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END PAGE. DON’T ERASE!C M Y K 70101SMM06201 THE PLAIN DEALER SUNDAY MAGAZINE Sunday, June 20, 2004

2 | THE PLAIN DEALER SUNDAY MAGAZINE | JUNE 20, 2004

JUNE 20, 2004

The Plain Dealer Sunday Magazine ispublished weekly by The Plain DealerPublishing Co., Plain Dealer Plaza, 1801Superior Ave., Cleveland, OH 44114, 216-999-4800. © 2004.

STAFF

EditorEllen Stein [email protected]

Assistant EditorJanet [email protected]

Staff WritersChristopher [email protected] K. McIntyre [email protected] Simakis [email protected]

Design DirectorsSam [email protected] Sharon [email protected]

Advertising SalesMary [email protected]

6 North By Northeast The Amazing Spider-Man;Going to the Max(im)

Edited by Janet Fillmore

17 Attic Finds Take a Spin on This FerrisWheel

By Leslie G. Marting

19 The Back Burner The Coolest Cakes

By Cinda WilliamsChima

23 Sunday Crosswords Father Time

By Merl Reagle

New York Times

Edited by Will Shortz

ON THE COVERJudge Timothy McGinty listensto attorneys during a trial in hisCuyahoga County courtroom. Photograph by Marvin Fong.

Cover Story8 Judicial Cannon

Judge Timothy McGinty aims toreform the justice system in CuyahogaCounty by firing away at lawyers,fellow judges and anyone else whodoesn’t agree with his logic. Story by Michael K. McIntyre Photographs by Marvin Fong

A valuable commodity.(page 17)

The Plain Dealer Sunday Magazine

MAILBOX

We Want To Hear From You! Our e-mail address is [email protected]. (You also can write us at The Plain Dealer Sunday Magazine, Plain Dealer Plaza, 1801 Superior Ave., Cleveland, OH 44114.) Include your name, address and daytime telephone number.

To give all a chance to be heard, we reserve the right to edit for length and clarity. Letters may be published in any medium.

Justice for All? I want to commend the magazine for the

two-part series on Bob Kreischer (Road toRuin, May 30 and June 6). I can’t rememberwhen reading something has caused me tobreak out in tears many times. This shows howmessed up our justice system is. One judge willgive murderers and rapists a slap on the wristand another will throw the book at someonelike Bob.

Thank you for an excellent, thought-pro-voking article.

Kathy Rehus Seven Hills

As a criminal defense attorney, I read theRoad to Ruin series with interest. What I fear isthat readers will believe that Bob Kreischer’sstory is an aberration. The injustices claimed byMr. Kreischer are largely procedures writteninto law as a result of our society’s need to gettough on crime, and they happen every day.

The rules that govern criminal procedureallow and encourage prosecutors to withhold

evidence. Mr. Kreischer would have been per-mitted to discover the police report and otherinformation if the “victim” had sued him formoney, but he was prohibited from receiving itin his prosecution. Why do we allow a freer ex-

change of information when money is involvedrather than freedom?

In 1996, Ohio’s criminal law was rewritten toprovide for mandatory sentences and presump-tions in favor of imprisonment that remove

Road to Ruin: An Overwhelming ResponseTo date, more than 800 readers have called, written and e-mailed in regard to the maga-

zine’s two-part series, Road to Ruin. More are contacting us every day from across the stateand beyond Ohio’s borders.

Readers told us that the story of Bob Kreischer’s conviction, his fight to clear his nameand his imprisonment sparked anger and tears — and prompted them to act. They sent let-ters to Governor Bob Taft, asking that he grant Kreischer clemency, and to Linton Lewis,the Perry County judge who sentenced Kreischer to two years in prison, urging him togrant the man an early release from prison.

Overwhelmingly, they said the story frightened them because Kreischer could have beentheir husband, their brother, their son. Some told us they saw themselves in Kreischer.

Readers from all over Ohio offered their prayers and wanted to know how they couldhelp. (See “Contact Information,” pg. 3.)

Regardless of whether they agreed with Kreischer’s decision to throw a punch at his for-mer neighbor, Terry Wooten, most believed that the American justice system failed BobKreischer and that he should be home with his family. — THE EDITORS

2 Mailbox

5 Essay Reaching Dad’s Standard

By Susan K. DeBow

Departments

MA

RV

IN F

ON

G

“Being a judge is thegreatest job in the world.

You see heroes in thecourtroom; people testifying

under great pressure.”— Judge Timothy McGinty

(page 8)

McGinty (right) walks to the courthouseafter a morning workout.



Judicial Cannon

Judge Timothy McGintyaims to reform thejustice system inCuyahoga County byfiring away at lawyers,fellow judges andanyone else who doesn’tagree with his logic.

Story by MICHAEL K. McINTYRE

Photographs by MARVIN FONG


JUNE 20, 2004 | THE PLAIN DEALER SUNDAY MAGAZINE | 9

THE HEAT IS RELENTLESS on the marathon route in Erie, Pennsylvania,

and so is marathoner Timothy McGinty. The Cuyahoga County Common Pleas

judge — who has run dozens of races like this one — struggles through the

humidity and monotony of the course.

Under a searing September sun, he refuses to concede.

Ahead, Tom Asplin — who raced out to a 24-minute lead over McGinty at the three-

quarter mark — is in big trouble.

His will is not as strong, the desire to run draining with every drop of sweat.

“What the hell was I thinking?” Asplin says to himself. He’d been too preoccupied with his

wife’s pregnancy — their first child — to train properly. He was tired and unprepared, and his

personal best marathon time of 3:04 was a fantasy now.

On the bench,McGinty (above)often takes anavuncular tonewith defendants,many of whom aredrug addicts:“You’ve got to getoff this stuff. Fighthard. Work at it. …They’ll try to talkyou back onto themethadone at thetreatment center.Don’t take it. It’sjust as bad as theheroin. It keepsyou addicted totheir program.You’ve been here a week. You don’tneed it.”



With four miles to go, Asplin’s stridesurrenders and he begins to walk.

“I’m done,” he mutters. From behind he hears a voice, Tim Mc-

Ginty’s voice. It doesn’t soothe and supportlike the cries of encouragement from thesidelines. It shoots through him like a sniper’sbullet.

“Hey, fat ass,” the 52-year-old McGintyfires. “I’m older than your father and I’m goingto beat your ass.”

McGinty is a plodding runner. He’ll neverwin a marathon, but he’ll never quit one,either. He has closed the 24-minute gap andhe’s ready to pass.

“Did you come all the way up here to run afour-hour marathon? I’m going to beat fourhours, and if you got off your sluggish fat ass,you could do it, too,” says McGinty, thick as anold oak and just as coarse.

“Who the heck does this guy think he is?”Asplin wonders as McGinty, mouth movingfaster than his feet, opens up a lead.

He doesn’t know whether to tackle theloudmouth or lie down and cry.

“How ’bout I kick your ass?” Asplin spits atthe shirtless judge.

McGinty has him right where he wantshim.

It’s a mile to the finish line. “How ’bout you catch me?” McGinty snarls. The runner in Asplin is awakened. He takes

off after the judge, forcing McGinty to step uphis pace.

They cross the finish line together, McGintyat 3:58.58; Asplin, at 3:58.59.

Under four hours with a minute to spare. McGinty, met at the finish by his high-

school-aged son, Patrick, sees Asplin headinghis way. “I might need your help here, son,” hesays. “I don’t know if this guy’s coming to kickmy ass or shake my hand.”

Asplin, toe to toe with his antagonist, lookshim in the eye.

And shakes his hand.

ALOT OF PEOPLE want to shake TimMcGinty’s hand. In his camp arevictims he fought for during his decadeas the county’s most dogged big-case

prosecutor, friends who have his loyalty andappreciate his glibness, voters who love his no-nonsense judicial style, and political allies whoadmire his fearlessness.

In an era where characters in public life arescarce, McGinty is a character with character.

Yet it’s possible to line a marathon routewith people who would rather punch him inthe nose than shake his hand. They see hisconstant carping about the inadequacies ofjustice in Cuyahoga County as sanctimon-iousness on display and his “motivationaltechniques” as another excuse to bully, andthey believe his true goal is to build himself upby tearing others down.

They wish, in vain, that he’d just shut up. McGinty’s detractors include defense law-

yers who went against him as a prosecutorand those who now resent the aggressivenesswith which he operates as a judge; fellowjudges who are often the targets of his pointedattacks; and, of course, the bad guys, especiallythe ones who don’t own up to what they’vedone and tell the judge how sorry they are.

When McGinty ran for judge 12 years ago,he passed out buttons that read: “ElectMcGinty. A tough prosecutor for judge. Takeback your courts.”

He’s still fighting to take them back. He’srunning and barking at his fellow judges torun faster, too.

It’s not winning him many friends in thecourthouse, but McGinty doesn’t mind.

“I could start a fight in church,” he says. Aself-satisfied smile spreads across his face.

McGinty (above)spends many of hislunch hours runningthrough downtown.Here, he’s flankedon his right by JayGallagher, an assistant countyprosecutor, and on his left by Walt Camino, apublic defender.Notoriously cheap,McGinty says helikes to look forloose change whenhe runs.



IT’S NO SURPRISE that McGinty is assubtle as a head butt. He was a maniac onthe football field and the wrestling mat inhigh school and college — at St. Edward

and Heidelberg — often wrestling up a classand taking on heavyweights, though at 200pounds, they outweighed him by plenty.

Even now, at 53, his daily routine of weightlifting in the morning and running in theafternoon gives him the lethal combination ofstrength and endurance. He stands about 5feet 10, and he can bowl anyone over, if not onthe first try then on the hundred and first. Heisn’t particularly mean looking, though. Hisprominent ears and slight lisp soften hiscountenance and he smiles easily, usually whenhe thinks he’s said something funny. Thosewho take him on find nothing to laugh at; he’sas easy to move as a tree stump.

It is a testament to his popularity with thevoting public that despite his many enemies,none has come forward to run against him inthis election year.

Six years ago, when opponents recruitedlawyer Teddy Sliwinski, McGinty drilled him,even though Sliwinski enjoyed a nationalplatform on the Howard Stern radio show:Stern allowed Sliwinski to campaign live on airbecause McGinty years earlier had used apublic forum — a sentencing hearing — toblast the shock jock while meting out punish-ment to a WMMS employee who had cut acable and interrupted Stern’s show on com-peting WNCX.

Earlier this month, on the 10th anniversaryof the cable-cutting incident, Stern proved howmemorable McGinty can be. A decade soft-ened nothing; Stern blasted the judge again.

As a prosecutor, McGinty was memorable,too. He was tough, a living, breathing snarl of aman in sensibly priced suits. He bludgeoneddefendants, catching the high-profile casesbecause legendary prosecutor John T. Corrigan— whom he idolized for his principles —allowed him to have his pick.

Carmen Marino, the former first assistantcounty prosecutor, says McGinty succeededthen, as he does now, because he works harderthan anyone else.

“I’ve tried a lot of cases, some pretty bigones, too. Say there might be 10 witnesses. I’dhave a file an inch thick at most,” says Marino.“He’d come in with three boxes.”

McGinty put bad guys away for as long ashe could and he felt great about it. He foughtas though the accused had personally victim-ized him.

“First time I ever saw him, I was afraid ofhim,” says Karen Holztrager, one of the severaldozen victims of Ronnie Shelton, the WestSide rapist McGinty helped capture and prose-cute.

McGinty arranged a meeting with eachvictim and vowed to press for justice in eachcase despite pressure to plea-bargain a settle-ment that might spare the victims the ordeal oftestifying.

“He said there’d be justice for each andevery one of us. I remember turning to myhusband and saying, ‘Damn, I’m glad he’s on

our side,’ ” says Holztrager. After McGinty was through with him,

Shelton received the longest sentence in Ohiohistory — 3,198 years.

McGinty’s prosecutorial aggression, at leastin one case, was directed at the wrong man.McGinty sent Michael Green to prison for arape he did not commit. Ten years later, as ajudge, McGinty received the call that Greenwas innocent. DNA evidence proved it. Astough as he was in prosecuting Green, Mc-Ginty immediately recognized the injusticeand told Marino, who was still at the prose-cutor’s office, that he’d do whatever it took toset the record straight for Green.

Then he sought out the man he’d sent away.He shook Green’s hand and told him how sorryhe was.

“Everybody owed him an apology. I feltterrible. The victim was 100 percent sure wehad the guy and so was I. There was a lot ofcircumstantial evidence and it was all wrong.Up until I saw the DNA, I still thought thevictim was right,” McGinty says.

Could his aggressive, take-them-all-pris-oner style be the kind of approach that couldput innocent people in jail?

McGinty remains cocksure: “I’ve never beenin another prosecution where we prosecutedthe wrong guy.”

MCGINTY HAS BEEN as tough ajudge as he was a prosecutor, as-cending to the bench because, hesays, the judge he replaced — Sam

Zingale — wasn’t working hard enough. Itbothered him that Zingale was known tospend time in bars — McGinty has been sobersince the 1970s, when he was arrested in

Lakewood for DUI. It wasn’t the first time some young Turk

from the prosecutor’s office vowed to knock offa judge who was not to his liking.

McGinty once visited the chambers ofJudge James McGettrick, a truly bad judge, totell him: “We’re measuring the place for ourown drapes.” With McGinty as campaignmanager, fellow prosecutor and close friendDonald Nugent knocked off McGettrick,whom McGinty tauntingly referred to as “hisdishonor.” Nugent later became a federal judge.McGettrick was convicted of bribery in officeand died in prison.

McGinty didn’t go soft when he put on hisrobe. He has earned his reputation for beingfair but extremely firm. “He gives you a fairtrial,” declares Mark Rudy, president of theCuyahoga County Criminal Defense LawyersAssociation.

The judge has no patience for the “screw-balls” who prey on the innocent. He doesn’t cutliars any slack, doesn’t tolerate sorry excusesand always makes drug addicts “piss in abucket.” He also reads every letter that inmateswrite him, has every one of their claims ofinnocence checked out and never overruleswhen the prosecutor and the defense haveagreed on a sentence, even if it’s light.

Critics search for McGinty’s weak spots, buthe claims the moral high ground on most ofhis arguments. He won’t even accept a freelunch.

McGinty has made some mistakes on thebench. In one famous case, the murder trial ofCharles Marshall, he failed to instruct the jurythat it could decide to recommend life inprison as an alternative to death.

Defense lawyer Stephen McGowan said heasked repeatedly for the sentencing alternative,but McGinty didn’t believe he had to do it. The

Never wantingto waste aminute, McGinty(below) readsthe newspaperwhile completinghis morningworkout. Heused to arrive atthe office earlierthan almostanyone else, butgrew tired ofwaiting forothers to arriveso the workdaycould begin.Now, he spendshis morningexercising andeating breakfastat The Club atKey Towerbefore walkingacross the streetto the JusticeCenter.



For fellow judges, he’s the flavor of batteryacid, especially when McGinty talks abouthow slow justice moves in Cuyahoga County.

“McGinty says we’re 88th out of 88 coun-ties [in Ohio], that we’re the slowest court.And it isn’t true,” says McMonagle. “From theday of arrest until indictment, we have noth-ing to do with it.”

McGinty, though, says the court is shirkingits responsibility if it doesn’t seek solutions tothe long delay between the time a person isarrested and the time that person is indictedin Cuyahoga County.

It often takes months for an indictmentand a subsequent arraignment, where mostdefendants are assigned a lawyer and theircases are placed on a judge’s docket.

McGinty is convinced the assignmentsystem — judges sit for two weeks in anarraignment room and assign the cases ofindigent defendants to lawyers who’ll collectfees from the taxpayers — is at the heart ofthe judicial sluggishness. If defendants hadlawyers assigned by a municipal judge or amagistrate or even a computer program atthe time they’re charged with a crime, a largenumber of minor felony cases would dis-appear almost immediately. Minor crack-pipecases and the like would never clog up thecourts or cost the county money in jail timebecause they would either be pleaded out orprosecutors would see there is not enoughevidence to press on.

Instead, it can take months for a defen-dant, sitting in jail, to be indicted by a grandjury, arraigned and, finally, given a lawyer by acounty judge.

“My argument about justice hasn’t workedso now I’m talking about economics,” says

McGinty, ignoring those who say there’s noproof that assigning a lawyer earlier wouldspeed up the process. “We could save three orfour thousand dollars per prisoner in reducedjail stays. That’s a lot of money and you don’thave to build a new jail.”

In addition, defendants would be con-victed or cleared faster, so justice would beswifter and fairer.

And here is where McGinty pulls the pinon the hand grenade. Judges won’t agree todo what he suggests — relinquish their powerto appoint lawyers — because they would lose“the $7 million-a-year pork barrel patronagesystem.” Lawyers who profit from the caseassignments also work to get the judges re-elected.

The same bench that he calls hard-work-ing he tarnishes with accusations of pay-to-play politics.

McGinty calls the arraignment room’sassignment system “the most corruptive in-fluence on the integrity of our bench.”

McGinty is correct that it takes too long toindict and arraign suspects in CuyahogaCounty, says McMonagle. But the adminis-trative judge says there is no widespreadcorruption and scrapping the lawyer assign-ment system won’t solve the problem. It mayeven create a worse one. McGinty ought toworry about his own courtroom and noteveryone else’s.

McGinty believes that’s a bunker mentalitythat can only lead to trouble.

“I do not intend to sit idly by and wait tohave this court embarrassed again in thefuture by the next abusing judge or bailiff,”McGinty wrote in a memo to McMonagle. “Iam tired of seeing our administration stick its

head in the sand and ride out the storm eachtime it happens.”

MCGINTY’S DEVOTION of timeand effort to his role as self-ap-pointed watchdog of the publicinterest is exactly what his family

would expect of him. McGinty’s father, Jack,remembers a son who read a lot of historybooks and knew at an early age that he wouldlive a life of public service.

“He’s never had 10 cents worth of interest inmaking money,” says Jack McGinty, who is 76and still works at McDonald Investments inCleveland. McGinty’s sister works with theirdad, and his brother is an investment bankerin Boston. His mom is a retired real estateagent.

“Tim’s just interested in doing the rightthing,” his dad says.

McGinty says it was former President JohnF. Kennedy, an Irish Catholic Democrat likehimself, who inspired him to want to work forthe public.

“I bought into that whole John Kennedyspeech,” the judge says. “Ask not what yourcountry can do for you.”

McGinty kicked around at some construc-tion and steel mill jobs after college beforebecoming a county probation officer, where hewould receive his first taste of the criminalelement. He knew then that he wanted tobecome a prosecutor, so he attended nightclasses at Cleveland-Marshall College of Lawand after graduation signed on with theprosecutor’s office, where his star rose quickly.

When he’s not in court or trying to changethe world, McGinty putters around withvintage cars he picks up on the cheap andrestores. He’s just about done with a 1949Packard, which he had planned to give toPatrick upon his high school graduation thismonth.

“Son, it’s a chick magnet,” he declared. But first he’ll have to get past his wife,

Ellen, who won’t let Patrick have the carbecause it’s so old, it doesn’t have shoulderharnesses. It’s her way, or no highway.

McGinty doesn’t play hard guy at home. “That doesn’t work here. It might work on

the outside but not here,” says Ellen. “When wedo something, we do it together.”

Not the marathon running, of course. Hispace is insane. This year, he competed in theBoston Marathon and six days later beat fourhours in the Cleveland Rite Aid Marathon.

“He needs to do it. It burns off stress,” saysEllen.

It wasn’t his intensity that won her over. Itwas his wit. “He made me laugh,” she says, soshe asked him to her high school prom — sheattended the nearby girls Catholic school, St.Augustine Academy in Lakewood. This year,they’ll celebrate 30 years of marriage, havinglived the whole time in Cleveland’s West Parkneighborhood, three times moving to a dif-ferent house — always on the same block.

McGinty’s commitment to West Park ex-

McGinty (above)and Grace Leon,widow of Cleve-land PatrolmanWayne Leon, cleanthe Rocky RiverDrive memorial toslain West Parksafety forces.Grace Leon creditsMcGinty withmaking the memo-rial a reality, bring-ing together vari-ous governmentagencies. “The uni-fying factor wastheir mutual dis-like of me,”McGinty says ofthe state and localbureaucrats. “Theythought, ‘Let’s gethim off our caseand stick him onsomeone else.’ ”



tends beyond his real estate preferences. Hepushed to have a sidewalk and retaining wallproject on Rocky River Drive — on one of hisregular running routes — made into a mem-orial for fallen police and firefighters fromWest Park, a law enforcement enclave in Cleve-land. The handsome memorial and stirringflags, at the edge of the Metroparks RockyRiver Reservation, is an enduring improve-ment to the neighborhood.

“Tim started it all. It was all him,” saysGrace Leon, whose husband, Wayne, a Cleve-land policeman, was shot and killed on duty onJune 25, 2000.

“Tim had so many barriers to overcome toget this built and he overcame them all. Andnow we have this, here. This is where they[police and firefighters killed in the line ofduty] lived, where they hoped to raise theirchildren. This is where they protected all of us,”says Leon, after an evening in which she andMcGinty helped sweep up the area around thememorial.

“It means so much that someone cared asmuch as he did to start this. He’s a warm-hearted and driven person. He knows what’simportant,” says Leon.

Ellen McGinty says it is the same drive toaccomplish what is important that compels herhusband to seek change, and win enemies inthe process, at work.

“He feels like it’s his responsibility to speakup about the things he sees, that it would beirresponsible to be quiet,” she says. “I respecthim for having the courage to speak up. Some-times, it can be stressful.”

Daughter Kathleen, who will be a senior atJohn Carroll University this year, says herfather, despite his long hours as a prosecutorand his crusades as a judge, made sure to savetime for family. “I always remember readingwith him at night,” she says of her childhood.And there were the regular trips to Ireland,which McGinty still makes, often for races onthe old sod.

“He’s always asking us what’s going on inour lives,” says Kathleen. “Everybody thinks hemust be so strict, but he’s really laid-back. Itseems like he’s never disappointed in us.”

Patrick, who’ll begin his freshman year atthe University of Dayton this year, says he’sgoing to major in criminal justice and admiresthe public service work his dad does. They’llboth be hard at work studying criminal justice— the judge has been working for several yearson earning his doctorate from the University ofNevada at Reno.

“Being a judge is pretty serious stuff,” saysPatrick, after spending a week shadowing hisdad at the Justice Center. “He definitely likes tostep on toes. He lives for the fight.”

JUDGE DANIEL GAUL listens to Mc-Ginty blast his fellow judges and he hearsfighting words.

“He’s always chasing the bogeyman ofcorruption around the courthouse,” says

Gaul. “Tim says a lot of things and some are

rooted in fact and some are rooted in thesuspicion he developed as a prosecutor.

“He’s right that it takes too long betweenarrest and arraignment. But I get a little fed upwith his broad assertions of corruption. If youbuy into Timmy’s theory, we’re all whores for a$50 campaign contribution.”

Rudy, the defense lawyers representative,says McGinty does a disservice to hard-work-ing lawyers, as well as judges, by insinuat-ing corruption and says McGinty’s reformswouldn’t speed up the system.

“He loses credibility when he continues tobeat that drum,” Rudy says.

Judge David Matia says McGinty is doingmore harm than good.

“To pick up the paper and have yourneighbors and friends think you are part of adecrepit system doesn’t make one feel good,”says Matia. “Especially when it’s a lie.”

If it’s a lie, says McGinty, then why not havean outside expert prove it?

“We’re not going to commission a consul-tant to tell us how to do our jobs,” snaps Matia.

Facing that attitude from most of hiscolleagues, McGinty took it upon himself topersuade the Cuyahoga County commissionersto allocate $100,000 to help pay for such astudy. County Prosecutor Bill Mason said hewould kick in $200,000.

“I saw the lack of accountability and what itdid. It fostered judges like McGettrick. Wecovered up for their ineptitude with this cul-ture of secrecy,” McGinty says. “We should bewatching the system, but we don’t. I’m tryingto confront the culture here.”

But culture is slow to change. Six monthsafter the commissioners voted to give themoney, no study has been done. McGinty saysthe court still wants to operate in the dark.

“I did the end-around, but McMonagle and[Court Administrator William] Danko don’twant it,” McGinty says.

McMonagle’s serene facade flashes fire.McGinty was “way out of line” for representingthe court to the commissioners, which isn’t hisjob.

But it isn’t true that the courts are resistinga study, says McMonagle. He says he has beenworking with representatives of each compo-nent of the justice system to devise a way tomake the study thorough and useful. By mid-July, the county hopes to sign on with eitherthe National Center for State Courts or theJustice Management Institute to conduct thestudy.

McGinty’s sanctimonious streak, his fellowjudges say, sours the allies he’ll need if he isever to institute his reforms. “He doesn’t have alot of friends here,” says McMonagle.

“We’re not supposed to criticize anotherjudge and he takes on the whole bench,” Mc-Monagle adds. “He’s just so full of crap. Hedrags us down and he knows it.”

McGinty’s methods might draw protest, butit can’t be denied that they’re also coaxingprogress.

In addition to the imminent study, judges inApril voted to put limits on the arraignmentroom case-assignment system. Now a judge

can give one lawyer only four cases during atwo-week session in the arraignment room.Before there were no limits.

To McGinty, of course, it’s not enough. “Good interim step,” he declared, before

proposing an amendment: No judge can handout any cases to lawyers while running forelection. That proposal was defeated after aspirited closed-door session in which the raisedvoices of McGinty and Judge John Sutulacould be heard in the hallway.

A week later, Sutula issued a McGinty-stylememo that said lawyers should be assignedeven more cases because they’re more cost-effective than the public defender. He addedthat judges shouldn’t give up the obligation toassign lawyers, which voters entrusted themwith, based on “one judge’s dim view of theworld.”

McGinty reacted with absolute glee. He hada fight on his hands and he didn’t even have togo to church to find it.

“Sutula took the bait!” he exclaimed. “I wasso afraid they would be satisfied with winning,with rejecting my amendment. This is great. Ifinally have someone to debate with me.”

He’s pumped for two reasons: He loves thefight, loves listening to arguments and firing

Stepping out ofhis chambers totalk to his bailiff,McGinty (below)spends anotherday dispensingjustice. FriendTom Hayes jokesthat judge is theperfect job forMcGinty because“I think pope istaken and theSpanish Inquisi-tion is over.”



back. And he believes he’s right anddebate can only lead to needed reform.

IN BETWEEN jousting matcheswith his fellow judges, McGinty hasplenty of cases to keep him busy. Inhis chambers, lawyers broker plea

deals — hoping to shave years offpotential prison sentences — with thejudge’s not-so-gentle encouragement.

He often breaks the ice with funnystories and, like most times when hetalks, he drags on so long that the law-yers look at their watches and squirm intheir seats.

McGinty isn’t necessarily the tough-est judge when it comes to sentencing,but he’s close. So if victory is uncertain,defense lawyers often are motivated tocut the best deal they can for theirclients.

When they do go to trial, they find adifferent McGinty on the bench. Hetreats the jury like guests to his homeand disarms them with his humor. He’scharming and funny — more like DavidLetterman than Judge Judy.

During jury selection, a young manwith sharp spiked hair takes a seat inthe jury box. Everyone is looking at thehair, thinking about the hair, but nottalking about the hair. McGinty plowsright in.

“Where did you get that hair?” heasks as the young man looks at himquizzically. “It’s interesting, I’ll say thatfor you.”

“I’m the only one here under 30,”answers the kid, taking no offense.

“Hey, I’m under 30!” a woman be-hind him retorts.

McGinty laughs with the rest of thejury. He has done his job. He has putthem at ease.

During a break in the action of arecent felonious assault trial, as the jurywaits for a witness to be brought intothe courtroom, McGinty begins a storyabout the early American flags thatadorn his walls, which he bought on the

cheap to cut down on the vertigo effectcaused by thin floor-to-ceiling strips ofwood.

He tells a story about each one — thearrival of the witness ignored as hefinishes.

“That one, the Republic of California,that was when a bunch of drunkensettlers made a flag out of a bedsheetand chased the Mexican governor out oftown,” he tells them as they chortle.

But after the jury is dismissed for theday, lawyer Kenneth Sondick finds thetough judge, not the affable host, in thehallway behind the courtroom.

The self-effacing Sondick followsMcGinty to ask whether he’ll have tohave a witness available for the en-tire day tomorrow. The defendant ischarged with assaulting a cop who wasarresting his mother, and the mother —who may testify on her son’s behalf —has to work.

“The mom is an hourly worker. Itwould be easier for her if I told her tocome in in the afternoon,” he says.

“Just have your witnesses ready,”McGinty says, flatly but gently.

“Do you think the prosecution wouldgo to the afternoon, your honor?”

“Pretty simple case, I don’t know, itcould be done in an hour,” McGintysays.

“So you’d be pissed, I mean, the courtwould be angry if she wasn’t there afterthe prosecution was done?”

“Just have your witness ready.” “Her boss is really giving her trouble

about the time she’s missing.” McGinty has lost his patience. “If she wants to testify, she’ll be here.

Lucky she doesn’t have 20 kids like thisand she had to testify for all of them.She’d be in the bread line,” he says,making it sound more like a punch linethan a punch.

Sondick slinks back through thecourtroom to talk to the defendant’smother, who has been waiting in thehallway all day.

McGinty lingers for a moment: “Themother is crazier than a shithouse rat,”

he says. Before closing arguments in that

case, McGinty admonishes the lawyers— Sondick for the defense, MarkSchneider and Anna Ferguson for theprosecution — not to prattle on: “Re-member, the finest speech ever given inAmerican history was given at Gettys-burg and it was three and a half min-utes.” Never mind that if McGinty hadbeen Lincoln, the speech might havelasted three hours.

Sondick decides not to call the moth-er to the witness stand and the jury endsup acquitting his client.

“Prosecution overplayed its hand,”McGinty decides — and the judgeescorts the jury to his chambers for aprivate chat. He removes his robe as hespeaks.

“You have any questions?” the judgesays, not waiting for one and asking ithimself: “Is he going home? No. He hasa thick — a very thick — file. He’s beingheld on some other things,” McGintysays.

“His family is hell on wheels. I wishyou could have met his mother, hoo-wee, she’s a treat,” says McGinty, movingaround the room, making the wholeplace his stage.

“I think the defense lawyer did asmart thing keeping mom out of thecourtroom. If I was the defense attorneyand I had the money, I would have senther on a boat trip somewhere, a slowboat trip.”

It’s that kind of bluntness, especiallywhen talking about people who havenot been convicted of crimes for whichthey’ve been charged, that makes somedefense lawyers bristle.

Lawyer Patrick Leneghan believes itshows a bias for the prosecution.

“He thinks he’s Joe Prosecutor,” saysLeneghan. “He’s supposed to be impar-tial, but he’s not. He’s still a prosecutor.”

McGinty pushed too hard to haveone of his clients plead guilty to chargesinvolving his role in a man’s murder,Leneghan alleges.

Prosecutor Pete Corrigan says thejudge, as all the judges do, merely triedto bring the parties together to see if aplea was possible.

“Of course I’m pushing him towardsettlement. That’s why we have 99 per-cent of cases settle. I never push any-body toward trial,” says McGinty. “Len-eghan’s memory is twisted.”

Leneghan’s client had several casesbefore the judge and the lawyer tangledwith McGinty after trying to argue thatcharges in one of the cases should bedropped because it had taken too longto bring his client to trial. McGinty, whosaid delays were caused by Leneghan’stardiness at court, blew a gasket and setthe trial for the next morning, admon-ishing the lawyer to be on time.

Leneghan was late. He claimed he had a flat tire. “Bring me the tire,” McGinty de-

manded. So Leneghan put on a pair of work

gloves, grabbed the flat tire out of thetrunk of his Ford Mustang, rolled it intothe elevator and up to the 21st floor sothe judge could see that a nail hadpunctured it.

“I had great patience for the kidbecause I like him, but he was pushinghis luck,” McGinty says. “Just the em-barrassment of coming up the elevatorwith a tire was enough punishment. Itwas a comedy act. I wanted to teach thekid a lesson.”

When told of this, Leneghan becameenraged.

“Teach me a lesson? That’s judicialmisconduct!” Leneghan roared. “Bring-ing in that tire was a pain in the ass.”

If a jury were to decide whether itwas a hardship, McGinty would be pre-pared with physical evidence.

The judge reaches for a photo, tackedto his door. It’s Leneghan, smilingbroadly, as he poses in the courtroomwith the tire.

“There’s your torturee right there,”McGinty says. “Grinning ear to ear.Doesn’t look like he’s suffering toomuch.”

Case closed.

MCGINTY HOPES to be asconvincing in the debateabout judicial reform. Hecrafted his response to Sutula,

an epic tome comprising eight pagesand 18 footnotes. He had been workingon it for weeks, each time stretching itout longer, as if training for a mara-thon.

Throughout the memo, which ar-gued the need for an outside study toput an end to the practice of judgeshanding out work to lawyers, therewere McGinty-style motivators, akin tothe jabs he took at Asplin to get himmoving on the race course in Erie.

“We have a duty to open our eyes, ifonly for the sake of public safety.” ...

... “There is a high cost for the per-ception of cronyism that has existedhere for decades in the public’s eye. Itdevalues all of the judges’ importantpublic decisions.” ...

“What are we afraid of?” n

Sunday Magazine staff writer MichaelK. McIntyre fears that during one ofhis 11-minute-mile lunchtime runshe’ll encounter Judge McGinty andhis motor mouth. McIntyre may bereached at 216-999-4538 or [email protected].

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