Seventy-three men and women appeared to be staring at Rod Blagojevich from the walls of the ceremonial courtroom in the Dirksen Federal Building Tuesday. If the pictures on those walls could talk, their collective judgment would be damning.
The daylong start to the convicted former governor’s sentencing hearing was pure Blago, even if he himself won’t speak until Wednesday’s finale. The defense was rambling, often undisciplined, strained in key rationalizations and yet poignant at moments, notably when his wife, Patti, convulsed with tears as letters to the judge about the family impact of his certain incarceration were read aloud, especially missives from and about their two young daughters.
Judge James Zagel, who oversaw both Blagojevich trials, moved the proceeding to a larger venue to accommodate media and public interest. The photo portraits on the walls are of former and current U.S. District Court judges, the large majority honorable and fair-minded public servants spanning several generations, with a fair number no longer living.
Prentice Marshall, John P. Crowley, Matthew Kennelly, George Leighton, Joan Lefkow, Ilana Rovner, Nicholas Bua, Joel Flaum and Marvin Aspen were and are among those who give government service a good name. Having known all, it’s hard to imagine any of these public servants—all of arguably equal, if not far greater, talent than the former Illinois governor—ever engaging in the venal self-dealing of Blagojevich, regardless of what the proper punishment might be for him.
And a few of those jurists might have noted the irony of sentencing Blagojevich, whose trials offered a wiretapped primer on the grimy daily realities of American government, in the same room where starry-eyed immigrants take the oath of citizenship several times a month.
The defense fitfully, almost parenthetically, conceded his crimes, including trying to sell a U.S. Senate seat to the highest bidder, muscling racetrack and hospital executives for contributions in return for government action, and lying in an initial FBI interrogation. They conceded, too, what was termed his “humiliating fall” by Carolyn Gurland, a newcomer to the defense team and by far its strongest member Tuesday.
But they argued that the government request for a sentence of 15 to 20 years was far out of line with both his misdeeds and sentences in other public corruption cases, including the six-and-a-half year sentence given his predecessor, George Ryan. Unfortunately, they lost the key early legal rulings, which involved the two sides’ parsing of federal sentencing guidelines and how to calculate what constitutes an appropriate range of punishment.
It placed the defense in the unavoidable straits of essentially demeaning the defendant, especially when it came to sentencing rules mandating tougher punishment for those in leadership roles. They had to argue that, well, he really wasn’t a disciplined leader of the conspiracies leading to his conviction, but a pawn manipulated by some key aides.
With those inescapably ominous losses behind them, the defense portrayed the uncharacteristically but predictably somber defendant as the hard-working son of Serbian immigrants who neither benefited financially from alleged misdeeds nor was a hardened ringleader of a criminal conspiracy.
Their portrayal of his personal past, and humble upbringing, elicited a rather engaged interruption from the one person on the wall of judicial fame who could talk Tuesday. That was Zagel, whose hair is now white, compared to black when he sat long ago for his portrait framed in gold leaf.
Zagel was decidedly chagrined by a comment made by Blagojevich to his probation officer, included in one of the reports submitted to the court. The former governor alluded to his having “come from nothing,” a seemingly benign reference to his background.
The judge deemed that comment unfair and inaccurate, somehow a slap at Blagojevich’s hard-working parents. “This is the backbone of America. It’s the classic American story,” Zagel said, suggesting that Blagojevich had somehow demeaned his parents efforts. On this score, one wondered if the judge was too harsh by half. It would be in sync with the straits Blagojevich finds himself in during a hearing whose atmosphere is far more dour than either of his two trials; as if he is very much old news.
It was not long ago that Blagojevich was the sun around which so many orbited. On Tuesday, even his often admirable performance skills and well-practiced bonhomie seemed muted by the occasion. He was more akin to a small meteorite that had fallen to earth and was now cold as ice. He waved very briefly to one spectator upon his arrival—“Glad you could make it”—but the normally voracious appetite for interactions with most around him was not in evidence.
As the session dragged on, the defense spent much time focusing on a significant legislative legacy of the Blagojevich era, the All Kids program. That gambit was a high-minded, and very expensive, expansion of a previous Illinois program as it guaranteed health insurance for uninsured children previously deemed not qualified for the program.
A Chicago pediatrician testified as to its impact on the long-term health of some of her clients, while defense lawyers reiterated how the program was a window onto “the other Rod Blagojevich,” in their minds a caring and decent official, parent and husband.
The reiteration of the “other side of this man”—a hallmark of most sentencing hearings, whether involving politicians or drug dealers— included citation of some of the character references and plaudits sent to Zagel as part of the pre-sentencing process. Those included one from Sister Rosemary Connelly, head of Misericordia, the hallowed and politically potent North Side home for more than 600 adults and children with disabilities.
Blagojevich had been a generous friend to her institution and assisted in various ways “the joy of living at Misericordia,” with no strings attached, she wrote.
It was Sister Connelly who openly sparred last week with a distinctly courageous Mayor Rahm Emanuel over the mayor’s decision to end the tradition of free water for non-profits. Emanuel went into a lion’s den by accepting an invitation to speak at Misericordia’s annual fundraising breakfast, then drolly gave as good as he got from her on the topic of water bills.
After seeing Emanuel in action during his early tenure, and then the Wednesday sentencing ignominy likely facing Blagojevich, his predecessor as a North Side congressman, one thing struck me as rather clear. Just like Sister Connelly’s hope of avoiding a stiff annual water bill, the former political star praying for a modest sentence will need divine intervention.
by JAMES WARREN | Dec 7, 2011
Seventy-three men and women appeared to be staring at Rod Blagojevich from the walls of the ceremonial courtroom in the Dirksen Federal Building Tuesday. If the pictures on those walls could talk, their collective judgment would be damning.
The daylong start to the convicted former governor’s sentencing hearing was pure Blago, even if he himself won’t speak until Wednesday’s finale. The defense was rambling, often undisciplined, strained in key rationalizations and yet poignant at moments, notably when his wife, Patti, convulsed with tears as letters to the judge about the family impact of his certain incarceration were read aloud, especially missives from and about their two young daughters.
Judge James Zagel, who oversaw both Blagojevich trials, moved the proceeding to a larger venue to accommodate media and public interest. The photo portraits on the walls are of former and current U.S. District Court judges, the large majority honorable and fair-minded public servants spanning several generations, with a fair number no longer living.
Prentice Marshall, John P. Crowley, Matthew Kennelly, George Leighton, Joan Lefkow, Ilana Rovner, Nicholas Bua, Joel Flaum and Marvin Aspen were and are among those who give government service a good name. Having known all, it’s hard to imagine any of these public servants—all of arguably equal, if not far greater, talent than the former Illinois governor—ever engaging in the venal self-dealing of Blagojevich, regardless of what the proper punishment might be for him.
And a few of those jurists might have noted the irony of sentencing Blagojevich, whose trials offered a wiretapped primer on the grimy daily realities of American government, in the same room where starry-eyed immigrants take the oath of citizenship several times a month.
The defense fitfully, almost parenthetically, conceded his crimes, including trying to sell a U.S. Senate seat to the highest bidder, muscling racetrack and hospital executives for contributions in return for government action, and lying in an initial FBI interrogation. They conceded, too, what was termed his “humiliating fall” by Carolyn Gurland, a newcomer to the defense team and by far its strongest member Tuesday.
But they argued that the government request for a sentence of 15 to 20 years was far out of line with both his misdeeds and sentences in other public corruption cases, including the six-and-a-half year sentence given his predecessor, George Ryan. Unfortunately, they lost the key early legal rulings, which involved the two sides’ parsing of federal sentencing guidelines and how to calculate what constitutes an appropriate range of punishment.
It placed the defense in the unavoidable straits of essentially demeaning the defendant, especially when it came to sentencing rules mandating tougher punishment for those in leadership roles. They had to argue that, well, he really wasn’t a disciplined leader of the conspiracies leading to his conviction, but a pawn manipulated by some key aides.
With those inescapably ominous losses behind them, the defense portrayed the uncharacteristically but predictably somber defendant as the hard-working son of Serbian immigrants who neither benefited financially from alleged misdeeds nor was a hardened ringleader of a criminal conspiracy.
Their portrayal of his personal past, and humble upbringing, elicited a rather engaged interruption from the one person on the wall of judicial fame who could talk Tuesday. That was Zagel, whose hair is now white, compared to black when he sat long ago for his portrait framed in gold leaf.
Zagel was decidedly chagrined by a comment made by Blagojevich to his probation officer, included in one of the reports submitted to the court. The former governor alluded to his having “come from nothing,” a seemingly benign reference to his background.
The judge deemed that comment unfair and inaccurate, somehow a slap at Blagojevich’s hard-working parents. “This is the backbone of America. It’s the classic American story,” Zagel said, suggesting that Blagojevich had somehow demeaned his parents efforts. On this score, one wondered if the judge was too harsh by half. It would be in sync with the straits Blagojevich finds himself in during a hearing whose atmosphere is far more dour than either of his two trials; as if he is very much old news.
It was not long ago that Blagojevich was the sun around which so many orbited. On Tuesday, even his often admirable performance skills and well-practiced bonhomie seemed muted by the occasion. He was more akin to a small meteorite that had fallen to earth and was now cold as ice. He waved very briefly to one spectator upon his arrival—“Glad you could make it”—but the normally voracious appetite for interactions with most around him was not in evidence.
As the session dragged on, the defense spent much time focusing on a significant legislative legacy of the Blagojevich era, the All Kids program. That gambit was a high-minded, and very expensive, expansion of a previous Illinois program as it guaranteed health insurance for uninsured children previously deemed not qualified for the program.
A Chicago pediatrician testified as to its impact on the long-term health of some of her clients, while defense lawyers reiterated how the program was a window onto “the other Rod Blagojevich,” in their minds a caring and decent official, parent and husband.
The reiteration of the “other side of this man”—a hallmark of most sentencing hearings, whether involving politicians or drug dealers— included citation of some of the character references and plaudits sent to Zagel as part of the pre-sentencing process. Those included one from Sister Rosemary Connelly, head of Misericordia, the hallowed and politically potent North Side home for more than 600 adults and children with disabilities.
Blagojevich had been a generous friend to her institution and assisted in various ways “the joy of living at Misericordia,” with no strings attached, she wrote.
It was Sister Connelly who openly sparred last week with a distinctly courageous Mayor Rahm Emanuel over the mayor’s decision to end the tradition of free water for non-profits. Emanuel went into a lion’s den by accepting an invitation to speak at Misericordia’s annual fundraising breakfast, then drolly gave as good as he got from her on the topic of water bills.
After seeing Emanuel in action during his early tenure, and then the Wednesday sentencing ignominy likely facing Blagojevich, his predecessor as a North Side congressman, one thing struck me as rather clear. Just like Sister Connelly’s hope of avoiding a stiff annual water bill, the former political star praying for a modest sentence will need divine intervention.