Posted on 08/01/2002 1:03:11 PM PDT by PJ-Comix
CLEVELAND -- "You are lying under oath," the congressman roars at the trial witness.
Prosecutors object. The judge admonishes. The jury departs. And Rep. James A. Traficant Jr., defending himself against charges of taking bribes and kickbacks, explains again that he is not a lawyer and is unschooled in courtroom procedure.
But after being elected nine times to Congress, he does know how to score points with ordinary people like the 12 who will render a verdict.
"I wish he would have had an attorney, but I think he has probably endeared himself to the jury," said Sam Vorhies, a steelworker from Akron who has come to watch and offer support. "He comes across well."
In a trial that seems part "Sopranos" and part "Three Stooges," the 60-year-old Traficant is arguing for more than his political life. Charged with 10 felony counts, he faces prison sentences of up to 63 years and fines of up to $2 million if convicted.
The trial began Feb. 5, and the prosecution rested Thursday. Acrimony and absurdity pervade nearly every session.
"I object to this carnival," Traficant declared last week after his outburst at the witness.
"This is not a sandbox," U.S. District Judge Lesley Walls warned after Traficant tangled with prosecutors as he opened his defense.
"I don't want the prosecution to ever speak to me again," Traficant pouted last week.
"Oh, stop it," retorted the grandmotherly judge.
During his nine terms in the House of Representatives, the colorful lawmaker has created a national image of eccentricity.
His haircut -- puffy on the top, flat on the sides and back, covering his ears, and accentuated with silver sideburns -- is familiar to viewers of C-SPAN. On Capitol Hill and in homes with cable TV, Traficant is known for his offbeat, one-minute speeches that always end with "Beam me up, Mr. Speaker."
Although a lifelong Democrat, he voted for Dennis Hastert, an Illinois Republican, for speaker of the House. As punishment, his Democratic colleagues stripped him of assignments, making him the only member of Congress not serving on a committee.
At his trial, Traficant wears his trademark cowboy boots, bell-bottom trousers and skinny black ties. Although a bit stooped, he retains the broad shoulders and graceful prowl of an athlete.
In Ohio's Mahoning Valley, where Friday night football is a religion, Traficant's legend began when he was a three-sport star at Cardinal Mooney High School. He later played quarterback at the University of Pittsburgh, where he is remembered for throwing passes to Mike Ditka, an all-time great tight end, and for stubbornly changing plays sent in by his coaches.
But now, in perhaps his toughest contest, Traficant has faced a succession of witnesses testifying how he took bribes, or ordered aides to kick back part of their government salaries, or put staffers to work on his Ohio horse farm at government expense.
The Goliath of Youngstown
"In the dominion of Youngstown, Congressman Traficant is a political Goliath," U.S. Attorney Craig Morford told the jury in his opening statement. The politician "uses his hammer of power and influence . . . to take advantage of others for his own personal profit."
Traficant maintains that he is the victim of a government vendetta that began in 1983 when he defended himself in a racketeering trial and won acquittal. He was sheriff of Mahoning County then, and charged with taking $163,000 in bribes from the Youngstown mob. Although captured on tape completing a deal with Charlie "the Crab" Carabbia, Traficant convinced the jury that he had been conducting his own sting operation.
That courtroom victory propelled him to election to Congress in 1984.
This case, too, has overtones of the organized crime that has become as symbolic of Traficant's district as its steel mills and ethnic neighborhoods.
John J. Cafaro, whose wealthy Youngstown family builds shopping malls around the country, testified that he gave Traficant a $13,000 bribe for help in business matters. Traficant vehemently denies the allegation and says Cafaro has been pressured into lying by prosecutors.
"J.J. is trying to keep his ass out of jail," Traficant told reporters. Cafaro did admit lying in another racketeering case, and is cooperating with the government in this one.
In trying to discredit Cafaro's testimony, Traficant asked about a time Lenine "Lenny" Strollo wanted Cafaro to intercede with Sen. Edward Kennedy, D-Mass., for help in setting up a casino in Puerto Rico.
"Lenny Strollo is the godfather of the Youngstown mob," explained Cafaro, adding that he did not speak about the matter to Kennedy, whom he described as a family friend.
But Traficant's cross-examinations sometimes backfire.
The congressman asked Anthony Bucci, another old friend turned prosecution witness, why he had testified that he feared Traficant.
Bucci replied that he had heard that the congressman had once hired a hit man to kill a former girlfriend.
In the courtroom, a spectator sneezes. Traficant stops questioning a witness. He turns and says, "God bless you."
The congressman wears his blue-collar background as a badge of honor. He is the son of a truck driver, he repeatedly informs the jury. His wife is a working beautician.
He sits alone at the defense table. He lugs in his boxes of court papers. There are three or four lawyers at the prosecution table, and Traficant plays up the contrast.
"Don't you ever try to intimidate me," he hollers at Morford. "This man is trying to intimidate me."
Morford argues to the judge that Traficant is improperly appealing directly to the jury and purposely ignoring legal procedure.
After Wells dismissed his motion for a directed acquittal, Traficant accused her of being part of a conspiracy to "screw a targeted member of Congress." Then he began presenting the defense case.
Reporters are taking odds on whether Traficant will take the stand in his own behalf, questioning himself as a witness. Some say it's a sure thing; others say chances are 50-50.
In Youngstown, folks are dead sure that it is too early to count their congressman out.
"My man is going to get off -- no jail time, no fines," predicted Eloise Hill.
A Character Forged In "Steel Valley"
The troubles and triumphs of Jim Traficant were forged in Ohio's "Steel Valley," a region that has long lived by its own rules.
Youngstown and other communities of the Mahoning Valley were settled by immigrants from Eastern Europe, Italy, and Ireland. Their lives centered on neighborhoods and the Catholic church. Their livelihoods depended on the steel mills whose giant furnaces kept the sky orange and hazy. Getting a job sometimes depended on an intermediary who might expect a favor in return.
The work was hard, but the union wages were good. Youngstown was accommodating. When sweaty steelworkers getting off the graveyard shift wanted a beer and a shot a 7 a.m., there were bars open to pour.
Organized crime oversaw the gambling and prostitution. Mob families frequently fought over the territory. In 1963, the Saturday Evening Post published an article calling Youngstown "Crimetown, USA." Contract killings were so common that a car bomb set off by an ignition key was dubbed a "Youngstown tune-up."
But in the 1970s, the steel mills closed. The Valley lost 40,000 jobs. Youngstown's population has fallen to 80,000, half of what it was four decades ago. The city's business district is now marked with boarded-up storefronts.
Traficant's rise to power coincided with the economic decline. As sheriff, he went to jail for three days for refusing to foreclose on the homes of laid-off steelworkers.
His constituents still remember.
At the Hub, a coffee shop in downtown Youngstown, Nabeel Kandah laments that business is so bad that his family is trying to sell the restaurant they have operated for two decades. Traficant drops by occasionally, he said, and is always welcomed warmly.
"He is one of the only persons who ever did anything for this city since the steel mills closed," said Kandah. "He brought federal money to the Valley.
"If they dig into anybody's business deep enough they'll find something. So he gets his barn painted for free?" said Kandah with a shrug. "I think the government is out to get him for being a candid person who speaks his mind."
Ohio's Democratic Party has disowned him, so Traficant has vowed to seek re-election as an independent. Even those who believe that he will lose offer only restrained criticism.
"He's done some good things for the community, but now he's taken us three steps backward. This publicity can't be good for us," said Rosemary Marsco, a sergeant with the Youngstown State University police. "He's old school -- doing things the way they used to be done."
Fernando Riccioni is also old school. "Favors" are a means of doing business in Youngstown and do not equate with "bribes," he explained. In this system, his friends -- who include politicians and journalists -- do not pay for the thick-crusted pies at his Fernando's Wedgewood Pizza, where the product is widely acknowledged as "the best in the Valley."
Traficant is a friend, said Riccioni, 71, who has prospered since coming to Youngstown in 1961 from Italy. "I like the guy. He's open. He says what he thinks."
So some years back, when lawyers from the Wedgwood china company sent a letter protesting the name of his pizza parlor, the congressman took care of the problem. And when Riccioni was named National Pizza Man of the Year, Traficant noted the honor on the House floor and sent a copy of his speech from the Congressional Record.
The only favor he ever provided to Traficant, Riccioni said, was to give him some empty yellow plastic buckets that once held floor wax. The congressman could use the buckets to feed oats to his horses.
"If your friends need something, you should help," Riccioni explained.
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