, you have to budget," says George Tragos. "I can't operate at a deficit as the U.S. Government does. Nobody ever said, 'You can't do this drug smuggling (case) because we can't afford it.'"

For attorneys who plan to stay in business and prosper-perhaps even drop a shoe in the political arena-there is an even broader agenda to be considered in private practice.

"You become very conscious of not just your role in a given piece of litigation," says Joseph Donahey, a partner in Clearwater-based Tanney, Forde, Donahey, Eno and Tanney, "but the practice you see over many years, the relationships you have with colleagues, the relationships you have with the bench. Your approach is different. When you're a prosecutor, you're not beholden to anybody. You can approach each case in any manner you choose."

There is also the growing issue of attorneys who make campaign contributions to judges. Merkle supports blind trusts for judges or judicial candidates so that the influence of law firms making large financial contributions could not give a hint of judicial impropriety. "I guarantee you'll see contributions go down," says Merkle. "I'm not going to indulge in the practice I've heard other lawyers do-routinely contributing to incumbents on the bench. Somebody may get their nose bent out of shape by my saying there are incompetents on the bench. But there are incompetents on the bench."

A potential drawback for a Bob Merkle-type attorney shifting gears is the distinct lack of limelight surrounding most lawyer's everyday affairs.

"One of the things you really have to develop a means of handling is the hum-drum routine of all our lives," says Joe Donahey. "I'm looking at a mound of work. I have the same commitment to each of these files yet there's probably only two that that any challenge or any meaningful legal interest."

Not every case, in other words, is a international drug cartel or politician with his fingers in the cookie jar. The average lawyer rarely makes headlines.

Spending time on the government payroll has been lucrative for many people who earn huge consulting fees, write books or end up as partners in nationally respected law firms. Some simply add marquee value; some bring real insight.

George Tragos has says when Bob Merkle was appointed to be U.S. attorney, the two discussed Tragos' joining the team. Tragos told Merkle he couldn't afford the pay cut but ultimately used his savings to maintain the lifestyle which he had become accustomed to as a high-price lawyer. "It was worth it," says Tragos in retrospect. "I made contacts all over the country. Now my business is 60 percent federal."

* * *

There are many stories floating around that reinforce the "Mad Dog" nickname Merkle earned as a young buck coming up through James Russell's Pinellas County State Attorney's office in the '70s..

"Bob Merkle in the courtroom was like a linebacker bursting through the line," says Denis M. de Vlaming. "He's extremely intense, almost physically imposing. When he argued, he would walk right up to you and argue. Almost to the point of intimidation so his opponent cowers. It's a style that's only his.

"I went snow skiing in Vermont with him one year. I don't know if I'd go again," says de Vlaming. "He has to go faster than you, he has to go further than you. He has to beat you at everything. We had an argument over dinner. He always has to be right. He carries over that competitive aggressiveness into every aspect of life."

"The guy is an excellent trial lawyer," says George Tragos. "But if I see him in an airport-as well as we know each other-I have to say hello first. He's not personable. That's just the way he is. But I like him.

"You have two schools of thought," says Tragos. "There's people who really hate the guy. And there's people who think he's the greatest thing since sliced bread. I think he did more good than bad. The people-they got their money's worth with him. Not everything he did turned out right, but on balance, he did more good than bad."

* * *

Is Bob Merkle merely on hiatus from public office? When he does run again, will it be for governor?

"Ah," he answers, "the old question-resting-on-a-presumption trick."

Those who know him best expect the "Mad Dog" to slip his leash again and run for office after feathering his private practice with a layer of cash insulation. "I personally think he'll run for public office again," says George Tragos. "I don't think he can be happy so far out of the limelight. I don't think money motivates him."

Joe Magri-who knows exactly what his partner's plans are-is cagier about making predictions.

"One of the important things in life," says Bob Merkle's law partner, "is that people who are doing that which they want to do tend to be the most happy and productive in life. If you spend the time swimming against your emotional current, you achieve less. I think it's important for people to maintain the options that exist."

If he does run again, Merkle will have to plan his next campaign better than his first, which began with just 70 days to go before the primary. (Connie Mack had been beating the hustings for more than a year.) The first campaign cost a remarkably paltry $70,000 but ate up Merkle's federal retirement, money he lent to the campaign and another loan he is still paying off. But he has no regrets.

"It was an ad lib effort, an amateurish campaign by necessity. It was fun in that regard. I think I performed pretty credibly," says Merkle.

Not surprisingly, Merkle isn't ready to tip his hand. He certainly won't rule out another shot at election-"it depends on a lot of things," he says, then adds, "I have no intention of running for governor.

"I don't have much patience with people who say, 'You have to run for governor.' I say, 'Oh, yeah? Who's going to feed my kids?' I didn't see anybody in October (after he lost the senate primary) offering to give me a hand. Not a soul. Bitter? No. Practical? Yes. I've been approached many times. I say, get real. Don't talk ideals or how great I'd be. Talk the language. Talk about what I need to be an effective candidate. I'm a pretty tough, resilient guy. I was going 24 hours a day in that campaign. I'd be willing to do it again. But there's got to be a germ of success. I'm not going to be somebody's spear-carrier. There should be enough people now that know I'm a credible candidate."

Copyright 2008 Bob Andelman. Click here for copyright permissions!

BCCI: Opening Day in Tampa Federal Court (Business Week)

Manuel Noriega image via Wikipedia

(The following was filed for a Business Week story in January 1990.)

By Bob Andelman

NOTES, OBSERVATIONS ON OPENING ARGUMENTS

The husbands of two of the jurors will apparently be attending most of the sessions. Judge Hodges said they were certainly welcome but strongly cautioned them about discussing the case with their wives, particularly anything that goes on in court when the jury is excused.

Judge apparently has a seating plan before him to keep track of the 14 lawyers he faces at seven tables. Can't tell the players without a scorecard. The tables themselves have cards tabled on them to instruct the lawyers as to where to sit.

Security is no different for this trial than any other. All visitors to the courthouse pass through an X-ray machine, as do their packages.

The hurry is being provided individual blue, 3-ring notebooks for the trial to allow for note-taking during what is expected to be a 4-5 month proceeding. Also in the notebooks are court calendars - off-days are circled; a roster of the names of lawyers, defendants and other participants (name tags, they need name tags); a brief summary of the indictments and specifications as to which defendent is charged with which count; and a written account of the preliminary jury instructions given orally by Hodges. His first instruction was about an edition of PBS-TV's "Frontline." The Jan. 30 program featured a report on Noriega. "You should be careful NOT to watch," said Hodges.

In the front row of the gallery, a little Indian girl of no more than three years old lies face-up across her mother's lap, snoring peacefully while her daddy's trial begins.

All of the attorneys on both sides are men.

The jury consists of 8 women and 4 men; the six alternates are all men.

"Through a clerical error," Judge Hodges tells the jury, "there are two counts numbered as '18.'" So, it seems, there are actually 34 counts.

Before beginning his opening argument for the government, prosecutor Michael Rubenstein asked to approach the bench. Thirteen attorneys followed him. It looked like a football huddle. The same thing happens later when defense attorney John Hume approaches the judge.

At 10:06 a.m., the BCCI trial began in earnest with Rubenstein's opening statement. It lasted about 2 hours and 15 minutes and had to be concluded after lunch.

Rubenstein made a mostly chronological accounting of his case, beginning with Dominguez's collection in Detroit of suitcases full of $8-million in cash. "By the time he finished (10 trips total), he had a pile of suitcases this high," Rubenstein said, rising his arm above his head. It was the closest the prosecutor came to enhancing his otherwise dry monologue.

Rubenstein had the facts and told them in a straight-ahead manner; no embellishment. Very dull, no style. Quite bureaucratic. Exotic names and dates ran together, crossed and piled on top of one another.

He spoke of Hussain's advice to Musella with regarding to money laundering: "Don't write checks." He suggested buying CDs because they don't require the mailing of statements. And CDs could be used as collateral on loans, making funds available.

One day Hussain showed Mussella a copy of the St. Pete Times. He noted an article on the assasination of Colombian drug lord Rafael Cordova (sp?). Musella then told Hussain he'd make the following statement just one time: "This money comes from some of the largest drug dealers in South America." To which Hussain replied, "In that case, perhaps you want to put the money in Luxembourg."

It was the first of many points in which Rubenstein sought to make the point that Mussella informed virtually every party he did business with that his clients and his money were drug-related.

Rubenstein said that by 1988, BCCI had five offices in Medellin - equal to the number of offices it had in all of North America.

Jan. 1, 1988: Mussella told Awan his clients "are the biggest drug dealers in Columbia." Awan's response: "It's not any business of mine who your customers are."

Rubenstein's summed up BCCI's attitude this way: 1) "Where you get your customers is none of our business." 2) "BCCI will help clients preserve confidentiality any way it can." 3) "Please give us more deposits as soon as possible."

Rubenstein: "There will be no evidence of these bankers putting this money in their own pockets ... no kickbacks." He said they did what they did for their bank and for the advancement of their careers in the bank. "BCCI had a clear, well defined policy," said Rubenstein. "Take as many deposits as you can, as quick as you can, and don't ask any questions about from where they come." He said that increasing deposits was deemed to be the responsibility of everyone, "including the office boy."

"These are people interested in career advancement," said the prosecutor. "Their careers were more important than the laws of the United States."

The U.S. targeted Gonzalo Mora in C-Chase because he was "a small-time money launderer in need of help (who) didn't already have it all ... (Mora was) very ambitious, aggressive; anxious to accept the (government's) proposition."

Mora became Musella's unwitting partner and grew into a big-time launderer, making frequent trips to the U.S. with and to meet Mussella and Dominguez. Mora's job was to convert cocaine in usable products with no traceback: checks, bank drafts, credit in banks, bank transfers and usable cash.

Florida National Bank agreed to cooperate with the government and provide favorable credit information whenever inquiries were made on Mussella.

* Mora is supposed to explain his money laundering system via videotape later in the trial.

There were 148 face-to-face meetings involving Musella and the defendents between Dec. 86 and Oct. 88 and 2,000 recorded telephone calls. Rubenstein said it would take 390 hours to play all of the government's tape recordings.

Dominguez spoke only Spanish to Mora; Mora spoke no English. Musella spoke no Spanish. Dominguez was their interpreter.

When Steven Kalish testified before the Senate subcommittee on Jan 28 '88, several actions were set in motion. He said - according to Rubenstein - that he had personally bribed Noriega to use Panama as a base to launder money and he said he dealt personally with Awan.

On Feb. 2, Awan tells Mussella to be careful with his Panamanian accounts; if too much pressure is brought to bear on the country, bank secrecy may be compromised.

On March 28, Awan tells Muassella he expects to be investigated by the Senate re: Noriega. Mussella begins to search for a safer haven.

On June 20, Mussella is in Paris where he meets a Mr. Chinoi (sp?). He tells Chinoi who his clients; Chinoi says he knows. Musella says his clients are corporate types like Lee Iacocca, except Iacocca sells cars, Mussella's clients sell cocaine.

Sept. 9: The Senate subpoenas BCCI's Panama bank records. The pressure is on.

Hume introduces his client, Mr. Awan. Describes him: 42, Pakistani, married, two kids. Describes him as "combative, a hunter, a sportsman, likes to work with his hands. Mechanical, interested in photography." His father is a retired cop, his mother a retired college professor. Since graduating college, Awan worked four years for a bank in Pakistan and four years in London befoire joining BCCI in '78. He was country manager for Panama 81-84; stationed as a PR official in Washington, DC '84-87; and assigned to the Latin American regional office in Miami in 87. His job was to "gather deposits and increase the deposit base."

"What is Mr. Awan's motive?" asked Hume. "The government conceded he received no money, he solicited no money. My client got nothing but his salary. ... Ask yourself: Is it responsible to do this for a promotion."

* "Musella and the government deceived other banks," said Hume. "Florida National Bank sent a letter to BCCI referring to Mr. Mussella as a good customer. The trap was set by disarming the alarm of the banking system. The government gave the banking system a form of AIDS by disabling its immune system."

As a result, said Hume, "The government was able to make it easy for Mr. Mora and others to get money out of the country without the assistance of BCCI and my client (Awan)."

Hume and other defense attorneys say there was a long paper trail despite Mussella's insistence of no paper. "Mr. Awan followed procedures in terms of identifying every transaction. There are reams of paperwork. We have perfectly documented paperwork. ... My client engaged in a good faith decision."

"Historically," said Hume, "bankers have not asked where the money comes from. They don't ask that. Why? Because it embarrasses customers. It drives people away."

"This deception was sophisticated," said Hume.

"My client Mr. Awan was a W-2 employee just like you," Hume told the jurors. "A paycheck every two weeks. Deductions ... A man in debt, a man who spent more than he made. A candidate for corruption with all this money floating around. ... But the only thing Mr. Awan ever got was his salary."

After ticking off meetings Bush, Casy, North & Poindexter had with Noriega over the years, Hume asked, "What should my client have known about Mr. Noriega that the U.S. government didn't know about Mr. Noriega?"

Copyright 2008 Bob Andelman. Click here for copyright permissions!

Affordable Housing in Tampa (Business Week)

Image via Wikipedia

(The following was filed for a Business Week story in August 1991.)

By Bob Andelman

Sandy Freedman suspected Tampa's housing problem was worse than anyone knew when she was first elected mayor in 1987. After the city's fire department conducted a house-to-house inspection on her orders, her worst fears were realized: 23 percent of Tampa's homes were in sub-standard condition or worse.

That's when she began fitting together the pieces of a greater problem. Non-profit social services agencies complained that their clientele - most often female heads of households or married couples earning minimum wages - moved too often to be helped because they lacked adequate, permanent housing. They said they could feed the needy three times a day, but if the city didn't find a place for these people to live, they would be giving them three meals a day forever. Landlords were abandoning single family homes in bad neighborhoods; the buildings, in turn, were stripped down to the walls and used as crack houses. And banks, under increasing pressure by the federal Community Reinvestment Agency (CRA) to aid blighted areas, said they were unable to find and develop the affordable housing market.

Connecting all of these concerns, Freedman and city staff organized a partnership of public, private and non-profit organizations. Each came to the table with a problem and became one-third of a synergistic solution. "A lot of communities talk about housing initiatives, they form task forces, they have lunch. This city went beyond lip service," according to David Hollis, senior vice president of Barnett Bank of Tampa. "Sandy Freedman said there's a need here - what's it going to take? She made the community responsible."

A coalition of banks exceeded the mayor's call for $5-million in low-interest loan money to leverage federal dollars (Community Development Block Grants) with $13.5-million and created Community Reinvestment
Challenge Fund I. The banks offer loans for housing units worth $30,000 to $50,000 at roughly two percent below market rates, accept liberal underwriting criteria and provide extended amortization of 20 years to reduce mortgage payments, which allows buyers to qualify with as little as five percent or $500 down. Buyers pay no closing costs or points.

"The Challenge Fund allows us to compete in affordable housing," says Bob Tanner, regional president for SunBank of Tampa Bay's Tampa region. "I don't think the bank would have been able to otherwise, using its own resources. The city identifies the customers and markets. That eliminates a lot of cost to the banks. We can then offer funds at a lower rate."

Under contract to the city, the non-profits provide staffers who qualify and package would-be borrowers. The city does appraisals, title searches and inspections at no charge. And Tampa guarantees the first five years of any mortgage, promising to buy it back within 90 days of default. Less than four percent of all buyers have defaulted since the program began; only one mortgage of 75 in the program sold by NCNB went back to the city.

"You know what it proves?" says Fernando Noriega, Jr., division manager of Tampa's housing assistance programs and architect of the partnership. "Low-income people pay their mortgages because they have no other option."

Making all this even sweeter to the city is the dramatic reduction in personnel at its Community Redevelopment Division. As non-profits took over agency tasks, its staff was halved, from 41 employees to 22, with money saved in salaries re-directed towards housing. The agency acts more as a brokerage these days, capitalizing on the non-profits to extend its services.

The real jewel in Tampa's solution to its housing woes is the involvement of the non-profits. "Non-profits can deliver housing much more economically than government can," says Noriega. "We couldn't deliver 10 percent of what the non-profits deliver. It behooves us to educate them to deliver housing." The difference, he says, is volunteer labor and less bureaucracy.

Tampa no longer accepts donations of housing, instead directing the donor to the non-profits. This saves the city time and money it would have to expand in protecting the donated property as a city asset. "Non-profits can do turnaround in 30 to 45 days with a minimum expense of 5 percent of what the city would spend," according to Noriega. One in every three affordable housing units in Tampa is now delivered by a non-profit. They package loans and guide applicants in everything from cleaning up their credit to preparing for the tribulations of home ownership. For their trouble, the non-profits get a small development fee from the city and can offer housing at 25 percent less than appraisal value.

As the dollars for affordable housing in Tampa multiply, the Tampa United Methodist Center (TUMC) - like the banks - is beginning to see the potential for profits it can direct to other services. TUMC is even expanding from rehabs into new construction and development, taking over vacant city land and even purchasing properties through the Resolution Trust Corporation with Challenge Fund dollars.

In 1986, the last year Bob Martinez (now U.S. drug czar) was mayor of Tampa, the city rehabilitated and/or sold 110 housing units. By the time Challenge Fund I was exhausted late last year, the city had turned over 2,714 units in three-and-a-half years - 989 in 1990 alone - ranging from single to multi-family and including adult congregate living facilities.

"If this is not the best thing this administration has done, it's right there at the top and it's helping thousands of people," says Mayor Freedman.

Bankers are equally ecstatic. When the call went out for commitments to Challenge Fund II, the city was presented with twice as much money - $28-million from 18 lenders for the next five years - than its first request netted.

"What really makes this different is the teamwork," says Barnett's Hollis. "It's the only time I'm comfortable taking off my competitor's hat and putting on my team hat. This is a good program, very efficiently operated. It's a shame we don't have one of these in every city in the country. The best way to improve the pride in a community is through pride of home ownership. This makes that happen."

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