Foley approved my application and sent federal marshals in. They took the thing off the wall. I think it was one of the few times—maybe the only time—a federal judge issued a search warrant based on an application from a citizen.
I made the plaque public, figuring what’s good for the goose is good for the gander. I wanted people to know how these guys operated. I think it demonstrated the arrogance of the StrikeForce, the FBI, and the pieces of garbage in Washington who backed up everything they did.
When I first got to Las Vegas, it wasn’t like that. The sheriff back then, the guy who headed the Metropolitan Police Department, was Ralph Lamb. He was a throwback to another time. He had been a rancher and a calf roper, a legitimate tough guy. This was his town, and he was the law.
He’s now the subject of a television show written by Nicholas Pileggi, in which Dennis Quaid stars as Sheriff Lamb.
One of my favorite clients, Nick Civella, used to sneak into town all the time. Nick just loved Las Vegas. There was a restaurant, the Venetian, that made pork necks in vinegar just the way he liked them. He’d fly out for the food. He didn’t care much about gambling, but he loved those pork necks. Sheriff Lamb would have his people waiting at the airport to turn Nick around and send him back.
There were probably two people in my life who should have been living in the days of ancient Rome. One was J. R. Russo from Boston, who I’ll talk about a little later. The other was Nick Civella.
Nick was balding with white hair, thick lips, a prominent nose, and eyeglasses as thick as coke bottles. But there was just something about him. When he walked into a room, you got the sense that everyone should stand at attention. He had more street sense than anyone I ever saw.
Nick was intuitive, and he was also very well read in the classics and history. He was an intellectual. If Nick had gotten his hair cut, he could have been the president of IBM or AT&T. He would quote Shakespeare or Cicero. And he was around people who weren’t intellectuals, certainly people who weren’t going toengage him in an academic discussion. He liked to call me on the phone to talk about these kinds of things; Nick would wax eloquent about the classics. Or if he saw a movie, he would evaluate the script and the acting. We shared mutual interests along those lines. But in his world, people were at least smart enough to know not to mess with him.
Nick wanted me to file a civil rights lawsuit against Sheriff Lamb and the Metropolitan Police because they were denying his access to Las Vegas. I told him that before I did, I wanted to sit down with the sheriff. So I contacted Ralph Lamb and asked if we could meet. He said that he’d be at my law office at 5:30 the next day.
“Fine, I’ll see you tomorrow night,” I said.
“No,” he said. “Five-thirty in the morning.”
When I got to my office early the next day, he was already waiting at the front door. He walked in and sat down in my chair behind my desk, bigger than life. Before we started talking, he felt around under the desk. I think he was looking for a bug. I told him I had no intention of recording our conversation, and he said neither did he.
We hit it off. He said he didn’t want any trouble, and I told him Nick Civella wasn’t going to cause any trouble. He just liked those pork necks, and he wanted to come into town without having cops waiting for him at the airport ready to send him home. Nick Civella and Ralph Lamb never met, but they came from the same era. You gave your word and you stuck by it. I promised the sheriff that Nick wouldn’t be a problem. And Lamb said as long as that was the case, his people wouldn’t stop him from coming.
It was like those old cowboy movies where the sheriff has everybody check their guns when they come into town. That’s what Las Vegas was always about, and Ralph Lamb understood that. And I think law enforcement was better served as a
I made the plaque public, figuring what’s good for the goose is good for the gander. I wanted people to know how these guys operated. I think it demonstrated the arrogance of the StrikeForce, the FBI, and the pieces of garbage in Washington who backed up everything they did.
When I first got to Las Vegas, it wasn’t like that. The sheriff back then, the guy who headed the Metropolitan Police Department, was Ralph Lamb. He was a throwback to another time. He had been a rancher and a calf roper, a legitimate tough guy. This was his town, and he was the law.
He’s now the subject of a television show written by Nicholas Pileggi, in which Dennis Quaid stars as Sheriff Lamb.
One of my favorite clients, Nick Civella, used to sneak into town all the time. Nick just loved Las Vegas. There was a restaurant, the Venetian, that made pork necks in vinegar just the way he liked them. He’d fly out for the food. He didn’t care much about gambling, but he loved those pork necks. Sheriff Lamb would have his people waiting at the airport to turn Nick around and send him back.
There were probably two people in my life who should have been living in the days of ancient Rome. One was J. R. Russo from Boston, who I’ll talk about a little later. The other was Nick Civella.
Nick was balding with white hair, thick lips, a prominent nose, and eyeglasses as thick as coke bottles. But there was just something about him. When he walked into a room, you got the sense that everyone should stand at attention. He had more street sense than anyone I ever saw.
Nick was intuitive, and he was also very well read in the classics and history. He was an intellectual. If Nick had gotten his hair cut, he could have been the president of IBM or AT&T. He would quote Shakespeare or Cicero. And he was around people who weren’t intellectuals, certainly people who weren’t going toengage him in an academic discussion. He liked to call me on the phone to talk about these kinds of things; Nick would wax eloquent about the classics. Or if he saw a movie, he would evaluate the script and the acting. We shared mutual interests along those lines. But in his world, people were at least smart enough to know not to mess with him.
Nick wanted me to file a civil rights lawsuit against Sheriff Lamb and the Metropolitan Police because they were denying his access to Las Vegas. I told him that before I did, I wanted to sit down with the sheriff. So I contacted Ralph Lamb and asked if we could meet. He said that he’d be at my law office at 5:30 the next day.
“Fine, I’ll see you tomorrow night,” I said.
“No,” he said. “Five-thirty in the morning.”
When I got to my office early the next day, he was already waiting at the front door. He walked in and sat down in my chair behind my desk, bigger than life. Before we started talking, he felt around under the desk. I think he was looking for a bug. I told him I had no intention of recording our conversation, and he said neither did he.
We hit it off. He said he didn’t want any trouble, and I told him Nick Civella wasn’t going to cause any trouble. He just liked those pork necks, and he wanted to come into town without having cops waiting for him at the airport ready to send him home. Nick Civella and Ralph Lamb never met, but they came from the same era. You gave your word and you stuck by it. I promised the sheriff that Nick wouldn’t be a problem. And Lamb said as long as that was the case, his people wouldn’t stop him from coming.
It was like those old cowboy movies where the sheriff has everybody check their guns when they come into town. That’s what Las Vegas was always about, and Ralph Lamb understood that. And I think law enforcement was better served as a
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