Miami Herald, The (FL)-April 19, 1987
Author: ROSALIND RESNICK Herald Business Writer
In Miami, attorneys for accused narcotics smugglers must endure the condescension of their peers and the contempt of the public. But when reputed drug lord Carlos Lehder Rivas went looking for a lawyer, Ed Shohat and Jose Quinon didn't hesitate to take his case.
WHEN Carlos Lehder Rivas went looking for a lawyer to take his case, the problem wasn't finding somebody willing to represent him. It was deciding which lawyer to hire.
Lured by reports of seven-figure fees, top-dollar criminal defense lawyers from across the country tossed aside concern about forfeiting fees under a new anti-money laundering law and jetted to Jacksonville for an interview with the reputed Colombian drug lord. So many lawyers wanted to see Lehder that a special liason was appointed to screen them.
"I'd never seen anything like it," said Miami defense lawyer Jose Quinon.
Last week, Quinon and fellow Miami defense lawyer Ed Shohat announced that they have been hired to represent Lehder at his federal cocaine conspiracy trial in Jacksonville. The trial, which promises to be one of the most highly publicized drug trials in history, is scheduled to begin May 18, though Lehder's lawyers last week asked the court for more time.
Lehder has been widely identified as a leader of Colombia's Medillin Cartel, the world's largest and most violent cocaine trafficking organization.
Quinon and Shohat said their two biggest problems in defending Lehder will be defusing the enormous amount of pretrial publicity surrounding their client and preparing for trial in less than a month. To help compensate, the lawyers plan to hire two or more private detective firms, poll Floridians on their perceptions of Lehder, and, probably, ask to move the case to another city.
"It's like a war, pretty much, except that instead of having soldiers, you have information," Quinon said. "It's a one-on-one battle, and it's a battle to the death."
Though neither lawyer would discuss the size of the fee, Shohat said the money was a "significant factor" in his decision to take the case. Quinon, who compared trying the case to scaling Mt. Everest, said he's in it for the challenge.
"More than anything, I think that a criminal defense lawyer is addicted to thrills," Quinon said. "We go from thrill to thrill. We've got to have that. It's sort of living on the edge -- very synonymous to a race-car driver.
"The closer you are to the edge, the more in tune with your nature you feel."
The selection of Shohat and Quinon -- both veteran drug- case lawyers -- has shed new light on what has long been a dark corner of the legal profession. Though criminal defense lawyers consistently portray themselves as champions of the constitutional right to counsel, much of the public and the legal profession views them as little better than the clients they defend. Especially in South Florida, where cocaine trafficking has mushroomed into a major industry, defense lawyers who handle drug cases have grown fat, happy -- and notorious.
But, while other lawyers may snicker, Shohat relishes his role as one of the highly paid black sheep of the legal profession.
"I believe so strongly in my business and what I do that I am willing to have that shadow over me on a daily basis," he said, "because I believe that when somebody thinks clearly about what a criminal lawyer does, even the most right-wing, conservative, law-and-order mind will say that we perform a wonderful function.
"It's nasty work, but somebody has got to do it."
Quinon enjoys it, too -- for the thrills he gets from pitting his wits and investigative skills against the government and its witnesses.
"When you are in the middle of a cross-examination of a main witness and you realize that you are in control of that courtroom, and that person is telling you things he or she doesn't want to tell you, and the reason why they're doing that is because you have skillfully brought them to the point where to deny is to look absolutely ludicrous in front of everybody -- that's what makes it all worthwhile," Quinon said.
Recently, however, the government has made it tougher for criminal defense lawyers to do their job. The Money Laundering Control Act of 1986, aimed at stopping drug traffickers from converting their ill-gotten money into untraceable bank checks, also imposes stiff penalties on people who knowingly accept money tainted by criminal activity. Those convicted under the new law, face fines as high as $250,000 and prison terms of up to 10 years.
Last week, Quinon and two other defense lawyers in the Miami River Cops case were subpoenaed by prosecutors who want to know how much they were paid and where the money came from. The subpoenas may be part of the government's efforts to build a tax-evasion case against the River Cops defendants, whose trial on cocaine charges ended in a mistrial Jan. 21.
Some lawyers fear that overly zealous prosecutors may use the money laundering statute to intimidate Lehder's new lawyers.
"It wouldn't surprise me if they used it as a test case," said Bruce Lyons, a Fort Lauderdale attorney and president of the National Association of Criminal Defense Lawyers. "Carlos Lehder has been depicted as Public Enemy No. 1 of 1987."
But Quinon and Shohat say they're not too worried -- though they won't discuss how they'll show their fees aren't "tainted" by criminal activity should the government attempt to exercise its new powers.
"If the courts are ever going to interpret the federal money-laundering control act to reach an attorney who takes a fee and puts the money in the bank, then we're all going out of business and to jail real quick," Shohat said. "They're going to have to double the size of (Miami's federal prison) and quadruple the size of its law library because there's going to be a lot of lawyers in there doing jail house law."
Alike in many ways, Shohat, 39, and Quinon, 37, have both established lucrative practices representing accused drug smugglers. Shohat helped defend Hernan Botero, the first Colombian extradited to the United States on drug charges. Botero was convicted of money laundering and sentenced to 30 years.
Quinon defended Armando Estrada, one of seven former Miami police officers accused of ripping off cocaine dealers and selling their drugs in the Miami River Cops case.
But the two lawyers have very different practices.
Shohat, a partner in Bierman, Sonnett, Shohat & Sale, one of Miami's largest criminal defense firms, handles white-collar fraud cases, too, and heads up numerous legal and charitable organizations.
Quinon, formerly a Dade County assistant state attorney, is a sole practitioner in Coral Gables who says he has little time for anything but his work. Quinon is devoting virtually all of his time to the Lehder case; Shohat will continue to handle other cases.
The lawyers say they plan to split up the work by having Quinon talk to the investigators while Shohat focuses on the legal aspects of the case. Neither one will be lead counsel.
Their styles differ, too. The boyish-looking Quinon, nicknamed "El Filtro," the filter, by River Cops witness Armando Un, is known for his ability to extract embarrassing information from government witnesses. He's also a natural with juries, colleagues say.
The key to his success in the courtroom, Quinon says, is "preparation and more preparation and more preparation." He has several private detective firms that he calls on regularly.
"I consider him one of the finest lawyers I've ever met," said Greg Denaro, who worked with Quinon in the River Cops case. "He knows his case better than the government does." said Roy Black, another River Cops colleague: "He's a tough and aggressive advocate. He's not intimidated by the government and its prosecutors."
Quinon left Cuba with his family at age 12 and moved to Paterson, N.J. He was graduated from Rutgers University School of Law in 1975. He moved to Miami and spent three years as a civil lawyer before taking a pay cut to work for the state attorney's office. During his four years there, he tried mostly first-degree murder cases, sharpening his courtroom skills for an eventual return to private practice.
Since 1983, Quinon has been a sole practitioner specializing mainly in drug cases. Part of the appeal - apart from the money -- is "vicariously living lives that you only see in movies." His personal life, spent mainly with his wife and three children, is "so boring that it even bores me to talk about it."
Shohat, with his commanding voice, clipped sentences and reputation as a legal tactician, is a former college debater with a penchant for defending pet causes. As the newly elected president of the Florida Criminal Defense Lawyers Association, Shohat recently went to Tallahassee to try to persuade Florida lawmakers to exempt criminal defense lawyers from charging a sales tax on their fees. He is also active in the Greater Miami Jewish Federation and the University of Miami Law Alumni Association.
"He has a good ability to take apart different aspects of the prosecution -- their legal position and the credibility of their witnesses," said Ted Klein, a criminal defense lawyer with Miami's Fine Jacobson Schwartz Nash Block & England.
Lyons described Shohat as "a lawyer's lawyer -- competent, ethical and very meticulous."
Born in West Chester, Pa., Shohat grew up in Miami and graduated University of Miami School of Law in 1972. He immediately went to work for defense lawyers Don Bierman and Neal Sonnett and has been with the firm ever since.
Handling mostly marijuana and draft evasion cases in the mid-1970s, Shohat now represents accused cocaine traffickers and white-collar defendants charged with such crimes as fraud, arson and tax evasion. He defended Miami lobbyist Ron Book in his insurance-fraud case and represented Joseph Paterno in a bid to release the reputed mob boss from prison for medical care.
What unites both lawyers is the kick they get out of what they do for a living.
"I really don't have to take this case," Quinon said, "and I don't think Ed does, either. But we enjoy the challenge, and that's what it's all about."
photo: Ed SHOHAT and Jose Quinon
Edition: FINAL
Section: BUSINESS
Page: 1F
Record Number: 8701300772
Copyright (c) 1987 The Miami Herald
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