Authors: Linda Lovelace
Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Linda Lovelace, #Retail, #Nonfiction
Out of Bondage (17 page)
twenty-six
The minute the royalties started to appear, so did a figure from my past. This was Philip J. Mandina, a Miami lawyer who was once Chuck Traynor’s business partner and later his lawyer.
Mandina was a major figure in my life. In some ways he has had as much of an effect on me as Chuck Traynor had. Long after Chuck disappeared from the scene, Mandina hung around, suing—and collecting—for back “legal fees.” At this very moment—as I write these words—he’s suing me for libel.
As soon as
Ordeal
was published, Mandina surfaced holding an old judgment against me—a piece of paper that seemed to entitle him to every penny I was going to make. While this is a complicated story, I’ll outline it here briefly.
Ordeal
was published, Mandina surfaced holding an old judgment against me—a piece of paper that seemed to entitle him to every penny I was going to make. While this is a complicated story, I’ll outline it here briefly.
Ten years earlier, at the very moment I was escaping from Chuck Traynor, I had been scheduled to appear in a Miami nightclub with a live song-dance-strip act. Mandina was my attorney. He had arranged the deal and co-signed the contract, guaranteeing my appearance in a theater owned by something called the Ninth Street Amusement Corporation.
A few weeks before my scheduled appearance—when I was hiding from Chuck Traynor—it was clear I couldn’t appear on the Miami stage, or on any stage. I called and explained to Mandina that I was hiding from Chuck and his guns and that he, Mandina, would have to explain that to the nightclub. When I didn’t show up, the nightclub owner managed to get a judgment against me for $32,038.65 and now, more than a decade later, Mandina himself holds that judgment. Today, with interest, it comes to more than $40,000.
But you may ask: Isn’t this a conflict of interest? An attorney represents me; the case goes against me; and now that same attorney winds up holding the judgment against me and collecting the money.
At one point Mandina flew up to New Jersey and called publisher Lyle Stuart’s office; he announced that he was coming over immediately to look at the books and collect “his” share of the royalties. The unfairness of this was apparent not only to my publisher, but to a half-dozen of the men who worked in his warehouse. They decided they would give Mandina a somewhat warmer reception than he anticipated. However, he must have had second thoughts because he didn’t show up.
However, in due times his process servers and legal representatives did show up and, in fact, started to collect my royalties. The unfairness of this and the apparent conflict of interest caused several prominent citizens—my new friend, Gloria Steinem, among them—to write the Florida Bar to petition for Philip J. Mandina’s disbarment. Mandina assured the Florida Bar, “I did not represent Ms. Lovelace before or during her pornographic episodes, nor have I had any financial or professional interest in pornography.”
The truth is that he did represent me in a great variety of ways and even drew up the basic Linda Lovelace Enterprises contract, one that guaranteed me three per cent of my income. And his fees were paid by Chuck Traynor’s little pornography mill.
In deciding whether to disbar Mandina, the officers of the Florida Bar Association decided not even to investigate the information in
Ordeal,
and so Mandina’s sleazy dealings with me—both sexual and financial—were ignored. The Bar confined itself to just one area: whether his possession of the judgment against me added up to
current
conflict of interest. The letter from the lawyer in charge of investigating Mandina was peppered with such phrases as “any literary license taken by Mrs. Marchiano in her novel [sic]
Ordeal”
and “I have no desire to allow this grievance to become a circus out of which Mrs. Marchiano can secure publicity for her book
Ordeal.”
Ordeal,
and so Mandina’s sleazy dealings with me—both sexual and financial—were ignored. The Bar confined itself to just one area: whether his possession of the judgment against me added up to
current
conflict of interest. The letter from the lawyer in charge of investigating Mandina was peppered with such phrases as “any literary license taken by Mrs. Marchiano in her novel [sic]
Ordeal”
and “I have no desire to allow this grievance to become a circus out of which Mrs. Marchiano can secure publicity for her book
Ordeal.”
These strictly limited disbarment proceedings had only one clear result. They forced Mandina to file a libel suit against me. How did this come about? Mandina was asked whether it was true—as my book had charged—that he had suborned perjury by helping Chuck Traynor construct an alibi for defending himself against a drug bust.
His reply: “Of course not.” Asked what he intended to do about my book, he said, “I’m going to sue, of course.”
And so nearly two years after
Ordeal
was published, Mandina launched his libel suit. Mandina told one of my publisher’s lawyers that without the disbarment threat, he wouldn’t have brought the libel action. At this moment, as I write these words, Mandina’s libel action is pending. Publisher Lyle Stuart was offered a chance to settle the suit for less than $15,000 and this was his response: “Not one penny!”
Ordeal
was published, Mandina launched his libel suit. Mandina told one of my publisher’s lawyers that without the disbarment threat, he wouldn’t have brought the libel action. At this moment, as I write these words, Mandina’s libel action is pending. Publisher Lyle Stuart was offered a chance to settle the suit for less than $15,000 and this was his response: “Not one penny!”
twenty-seven
Fighting the suit has cost Lyle Stuart more than $100,000 to date. But anyone who knows Stuart knows that he is a stubborn man, particularly when he feels injustice is involved. He went after both Walter Winchell and
Confidential
magazine, in their heyday, winning large cash settlements. When Stuart believes there’s cause, he’ll take the rubberband off his bankroll, and go all the way.
Confidential
magazine, in their heyday, winning large cash settlements. When Stuart believes there’s cause, he’ll take the rubberband off his bankroll, and go all the way.
In order to defend ourselves against the suit, we had to do some checking into Mandina’s background. Not much, really, just a little. Not much was necessary because Mandina’s background is an open cesspool.
What I’m about to tell you is a matter of public record. But so far it has had absolutely no effect on Mandina’s life. How can this be? How can a prominent attorney be found guilty of massive fraud and go on living a jetsetter’s life untroubled by the Florida Bar, his crimes barely mentioned in the local newspapers, apparently untouched by the forces of justice and decency?
The story of Philip J. Mandina is peculiarly juicy, as intricate as any espionage novel. It involves grand larceny, tax dodges, a wealthy heiress, a call girl, a mastermind, and a cast of sleazy secondary characters that would make any TV writer drool. It’s a story of unparalleled greed and unqualified villainy. Not exactly a whodunit so much as a how’dhegetawaywithit.
First, let me set the scene. Philip J. Mandina was suing me for libel, for what I told in
Ordeal,
supposedly because it had besmirched his flawless reputation. Or, as he himself worded it in his legal papers: “At all times mentioned herein, plaintiff has been a person of good name, credit and reputation in his profession, well known as an Attorney in the area of the City of Miami, Florida, for more than 18 years. Plaintiff was deservedly enjoying the confidence and esteem of his neighbors, of his colleagues in the legal industry [sic] and all others in the community.”
Ordeal,
supposedly because it had besmirched his flawless reputation. Or, as he himself worded it in his legal papers: “At all times mentioned herein, plaintiff has been a person of good name, credit and reputation in his profession, well known as an Attorney in the area of the City of Miami, Florida, for more than 18 years. Plaintiff was deservedly enjoying the confidence and esteem of his neighbors, of his colleagues in the legal industry [sic] and all others in the community.”
Finally we were able to question this paragon of virtue, this “well-known Attorney in the area of the City of Miami.” We were allowed to face him in a pre-trial discovery. Throughout an exhausting day, he did everything in his power to evade direct answers. His attorney, an ancient, chain-smoking, raspy-voiced Miami lawyer named J. Arthur Hawkesworth, Jr.—widely known as “Hawk”—constantly stepped in to tell Mandina to remain silent.
Time after time, Mandina flat-out refused to respond to the simplest of questions. Mandina wouldn’t talk about former partner Carey Matthew’s felony conviction. Or whether any grievances had ever been filed against him. Or whether he had ever been arrested. Or even what specific passages in
Ordeal
he found libelous.
Ordeal
he found libelous.
And there was a question I would have
loved
to see him answer because I think the figure would astound everyone: “How much money have you collected from Miss Lovelace?” He refused to answer.
loved
to see him answer because I think the figure would astound everyone: “How much money have you collected from Miss Lovelace?” He refused to answer.
Again and again his response was, “I don’t know” or “I don’t remember.”
Mandina’s attorney, Hawkesworth, was as talkative as Mandina was silent and as obstructive as Mandina was noncooperative. Our attorney was Allen G. Schwartz, the noted former New York City Corporation Counsel. He outclassed Hawkesworth the way a purebred racehorse outclasses a milkwagon horse.
How would Mandina react when he discovered that we
knew
he had recently (and very quietly) been found guilty of massive tax fraud? And that finding had been connected to still
another
fraud, a personal fraud engineered against a wealthy client.
knew
he had recently (and very quietly) been found guilty of massive tax fraud? And that finding had been connected to still
another
fraud, a personal fraud engineered against a wealthy client.
It seems that in 1982 Mandina was found guilty of filing a “false and fraudulent” tax return. The official name of the case—for anyone who cares to research it—is
Philip J
.
Mandina, et al.
v.
Commissioner of Internal Revenue
, 43
TCM 359 (1982) (CCH) (US Tax Court
1982)
.
Philip J
.
Mandina, et al.
v.
Commissioner of Internal Revenue
, 43
TCM 359 (1982) (CCH) (US Tax Court
1982)
.
The bottom line is that the Tax Court found that in 1969 Mandina had reported $637,925 less than he had made. That year he had declared an income of some $17,055 while masterminding the robbery of $2,600,000 from one of his clients.
The government found that while he was registering a total income of $17,055, Mandina came into possession of a $100,000 yacht (complete with full-time captain), a new Jaguar (to be followed shortly by a new Corvette), a motorcycle, an $86,585.60 home at Ocean Reef Club, and a private airplane. A man that can live this well on such a limited income is either extraordinarily thrifty or extraordinarily crooked.
Although there was a statute of limitations on stealing all that money from a client, there was no statute of limitations on the charges of tax fraud and conspiracy to commit tax fraud.
This may have been Miami’s best-kept secret. None of this had appeared in the Miami
Herald
. Not a word has appeared in the Miami
News
. Here is how the information was presented to him at the deposition. At the end of that day tempers had grown short. Mandina and his elderly attorney were belittling, ignoring or ducking most of our questions.
Herald
. Not a word has appeared in the Miami
News
. Here is how the information was presented to him at the deposition. At the end of that day tempers had grown short. Mandina and his elderly attorney were belittling, ignoring or ducking most of our questions.
After a brief recess, our attorney Allen Schwartz began again.
“Mr. Mandina,” he said, “in paragraph nine of your complaint, you state, and I quote the paragraph, ‘At all times mentioned herein, plaintiff has been a person of good name, credit and reputation in his profession . . . Plaintiff was deservedly enjoying the respect, confidence and esteem of his neighbors, of his colleagues in the legal industry [sic], and all others in the community.’ Period, closed quote. Is that a truthful statement?”
“I believe so,” Mandina said.
“Are there, to your knowledge, attorneys or courts which have found you to be a person of other than good reputation?”
“Not that I know of,” he said.
“Do you know an attorney named Lawrence G. Lily?”
Lily is the name of the government prosecutor who successfully prosecuted Mandina for fraud. At this moment Mandina knew that we knew. He reached for a paper on the table in front of him and held it up to his face, hiding himself from his questioner. But there was no hiding from the questions.
“Yeah,” he said, finally.
“Who is Lawrence G. Lily?”
“He’s an attorney for the IRS.”
“Does Mr. Lily, to your knowledge, believe you to be a person of good reputation?”
At this point, his lawyer, Hawkesworth, broke in with, “Ask Mr. Lily that, okay?”
“Ask Mr. Lily,” Mandina echoed.
“Do you know a judge named Irene Scott?”
“Certainly,” Mandina said.
“Who is Irene Scott?” our lawyer asked.
“She was a judge of my tax case.”
“What was your tax case?”
“We are not getting into that,” Hawkesworth hastily interjected.
“. . . civil tax case,” Mandina muttered.
“Isn’t it a fact,” Allen Schwartz was asking, “that you have been found, in a case before the United States Tax Court, to have been guilty of fraudulent conduct in connection with a conspiracy to defraud one Harriet H. Pierce of over two million dollars?”
“Don’t answer that,” Hawkesworth warned. Mandina’s face is perpetually tanned, but as the line of questioning continued that tan seemed to be fading rapidly.
“Isn’t it a fact,” Schwartz went on, “that the tax court by Judge Scott held in a tax memo in 1982 that, quote, ‘by clear and convincing evidence, the federal income tax returns for 1969 filed by Mr. Mandina were each false and fraudulent, with intent to evade tax?’ Isn’t that a fact?”
“Don’t answer that,” Hawkesworth said.
“Well, isn’t that a matter that affects his reputation?” Allen G. Schwartz said. “Are you telling me, Mr. Hawkesworth, that I can’t inquire as to matters in which Mr. Mandina was the subject, involving false and fraudulent activity and unethical conduct by an attorney? Are you telling me that is not relevant to his reputation in this litigation?”
“I didn’t tell you anything,” Hawkesworth said. “I told him not to answer it.”
“If you tell me why, on the record, you are directing him not to answer it—”
“I don’t think it is relevant or material to this case,” Mandina’s lawyer said.
“Mr. Mandina,” our lawyer tried again, “did you in connection with a conspiracy to defraud one Harriet Pierce or Harriet Pierce Mitchell—”
“Counsel,” Hawkesworth interrupted, “if you don’t want to get off the subject matter of—”
“Wait. Wait. I haven’t asked the question, because I am going to ask him a
lot
of questions about it.”
lot
of questions about it.”
“No,” Hawkesworth said, “I am not going to wait. I am going to tell you now—”
“No, I am going to finish the question, please.”
“Well, I don’t think so,” Hawkesworth said, turning to Mandina. “Let’s go.”
“As part of a conspiracy—”
“We are leaving, Counsel,” Hawkesworth said. “Do you understand that?”
The question-and-no-answer session continued another ten minutes before Hawkesworth and Mandina made good on their threat.
“Mr. Mandina,” our attorney began again, “you have given to me earlier today, and in the response to interrogatories, a list of individuals, some of whom are judges, some of whom are former judges, some of whom are attorneys, as witnesses with regard to your reputation in this lawsuit. You recall those questions and answers, do you not?”
“Yes, sir,” He finally answered a question.
“Have you discussed with those judges and lawyers the-”
“Get ready to go, I think, Phil,” Hawkesworth said.
“—the matter included in the litigation before the tax court, including the matter relating to the conspiracy to defraud Harriet Pierce Mitchell . . .”
“Goodbye, Counsel,” Hawkesworth said.
“. . . of more than two million dollars.”
“Goodbye, Counsel,” Hawkesworth said. “Let’s go, Phil.”
“Let the record reflect that—”
“Let the record reflect we are leaving,” Hawkesworth said.
So be it. Let the record reflect that at 3:05 on a hot Miami afternoon, the two of them, Philip J. Mandina and lawyer Hawkesworth, packed up their papers and fled the lawyer’s office.
Clearly then, we were not going to get the facts about Philip J. Mandina from Philip J. Mandina. Fortunately, we don’t have to. The facts about Philip J. Mandina—the kind of lawyer he is, the kind of human being he is—are easily available to anyone who wants to read through the transcripts of his recent trial for fraud.
And that same story was retold in his appeal, which was turned down by a Federal Appeals Court just a few months ago. Since he has chosen to be a thorn in my side forever, let me tell you precisely how he headed this conspiracy to defraud a client of nearly $3 million.
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