Wednesday, July 2, 2008

Sharpe James back in court

Sharpe James, the former mayor of Newark, wants a new day in court . . .

Convicted in April on a variety of corruption charges, he was back in front of a judge with his attorneys asking for a "do-over" based on how his case was handled.

http://www.newsday.com/news/local/wire/newjersey/ny-bc-nj--ex-mayor-trial0702jul02,0,1225761.story

James, 72, is to be sentenced later this month on those charges. He surely does not want to go to prison.

But here's the thing. Federal prosecutors had their own charges, 17 in fact, they were going to bring against James in a second trial that never took place after his conviction in April.

The feds held off their case on the condition they could resume litigation if James got ANY part of his other conviction overturned.

The federal charges, wire and mail fraud, each carry a max. sentence of 20 years.

The judge doesn't seem likely to overturn the original conviction but if he does, it means Sharpe James would be go to trial again and also face the possibility of federal litigation afterward.

Sharpe, you wear slick suits but they are not made of Teflon . . .

1 comment:

HNIC said...

John gotti ... god rest the teflon dons soul!

You can seriously see that enough people are getting off on serious charges that now everyone wants to try it even if its not really a realistic option to go free.
id be a straight up G and sit there wit all my gold on and be like "yeah I did it.. turn me into a cult icon and give me the time!

Flame and Bone

When I was made from fire
Poured into the tender vessel of caution
That keeps my smoke from rising
Quickly did I discover that apart from crisp drizzles or falling snow
The world chilled my touched
Walking the narrow cornered gap between girders and cut stone
One learns to tuck his shoulders in or risk
Jostling a neighbor passing by rapt with want
For a clear path without the distraction
Of another man's boiling eyes
The tip of a finger
That oldest of all weapons
Grown deadlier and pristine in its invention
Gathers a mote of a cinder on its bare flesh
And turns pondering how best to scratch the impious itch
Prying open the tender seam
Where the oil of thought dews
Offering a new wick to ignite
Squirming alive as a salamander of mischief
That yearns for a taste of air it is so ready to devour
The steam of breath betrays me
Before the glint of orange spreads
In popping bright waves
Eroding the fibers feeding it
Leaving naught but ash
As my shell of quietude falls away