result.
Not so with Yablonsky, who was judgmental. Someone who understands and believes in the law doesn’t operate the way Yablonsky did. It was as if he “knew” someone was guilty even before he had gathered any evidence. That’s not the way the system is set up, but unfortunately, it’s the way a lot of these guys operated. It made for great press. Yablonsky kept talking about Spilotro and the mob, but he never built a case against Tony. He used the media to get people excited and to act like he was doing the Lord’s work, instead of solving the rapes, murders, and robberies that were taking place. It was easier simply to call people names.
Don’t get me wrong: the system is supposed to be adversarial. Not everyone in law enforcement was a bad guy, and not everyone was abusing the system. But too often those in charge were allowing abuses to take place in “the interest of justice.”
I didn’t see it that way. I defended Tony Spilotro and, over a ten-year period, I was able to ensure that he didn’t spend any time in jail because I was able to show that the government wasn’t doing its job. When I did that, I saw it as protecting every American from similar abuse.
I can remember the newspaper headlines: “Spilotro says this . . . Spilotro says that.” In fact, Tony never said anything. I did all the talking, and he was a great client that way. He let me be his mouthpiece. I genuinely enjoyed the company of guys like Tony and Nick. And the bottom line was that by representing them, I got a chance to keep the system honest.
In law enforcement circles, however, I was perceived as the bad guy. And somebody like Yablonsky, who—it seemed to me—didn’t care about the law, was the good guy. That never made sense to me, and it still doesn’t.
CHAPTER 6
HEAVYWEIGHTS I HAVE KNOWN
T wo of my favorite sports are baseball and boxing, and my criminal practice offered me opportunities to move in both those worlds.
In 1980, the Phillies played Kansas City in the World Series. Nick Civella, who by that point was one of my major criminal clients, arranged for me and my family to travel to Kansas City to take in a World Series game. The last time the Phillies had played in a World Series was 1950, and before that it was 1915—and they lost both times. So this was a very rare event and one that, as a longtime Phillies fan, I really looked forward to.
In 1964, the year Carolyn and I moved to Las Vegas, the Phillies had suffered one of the greatest all-time collapses in baseball history. They were leading the National League (back then there were no divisions, just a National and an American League) by six and one-half games, with just twelve games to play. Gene Mauch, the “Little General,” was a genius manager who looked to bring the Phillies their first National League pennant since the days of the 1950 Whiz Kids. Then the bottom fell out. We were in Las Vegas, following it from a distance, because there wasn’t the kind of daily national sports coverage or cable television network coverage that we have today. We would readabout it in the paper and follow the sports reports on television and the radio. Still, it was agony, although certainly not as painful as it must have been for those in Philadelphia. Mauch’s team lost ten straight games, and the St. Louis Cardinals got redhot and won the pennant.
Phillies fans like me had been suffering ever since, and now the 1980 team—including Mike Schmidt, Pete Rose, Steve Carlton, Bob Boone—was in the World Series. Finally, we had arrived. So when Nick Civella asked if I wanted to bring my family out for a game, I jumped at the chance.
Carolyn and I and the kids, Oscar Jr., Ross, Eric, and Cara, were at the airport waiting for the plane to Kansas City. It turned out that Tommy Lasorda, the great manager of the Los Angeles Dodgers, and Bill Russell, the team’s shortstop, were waiting for the same plane. I sent the kids over to get their autographs. Both men
Not so with Yablonsky, who was judgmental. Someone who understands and believes in the law doesn’t operate the way Yablonsky did. It was as if he “knew” someone was guilty even before he had gathered any evidence. That’s not the way the system is set up, but unfortunately, it’s the way a lot of these guys operated. It made for great press. Yablonsky kept talking about Spilotro and the mob, but he never built a case against Tony. He used the media to get people excited and to act like he was doing the Lord’s work, instead of solving the rapes, murders, and robberies that were taking place. It was easier simply to call people names.
Don’t get me wrong: the system is supposed to be adversarial. Not everyone in law enforcement was a bad guy, and not everyone was abusing the system. But too often those in charge were allowing abuses to take place in “the interest of justice.”
I didn’t see it that way. I defended Tony Spilotro and, over a ten-year period, I was able to ensure that he didn’t spend any time in jail because I was able to show that the government wasn’t doing its job. When I did that, I saw it as protecting every American from similar abuse.
I can remember the newspaper headlines: “Spilotro says this . . . Spilotro says that.” In fact, Tony never said anything. I did all the talking, and he was a great client that way. He let me be his mouthpiece. I genuinely enjoyed the company of guys like Tony and Nick. And the bottom line was that by representing them, I got a chance to keep the system honest.
In law enforcement circles, however, I was perceived as the bad guy. And somebody like Yablonsky, who—it seemed to me—didn’t care about the law, was the good guy. That never made sense to me, and it still doesn’t.
CHAPTER 6
HEAVYWEIGHTS I HAVE KNOWN
T wo of my favorite sports are baseball and boxing, and my criminal practice offered me opportunities to move in both those worlds.
In 1980, the Phillies played Kansas City in the World Series. Nick Civella, who by that point was one of my major criminal clients, arranged for me and my family to travel to Kansas City to take in a World Series game. The last time the Phillies had played in a World Series was 1950, and before that it was 1915—and they lost both times. So this was a very rare event and one that, as a longtime Phillies fan, I really looked forward to.
In 1964, the year Carolyn and I moved to Las Vegas, the Phillies had suffered one of the greatest all-time collapses in baseball history. They were leading the National League (back then there were no divisions, just a National and an American League) by six and one-half games, with just twelve games to play. Gene Mauch, the “Little General,” was a genius manager who looked to bring the Phillies their first National League pennant since the days of the 1950 Whiz Kids. Then the bottom fell out. We were in Las Vegas, following it from a distance, because there wasn’t the kind of daily national sports coverage or cable television network coverage that we have today. We would readabout it in the paper and follow the sports reports on television and the radio. Still, it was agony, although certainly not as painful as it must have been for those in Philadelphia. Mauch’s team lost ten straight games, and the St. Louis Cardinals got redhot and won the pennant.
Phillies fans like me had been suffering ever since, and now the 1980 team—including Mike Schmidt, Pete Rose, Steve Carlton, Bob Boone—was in the World Series. Finally, we had arrived. So when Nick Civella asked if I wanted to bring my family out for a game, I jumped at the chance.
Carolyn and I and the kids, Oscar Jr., Ross, Eric, and Cara, were at the airport waiting for the plane to Kansas City. It turned out that Tommy Lasorda, the great manager of the Los Angeles Dodgers, and Bill Russell, the team’s shortstop, were waiting for the same plane. I sent the kids over to get their autographs. Both men
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