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Romano: Forty years later, the verdict is in on this rivalry

 
McCabe
McCabe
Published Jan. 7, 2017

By nature and by law, they are enemies. Sworn adversaries as long as one is not asking the other to please pass the ketchup.

It's midday in a mid-county restaurant, and their minions are presumably fighting in courtrooms not far from where Public Defender Bob Dillinger and State Attorney Bernie McCabe are having lunch.

The meal is an anniversary of sorts. They have arrived at my invitation to celebrate two decades of habeas-to-corpus combat in the Sixth Judicial Circuit that covers Pinellas and Pasco counties.

It was 20 years ago on Tuesday that Dillinger was first sworn in as public defender, with McCabe among the spectators that day in Courtroom 1 of the Criminal Justice Center. Dillinger's ascension came four years after McCabe had been sworn in for the first time as the district's top prosecutor.

Their rivalry is rare, if not quite unprecedented in Florida's legal circles. Among the state's 18 circuits, only Broward County has employed the same public defender and state attorney longer than 20 years.

But, in this case, their elected positions are only the second half of their story. Dillinger and McCabe first crossed paths 40 years ago when both were in their 20s, fresh out of law school and working as assistants in the offices they now run.

Back then, the staffs were smaller, the familiarity was higher and the booze flowed a little more freely. Given the proximity of their work, I ask whether either man could see himself doing the other's job.

BD: No, I wouldn't do it. Nope.

BM: I don't think I could do his.

BD: I could prosecute treason, maybe.

BM: Treason? Yeah, we get a lot of those.

BD: Maybe crooked politicians.

BM: Thirty years ago, I could have done defense but not today.

BD: I got out of it for 15 years, doing private practice. But the private part is all money, it really is. I didn't do it for the money, my wife will tell you that . . .

BM: Oh, you did all right for yourself.

And so it goes, tweaking and teasing. Laughing and remembering, even if the stories don't always align. For several years in the late 1970s and early '80s, they sat at opposite tables in courtrooms, but they'll be danged if they can remember many of the particulars.

They toss around names of defendants and judges, and finally hit on the case of Sammie Lee Mathis. A short-order cook with no serious criminal record, Mathis was recruited by William Haake to take part in a cocaine buy. The deal went sour and Mathis shot and killed undercover cop Herbert Sullivan in a hotel parking lot in St. Petersburg in 1980.

The trial, in some ways, was a split decision for the lawyers. The defense argued it was not premeditated, but the prosecution got its first-degree murder conviction. The prosecution sought the death penalty, but the defense convinced jurors that Haake was the real mastermind.

BD: A juror had a heart attack in the jury room. And in that case, almost all of the witnesses were cops. So the juror has a heart attack, the cops run in and do CPR . . .

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BM: You're making that up. I don't remember that.

BD: Oh, yeah.

BM: Of course, I don't remember (squat) anymore.

BD: (Anthony) Rondolino and I are trying the case and Judge (Robert) Beach says "If you want a mistrial, you can have it.'' We're thinking, "I don't know that it's going to get any better.'' The facts were the facts.

BM: It was a very factually solid case. They had very little they could say.

BD: He was just a pawn.

BM: Yeah he was, but I got the other one.

BD: Haake.

BM: Yeah, we had to extradite him from Spain. They made me sign something saying I wouldn't seek the death penalty, but we got him back and convicted him.

These days, court appearances are rare for the circuit's top lawyers. They might occasionally run into each other in grand jury hearings, but most of their work today is administrative.

In some ways, it has made them more allies than adversaries. They both are forever seeking more funds from the Legislature, trying to get cost of living raises for the attorneys in their offices. Rookie lawyers start off in the $45,000 range, which means turnover is high as soon they get enough experience.

Through the years, McCabe and Dillinger have also worked together to help establish a drug court and mental health policies. Dillinger got them both seats on the Juvenile Welfare Board.

And, unlike a lot of circuits, this state attorney and public defender meet regularly with the sheriff and clerk of the court to go over any issues or concerns.

BD: It was different years ago. You could duke it out in the courtroom and then go have a beer afterward. I don't know if they still do that.

BM: I don't think so.

BD: When court was over, it was over.

BM: It's a different world now.

BD: We were able to be adversarial without being antagonistic. I preach that to our young lawyers. It is an adversarial system, but be professional. You're not going to get anywhere charging at windmills, and calling people unethical or liars. It's not like civil (court) where you can take a cheap shot at somebody because you're not going to see them again for a year. This is a daily grind.

Between them, Dillinger and McCabe have been elected and re-elected 13 times. And almost always without opposition.

McCabe, 69, said the 2012 election would be his last, but then ran again in 2016. Life, he said, looked too dull without a job in front of him.

Dillinger, 65, now says this term will be his last. Having battled leukemia and undergone three rounds of chemotherapy, he says he can't afford to risk his weakened immune system amid courthouse crowds much longer.

Either way, the end is nearer than the beginning for both men.

In a world that has grown increasingly divided, they are throwbacks to an era when the greater good seemed to have more value than personal gain.

And maybe that's just my idealistic way of interpreting it. But looking across the table, I can see beyond the graying hair and the rounded faces. I see duty and compassion.

I see two sides of justice, finding common ground in integrity.