Being Oscar by Oscar Goodman Read Free Book Online

much of a defense. The car was stolen, and he was driving it. He had crossed several state lines, which was a federal offense.
    I got a call and was told to go to an address on South Fifteenth Street. I was so nervous that I accepted Carolyn’s suggestion that she drive me—very brave of me. I knocked on the door, and the guy who answered handed me an envelope.
    “There’s three dimes in there, kid,” he said in a hoarse, gruff voice. “You’d better win the case.”
    I didn’t know it at the time, but the fellow who handed me the envelope was Bob Martin, probably the most astute odds maker in the whole country. He set the sports line that everyone in the world followed. Apparently he was tight with Horowitz.
    I returned to the car, and as Carolyn drove around the corner, I opened the envelope. I had never seen so much money at one time in my life. Three dimes is street talk for three thousand dollars; thirty one-hundred-dollar bills. That was a fortune to me.
    This was my first federal case, which was held at the old federal courthouse on Stewart Street. To be honest, I had no idea what I was going to do for a defense.
    The case was set for February 14, Valentine’s Day. I didn’t want it to turn into another massacre. Horowitz flew into townto meet me the night before the trial was to begin. He came to my office with Bob Martin. One look, and I immediately understood why friends referred to Horowitz as “the Professor.” He looked like an Ivy League academician, impeccably dressed. Nothing flashy. No one wore an overcoat in Las Vegas, but Horowitz wore a Chesterfield and a Homburg. And when he spoke, he sounded like a teacher. He would pause to make a point, and everything he said had a purpose. During the meeting, they reminded me again how important it was for me to win the case.
    “He’s my brother,” Horowitz said.
    “No problem,” I replied, again not having any idea what I was going to do.
    I was a nervous wreck that night. I couldn’t sleep. The bed was soaked with sweat, at least on my side. When I went to the courthouse very early the next morning, I saw the judge’s secretary and said I wanted to have a non-jury trial. I figured I had a better shot trying to talk my way around things without a jury. But she told me the judge had summoned a jury panel for the trial, and the case would start at 9 A . M . I panicked. I went outside and threw up on the courthouse steps—interestingly enough, now the site of the Mob Museum. The client was the brother of some underworld big shot, and I was told again and again that I had to win it.
    The case wasn’t complicated. The prosecution called two witnesses, the owner of the stolen car and the cop who arrested the younger Horowitz behind the wheel of the vehicle. I did something I don’t do very often: I put my client on the stand, as well as his friend who was a passenger in the car at the time of the arrest. I had them both dressed like prep school kids, with rep ties, white shirts, blue blazers, and khakis. Each told a story about having borrowed the car. The prosecution witnesses, the car owner, and the cop, contradicted their testimony. That wasthe entire case, which lasted only one day. The bottom line was whether the jury chose to believe the boys or the prosecutor’s witnesses.
    We left the courthouse after closing arguments that afternoon and walked back to my office.
    “Is it better when the jury comes back with a quick verdict, or is it better when they’re out for a long time?” my client asked me.
    “The quicker they return, the worse it usually is for the defense,” I said.
    Twenty minutes later, we got back to the office and the phone was ringing.
    The jury had a verdict. I figured this can’t be good.
    We hustled back to the courthouse.
    When they announced their decision, I couldn’t believe it: Not guilty. Either the jury had enough reasonable doubt to acquit, or they might have just felt sorry for me. I could have tried that case a