Legal Trouble in Lake City, March 18, 2011
Michael and his blonde drove upstate to visit a friend in Jacksonville. This blonde being the bimbo Victor caught with a baggie of prescription pills, I urged caution. "Yeah sure, dad," Michael says. So what does he do? He leaves Jacksonville on Monday evening, and he's travelling west on I-10 in northern Florida, what is typically referred to as "cracker country" and he gets pulled over, the locals clocking him at 95 mph.
Here's the kicker: The bimbo's snuffing out a joint as Michael pulls over. This is payday in redneck country--a pungent cloud of reefer greeting the cops as Michael's window slides down. The dumbshit has a Sig in his glove-box--not a major issue in Florida, but this baby is unregistered, and he's carrying 4,000 in cash--a tad too much for the locals to comprehend. Plus the bimbo is packing her pharmaceuticals. It's not good. Michael calls me at midnight, and I get my lawyer out of bed. First thing in the morning he's on top of it, but now the police in Lake City know who I am and they don't like "Mafia types". Frankly, I don't think they care for high-powered Jewish lawyers either.
My lawyer is charging a fortune and my son is sitting in the Lake City Jail, and the prosecutor is preparing to slam him when I place a call to a man in Tallahassee whose name I will not reveal. Suddenly, it's all a misunderstanding, and they work out a plea deal with a hefty fine and Michael is free. He's apologetic and I'm pissed. I say to my lawyer, "What am I paying you for?"
He says, "Lou, I haven't your means or methods. I have a code of ethics I have to abide by."
Yeah right. Go figure. A lawyer worried about ethics.
Victor's Birthday. Took the family to Trattoria Romana to celebrate. This Boca restaurant is one of my favorites. Every time I come in the bar-manager, Allen, and his lovely assistant, Lorraine, greet me like I'm family. Allen knows his stuff--he has to, Tratttoria Romana has one of the best wine-cellars in town. Allen remembers what I like, and sure enough, as soon as we're seated, he had the Antinori sent over.
One of the best things about Trattoria Romana (beside the food, which is excellent), is the fact that it's all locals--no sunburned tourists in flip-flops and beach shirts getting sticker shock here. It's a classy place, with a bricked-barreled strip on the bar ceiling providing the feel of a genuine Tuscan cellar. They put us in the back room and kept it private. Angie and Stella had baked a cake for Victor, and when the waiter carried it in, he got all misty-eyed. Victor is such a sentimental guy it's easy to underestimate him. Not that I ever would. He works for me, remember.
