As part of its mission to protect parents, children and extended families from abusive and lucrative practices in our nation’s divorce and family courts, the Parenting Rights Institute is seeking financial, legal and expert assistance to prosecute the first ever False Claims Act (FCA) suit against court facilitators who reap huge profits from federal Title IV-D funding.
Yet we see those abuses in courts across America: child attorneys appointed to pit parents against their children, lucrative conflict in place of agreement and mediation, and political referrals to countless court facilitators who benefit wrongfully from this massive funding law. As Adolph Hitler once stated in his book, Mein Kampf, if you can get the people believing that government is acting for the benefit of their children, they will “happily” give up their rights.
And like the early days of the Third Reich in Nazi Germany, no one is questioning the similar propaganda long asserted in these courts that our family judges and their government contractors (i.e. court appointed evaluators, lawyers and providers) are acting at all times in the “best interests” of our children. Grave statistics are showing that the time is long overdue for an FCA lawsuit that holds such profiteers accountable.
Last year about this time, I had a case pending on a petition for writ before the Supreme Court entitled Koziol v United States District Court, Case No. 15-1513. It was a mandamus/prohibition case challenging federal courts for their failure to hold state courts accountable for federal constitutional violations. In a rare move, our high court accepted my motion for disqualification (recusal) of Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg due to her politicking against Donald Trump. However it was treated as a “suggestion” and never expressly ruled upon.
One of the cases belatedly cited due to its last minute release was Universal Health Services v United States ex rel Escobar, 579 US ___ (June 16, 2016). In that case, our high court permitted an FCA case to proceed against a state health provider due to unqualified professionals who caused the death of a 17 year old girl. The facts were not unlike many of the providers appointed by state judges to treat our children and needlessly stressed moms or dads.
Indeed, in my very own family court case, an un-elected support magistrate (James Gorman) conferred upon me a PhD which I did not earn so that a higher support obligation could be ordered for federal funding purposes. His reviewing family judge (Daniel King) ruled that the error was “harmless” and then gave me a Master degree in its place which I also did not earn. In short, false child support claims are being ordered through evidentiary fictions such as “imputed income” to gain federal money for state courts and contractors.
Accordingly, we are seeking support for a precedent case to be filed in the District of Columbia federal court with whistleblower plaintiffs from different states participating. The beauty of an FCA lawsuit is that such plaintiffs are confidential (sealed) at the filing stage. The U.S. Justice Department is then required to evaluate the lawsuit for purposes of prosecuting it on behalf of the victims and whistleblowers.
In my case, identity no longer matters because my named abusers and adversaries have already retaliated against me in every sadistic way. But for others, such an action is known as a qui tam lawsuit, meaning that the proven whistleblowers may receive a percentage of monies recovered by the Justice Department. This lawsuit could not come at a better time with a new administration anxious to cut needless spending while draining the swamp.
Of course, to make such a lawsuit possible, funding and resources are needed. If you are “broke” with nothing serious to offer, you will only be hurting our cause by contacting us with endless war stories. If you are seriously committed to raising the funds for a qualified review, research and legal representation behind this lawsuit, feel free to contact us at Parenting Rights Institute at (315) 380-3420.
Yes, my adversaries may have destroyed all my means for assisting victims of government abuse, but my accomplishments speak louder than their retributions. They include a New York Supreme Court action in which I successfully invalidated a billion dollar casino operation. Discover more about my background and what we offer at http://www.parentingrightsinstitute.com.
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“For as long as can be remembered, people have been pleading for a lawyer to take a conscientious stand against his profession; to slay an evil which has lurked there for too long. And when that person finally arrived, they crucified him.” Original
There can be no better depiction of my ten year ordeal exposing corruption of children, parents and families in our nation’s domestic relations courts. Prior to taking a stand against those who made a living bankrupting entire families through orchestrated conflict, I had an unblemished 23 year record as a successful civil rights attorney. Today, the retributions have cost me my children, licenses and livelihood to the point of seeking human rights protection in Paris.
It’s all been suppressed in the news or misrepresented by a cult of judges issuing defamatory decisions in upstate, New York. And now the story will finally be told in a book set to be released this fall entitled, Satan’s Docket. I was not sure of that title but it came out by accident in one of my chapters where I warned my readers to reconcile, mediate or surrender their petty custody and support issues to avoid being placed on Satan’s Docket.
However after spending a few days in our nation’s capital networking with fellow whistleblowers and best selling authors, I came across such published titles as Lucifer’s Bank and The Dark Side. It was then that I knew I had my story right, from ethics committee witch hunts to my pedophile custody judge removed from the family court bench, it was all there like another plot for the blockbuster movie, Devil’s Advocate.
Over the course of my originally uncontested divorce, over thirty-five, that’s right 35 trial jurists were removed from my case, some from the bench altogether, a record among courts across America by my research. Due to my controversial litigation over the years, you would think that the witch hunt was executed by jurists in my home county. But ironically they all pretty much did the right thing by stepping down at the outset.
I continue to be censored for my public criticisms, most particularly for my 2013 testimony before the Moreland Commission on Public Corruption at Pace University. Since that time multiple license reinstatement applications have been denied through opposition reports citing that testimony with exhibits containing reproduced website postings at www.leonkoziol.com.
Prior to being terminated as the principal ethics lawyer working against me (for falsifying his time sheets), Steve Zayas declared to the licensing court that year that his Committee (the “unethical ethics committee” as I called it) would oppose my reinstatement as long as I continued my public criticisms. That has left me in a suspended state exceeding the seven year term for disbarred convicted felons.
I have never been disbarred, still paying my registration fees as a member of the New York bar, and I have never even been accused of a crime, child abuse or found guilty of malpractice. I completed a six month license suspension many years ago caused by a secretary in my office (sent to jail last year on felony convictions). She was influenced by outsiders to tamper with office mail and keep court appointments off my calendar.
The Third Department ethics court nevertheless held me responsible for her supervision while taking no similar action against fellow members of the court or their appointed ethics committee for supervisory duties regarding the three ethics lawyers they allowed to resign quietly for falsifying their time sheets. And that would entail misappropriation of public money, right? Not even a criminal charge?
While I could go on and on, the book tells it all in 22 chapters and over 108,000 words destined to become a documentary someday. At least that’s what I’ve been told by experts at the National Whistleblowers Summit this past week in Washington D.C. Sadly the collateral damage was inflicted upon my innocent daughters and victims of government abuse still awaiting my return to the “profession.” Since 2010, I remain amazed at the number of people still seeking my services. I could not win everything that came to me over a stellar career but I always remained dedicated to my clients.
To make my book appealing to a broader market, I spiced up the plot with excerpts of high profile cases. In it, I heap praise on most of the characters unconnected with the witch hunt, even former enemies. I can think of only a few locals that I have exposed negatively. Utica Mayor Ed Hanna and city lawyer Linda Fatata come to mind. This chapter brings out some of my local history for those of you across the country who have wondered about it. Entitled, A Wedding to Die For, I introduce Satan like she has never been seen before. Here is that excerpt:
Kelly Hawse and I met in 1998 at a place called Babe’s Macaroni Grill and Bar, an Italian restaurant in a predominantly Italian populated city. Once known as “Sin City of the East,” Utica, New York had a dubious distinction as a rust belt city mired in mafia lore.
A high number of mobsters were discovered to be from Utica at the infamous Appalachian summit of 1957. While many mafia enclaves closed after that sting operation, this one survived well into the nineties and quite likely into the present century.
Outside investigations of corruption triggered by the Appalachian arrests revealed that city police and county prosecutors were ignoring the gambling, prostitution and racketeering which were rampant here. Convicted murderer, Joseph Valachi, testified at a U.S. Senate hearing that from eighty to a hundred members of the mafia were from Utica. News reports featured shootouts, car bombings, ambushes and gruesome murders that would rival the Middle East today.
While attending law school in Illinois, even my classmates from Al Capone’s city of Chicago could not get enough of my stories, not so much because they tracked the ones in the Godfather movie but because they were real and current, three murders in a single month.
A young lawyer, Joseph Dacquino, was found tied to a chair and lifeless in the law office basement of a criminal defense attorney who had defended figures linked to organized crime. Speculation abounded that the victim was an FBI informant, mistaken for his boss or in the wrong place at the wrong time. 
Many years later, that boss, Louis Brindisi, would advise against my challenges to a corrupt court system during a private exchange at his former restaurant in Saratoga Springs. His practical advice was based on a preference for keeping a law license over child contact because a whistleblower like me could end up in jail without commission of any crime.
He knew the system as well as any lawyer but possessed a street character about him which elevated the value of his advice. And how correct he was. He was related to the judge whose wife commended our wedding.
One year after that wedding, I won a First Amendment trial as former Utica corporation counsel with Louie on the other side.  Front page newspaper photos featured Kelly in a pregnant state alongside me on the front steps of the federal courthouse after the jury verdict was announced.
My daughter was actually there to witness her daddy make precedent. Her mom could probably verify the kicks inside her each time my little girl celebrated an objection ruled in my favor. It was all but delivery time when the verdict was read aloud and she could hear it.
Our attending nurse at the hospital may have confirmed a likelihood that my unborn little girl could hear that verdict. Otherwise her prior opinions regarding the sonograms would be fraudulent. On one occasion, she concluded that our little girl was playing hide-and-seek with mommy and daddy as she visited or ducked the screen.
In the courtroom, my daughter must have guessed from her exclusive vantage point that her dad had brought together a highly intriguing cast of characters for her entertainment, stories she could one day share with her friends in high school.
They included a reputed mobster lawyer, a multi-millionaire mayor renowned across the country for his Trump-like battles, and a highly respected, veteran lawyer assisting her dad who would later become legal counsel for the Woodberry pool club with her mom as a director and her future sister an avid patron.
United States District Court Judge David N. Hurd presided over the case. A serious minded federal jurist, he was easy to spot in any crowd even without a robe. Prior to assuming the bench, he resembled one of the Kennedy brothers, John or Bobby, and Ted by the time he got this case.
Louie was at an opposing trial table with city lawyers that included John Dillon, Utica’s corporation counsel during these proceedings who would also sue the city he worked for ten years later. In Pearce v Longo,  he recovered $2 million in a parent murder-suicide case involving a city police investigator after he left support court. That horrific event, needlessly fomented by divorce contests, morphed into a local movement to prevent domestic violence.
In addition, there were notable persons not at my trial who were monitoring it closely. They included Tim Julian, the replacement mayor who I had named in a race discrimination case. That litigation had just begun in the same court before the same judge resulting in a verdict of $333,820.32 one year later. I argued that verdict in Manhattan before Justice Sonia Sotomayor. Another six figure jury verdict arose after that one as my cases against the city grew over time.
Tim’s brother, Robert Julian, was also undoubtedly glued to news reports of this trial. Highly influential in politics, he held prominent positions during a stellar career as a personal injury attorney. He served a term as state Supreme Court justice and more recently represented my disgraced custody judge, Bryan Hedges. From the first day of jury selection to the last day of trial, front page news provided all the daily drama. Some background is therefore in order.
On December 4, 1996, a horrific fire erupted in a multi-floor building on Bleecker Street in east Utica. Firefighters sent into the building were soon trapped on an upper floor when the one below it was by-passed in the rush to get to the assumed source. The temperature on the one below reached a level that produced a flashover, in lay terms a mass fire eruption caused by temperatures reaching a kindling point.
It left firefighters above scrambling to escape. Crawling, blinded by smoke and suffocating to their deaths, only miracles allowed them to get out alive. But the injuries, scars and traumas were indescribable. At the time, my boss, the city’s mayor, was in a heated battle with the fire department over budget cuts which were quickly cited as a factor.
It attracted national attention. Utica’s arson rate was growing to twice the national average and three times the state average. At its worst, when I was city corporation counsel, the Utica Fire Department was battling as many as three fires a night with nearly half ruled as arson.
I can still remember working on a risk management report in City Hall late one night when fire sirens were going off in multiple parts of the city. Due to threats I had received because of that report, I would be extra careful when accessing my car alone in the basement garage. A close friend and city marshal would demand a call each time I did so that he could escort me safely.
I was also extra careful with the report’s final conclusions and recommendations. I wanted to assure all concerned that they were based on fact and not the political agenda of the mayor. His name was Edward A. Hanna, and he had appointed me the city’s top lawyer…
Stay tuned for more in this series of posts I call: Satan’s Series
 Rocco LaDucca, Mob Files Day 7: How it all ended, (Utica) Observer Dispatch, May 9, 2009
 Koziol v Hanna, 107 F. Supp. 2d 170 (NDNY 2000)
Continuing with our series on the Whistleblowers Summit and Civil Rights Conference in Washington D.C. last week, I had occasion to network with a variety of experts on the subject including Ken Williams, a Boston area homicide detective. He provided valuable insights from a law enforcement perspective on how to protect oneself from false prosecutions and assembling evidence for valid convictions.
On conclusion of this particular panel discussion, I asked whether there was any special protocol for investigations of judicial corruption. I cited my pedophile custody judge, Bryan Hedges, widespread misconduct ignored in my case, Operation Greylord in Chicago where federal judges were prosecuted while I was in law school, Gerald Garson and Thomas Spargo, New York Supreme Court Judges sent to prison for soliciting custody and divorce bribes in 2007, and the Kids for Cash Scandal in Pennsylvania.
Mr. Williams could relate no particular protocol in judge cases but seemed to recognize that this was a very sensitive area for judicial whistle blowers. Another speaker, civil rights attorney Stephen Kohn, an expert in this field, recently published a book which I purchased and discussed with him. In that book, Steve paints a scary picture of whistleblowers who routinely lose their jobs, reputation, homes and life’s savings as a result of this crucial exercise of First Amendment rights in a self-governing nation.
However I could find few examples in either his book or among conference attendees which exceeded mine, the retributions inflicted upon me for exposing corruption in the divorce industry. My ordeal is necessarily detailed in my upcoming book, Satan’s Docket, a memoir of my civil rights litigation over a thirty year period which also provides a valuable handbook for parents impacted in our nation’s divorce and family courts. Ultimately, through this book, I am hoping to secure a federal investigation into my case and reform of Title IV-D funding abuses to make shared parenting a reality.
Having just returned from a whistleblowers summit and conference in Washington D.C., I had the privilege of meeting numerous victims of government abuse. Of all that were featured, few exceeded my ordeal. Indeed, because I heard about the summit at the last minute, the sponsors could not get me on the speakers agenda which had already been formalized. However I was allowed to present my case followed by an interview with Summit sponsors for future publication.
My focus was different than most presenters who decried retributions by federal and state agencies (executive branch of government). I was determined to obtain protection for that unique category of citizens known as judicial whistleblowers. These are the ones who expose corruption in the judicial branch, the forums created by the people to bring justice for all the other whistleblowers. At present, there is no real protection for us as my ordeal has abundantly demonstrated.
From my pedophile custody judge removed from family court (Bryan Hedges) to divorce judges soliciting bribes to fix custody cases (Gerald Garson and Thomas Spargo), we have a growing crisis on our hands. These are judges taken down only because of courageous whistleblowers. One was a father-attorney in divorce. Another was a mom who lost custody of her child. How many more have never been caught? Without judicial whistleblowers, the other types may never see justice even with the federal Whistleblower Protection Act now in effect.
For this reason, Judicial whistleblowers need legal protection and monetary compensation for the risks and injuries they endure. After exposing widespread corruption among wealthy Americans dodging tax liabilities in Swiss banks, whistleblower Bradley Birkenfeld was wrongly prosecuted by the IRS and sent to prison for a thirty month term. Ultimately he recovered $102 million as part of a new IRS whistleblower protection program.
His ordeal has striking similarities to mine, wrongfully prosecuted by unethical ethics lawyers who were ultimately allowed to resign for falsifying their time sheets (Albany chief counsel Peter Torncello, Steven Zayas and Elizabeth Devane). My children, licenses and livelihood were all seized in retaliation for the widespread corruption I have been exposing to no avail before a self-regulating profession and court system. Less than 10% of all commission complaints in New York and California are even looked into.
This autumn, my book, Satan’s Docket, will be published. It exposes my shocking ordeal while serving as an instruction manual for all parents affected by our nation’s divorce and family courts. Unsure whether the title was a good one, all doubt was removed this past week in Washington with the presentation and release of Birkenfeld’s book titled, Lucifer’s Bank.
In an effort to pave the way for judicial whistleblower protection in New York, I presented a 25-page, $25 million claim before the New York Legislature. After personal visits to legislative offices, I finally got a call from legislative counsel for the Assembly Judiciary Committee (Weinstein). The uphill battle I faced was mutually detailed.
I have yet to receive replies of any kind from my former Assembly representative, Claudia Tenney, campaigning for Congress at the time, my Senate representative, Joseph Griffo, who declared me his friend time and again, or Anthony Brindisi, Assembly representative in the district where my law practice was shut down. All this occurred within the span of a few years after 23 unblemished years as a successful civil rights attorney and ten years as a model parent without even a complaint before any child protection agency.
Please share this post for the general benefit of all Americans. As U.S. Senate Judiciary Chairman Chuck Grassley stated at a recent Whistleblower Day celebration, “You can’t fix something if you don’t know it’s broken. That’s just common sense.” But it’s much more than that for judicial whistleblowers: “You can’t get justice if corruption is being concealed by those who are supposed to deliver it.”
“You can’t fix something if you don’t know it’s broken. That’s just common sense.” U.S. Senator Chuck Grassley
That is a quote taken from U.S. Senate Judiciary Committee Chairman, Chuck Grassley, of Iowa at the 2015 National Whistleblower Day Celebration. He is the man at the center of investigations involving Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton. It is a quote which aptly depicts my ongoing mission to obtain justice and overdue reform for victims of divorce and family courts across the country.
I attended the 2017 Whistleblower Day Celebration and three-day Whistleblowers Summit in Washington D.C. this past week, having been interviewed by its sponsors at the Mott whistleblower law offices next to the Supreme Court. Among other things, I also participated in a dinner meeting of prominent whistleblowers at the National Press Club near the White House.
As this post is being made public, my 2017 corruption report regarding Title IV-D funding abuses is being delivered personally to Senator Grassley at a meeting set for 4 pm today at his Senate office. This report was previously delivered to a congressional oversight committee and U.S. Attorney General Jeff Sessions. It depicts an epidemic harming parents in divorce and family courts in the states which is being censored and suppressed by special interests and bar associations.
During the three-day summit, I had occasion to exchange valuable information with best selling authors of books depicting whistleblower ordeals. They included Bradley Birkenfeld who spent three years in prison for exposing corruption in the Swiss banking system. On his release, he recovered a record $104 million under the IRS whistleblower program. His book entitled, Lucifer’s Bank, has striking resemblances to mine, Satan’s Docket, projected for publication this autumn.
A key goal of my book and travels is to bring legal protection for a unique group of citizens known as judicial whistleblowers. At present it does not exist, and as my case has amply demonstrated, the retributions can be horrific and utterly inhuman. Attendees at this summit were shocked at my ordeal as presented in a one-page book summary and eight-page chapter summary available by request at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Of course, I am not a legal aid, public defender or government funded entity. I am a high risk, confidential and specialized consultant bringing public attention to individual cases. I no longer practice civil rights law and do not give legal opinions, but I do have lawyers available as part of our referral program. Hence, I rely on donations and product purchases at www.leonkoziol.com.
This summit sponsored by The Government Accountability Project, ACORN 8 and other prominent organizations was extremely valuable and should be supported. This week I will feature key summaries such as this one to enlighten my followers on a growing epidemic in these courts so that reform and justice may be achieved for as many victims as possible.
Okay, anyone can write a novel, right? It’s all made-up, fairyland stuff. I authored and published one myself in 2014. It’s called Voyage to Armageddon, and you can get a copy at Barnes and Noble Bookstores or order it on line at Amazon.
But what if a real story emerged, one that could actually happen to you. Welcome to my new literary work, years in the making and soon to be published. In fact, after releasing my first chapter on this site yesterday, I got a call and e-mail this morning from a publisher I did not solicit offering me a contract. An uncensored version is now available by ordering it on this site.
Yesterday I dedicated the first chapter to: “All Loving Dads on Fathers’ Day.” Today I am dedicating this chapter to all moms who love their children the same way. It is a segment of my fugitive ordeal in Paris when I sought international protection for parenting rights. You can also get the background and an excerpt which verifies the wide appeal of my book in two earlier posts of my Fathers’ Day Trilogy.
Today you get the PG-rated segment of Chapter Five entitled, Weaving A Tangled Web. It’s about a mom I met at an Irish Pub in Paris. The rest is the wild ride she gave me at the Bastille District, a night in Gay Paree I will never forget.
We pick up my story here at page 76:
During one such visit, I was treated to real entertainment after a wholesome meal. The singers, fiddles and jigs were straight out of Ireland, a short flight across the English Channel. It was also on this day that I met a single mom who was in the heat of a custody battle in the states. A group of estranged parents were exchanging multi-nation divorce scandals with me at the bar when this mom whittled it down to an exclusive conversation.
She wore a brown plaid skirt with white blouse, smiling in a manner wholly at odds with the war story she was conveying. Slender with long jet-black hair curled around one side of her shoulder, she could not have been much taller than five feet. All the trappings of an Irish lassie with an Asian origin, she was as cute and sexy as a woman could be. Seated on a stool to my right, she was quite nervous while relating her ordeal, crossing her legs and switching them regularly.
“So, Mr. big-shot New York lawyer, what do you know about French custody law? Can I pick your brain or is there going to be a fee for this?”
“You must’ve misunderstood my ordeal. I’m not a big-shot, I got shot big-time, more like an assassination by my own profession for exposing its corruption on parents like you.”
“Well I overheard you talking with the guys a little while ago about a billion dollar casino you shut down in New York.”
“You must’ve caught only part of that conversation too. I won the judgment that should have shut it down. I did what my surrounding landowner clients hired me to do, but like custody and divorce, money talks. The casino’s still there.”
“Well, then, you must still be good at what you do.”
“Depends how you look at it. I mean they flew in lawyers from Washington to argue against me on that casino case. One of the law firms was Cravath, Swaine and Moore. You should see their office building near Times Square. But even with my winning decision, they did an end-around with federal authority over Indian matters. Money usually wins out no matter the harm to gambling addicts or in our custody cases, the children. It’s all fueled by lawyer profits and federal funds.”
“So why not set up a law practice here in Paris?”
“I’m a bit intrigued by your questions. We barely know each other. I thought your custody case was in the United States. What do you care about French law and a practice for me in Paris?”
“Let’s just say my issues cross the borders. I may need to apply custody laws here but they’re not in my favor. I paid good money for the best lawyers to make sure my child was safe under my care. But I’m finding that my abusive ex is going to have him seized and returned to him.”
“Huh, that’s strange. From what I’ve read, France has a maternal preference in such matters. That seems to prevail even though it’s part of the European Union which stresses that both parents and their children have a right to a relationship. So I would think you’d be happy here. In the states, dads are 85% of parents paying child support. You should be good there too.”
“Well my case is unique. It goes far beyond basic custody laws.”
“It involves international law. That’s why when I heard you talking about national sovereignty with Sean and his friends, I figured you might be just the right guy for my case.”
“Again I think you misunderstood what we were talking about. I got off on the Native-American sovereignty issues associated with that Indian casino compact. They have their own custody norms. It gets very complicated. Nothing that could apply to you.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Do you have a business card? I’d like to give you my whole story on the phone, maybe over some early morning expresso if you don’t mind. Right now, it’s too noisy at this pub. That’s why I didn’t pick up on all of what you were saying.”
“Sure, no problem,” I replied while handing her my parent advocacy card, “but it’s all just bar talk. Don’t get too pumped about any of it.”
Over the years, I had been dealing with victims electronically for the most part. In this case, I found a custody warrior who had taken on much more than her parenting rival. Like me in New York, she had taken aim at corruption in the California divorce system, having written reports to various commissions, monitored court proceedings and organized rallies against domestic violence. In the end, she came up with essentially the same conclusions I did.
Her name was Linda, and she related an ordeal which could be considered my maternal counterpart. But there were puzzle pieces missing in all the competing bar talk. Occasionally melancholy, she betrayed great wit and broke out laughing at her own jokes. But when it came to court corruption, her mood got cold and sullen. A deep seated hatred for this custody system had found its way to our meeting, a potential release that might allow her to move on with life.
Despite being consumed by all her litigation, Linda managed to exude a feminine quality flavored by an eclectic mix of emotions. She was a tough gladiator, sensitive caretaker, an intellect, airhead, dictator and hopeless romantic all rolled up into one, lighting up at least ten human “disorders” on the DSM-5 manual from what I could tell. She impressed me as a rival to Debra Messing in her role as Kat in the acclaimed movie Wedding Date.
As our lively discourse progressed into the night, the music faded more and more from our attention span. I could sense that something special was developing between us. In a matter of only hours, our dialogue had converted total strangers into kindred spirits, fate-driven partners on a mission to save our offspring from common enemies thousands of miles apart.
The bar was getting louder as we were getting more intimate, so I invited Linda out for a stroll. I’d seen enough romantic couples arm-in-arm on these streets during my nightly returns to the hotel. Anxious to get a taste, it was a chance I took. To my delight, Linda happily accepted. Upon satisfying the lease payment for our extended stay, we exited Corcoran’s into the night time glitz of a lover’s side to Paris.
We headed back toward Place de la Bastille which was teeming with activity, from late diners seated outside various cafes to diverse tourists engaged in dialogue of many languages. You couldn’t help wondering how all those words meshed in one place without conflict or collision. We took photos of one another, then together at the urging of an elderly couple on an anniversary honeymoon. With their well wishes, we were suddenly on an impromptu honeymoon of our own.
One street off the northeast side of the plaza was quite inviting. We sauntered aimlessly along Rue de la Roquette, pausing from time to time to investigate the boutiques which caught Linda’s attention. Then we turned right onto Rue de Lappe as the passages narrowed. Here we found clubs galore and a hoard of night-goers which might intimidate most mature types, but to us it was an unexpected adventure, a trip back in time, a foray into our long-lost youth.
For no particular reason except its peculiar name, we boldly entered a night club known as Yellow Mad Monkey. Lots of energy inside, and there were actually large plants suspended from the ceiling to give this place a sort of jungle décor. Tarzan himself might swing down for a beer. There was a pair of chairs at a table that seemed available, maybe the only ones in this crowded venue, but the two couples already seated there appeared to have claimed title to them.
We must have looked out of place because, sensing our predicament, one of the guys invited us to join them. His name was Pierre from Quebec City, Canada, and he politely introduced us to his wife, Charlene, and acquaintances, Hank and Sheila. The latter couple across from us was from West Virginia and the foursome had met at the Louvre earlier in the week. None of us being locals, it was easy to join their conversation over tourist sites visited or yet to be explored.
“So what brings you two to Gay Paree?” asked our spontaneous host. He was a tall, stocky fellow in grey slacks and black silk shirt, middle aged with trim facial hair of Toby Keith variety.
“Oh we’re on our honeymoon, second marriage,” Linda replied with convincing character. She directed a celebratory smile toward each of our table mates and earned the intended reactions. I was last in line and first in shock but caught on quickly. We were going to have some fun with this, a role which that elderly couple assigned to us a short while ago and see where it all went.
“That’s so nice. Such a lovely couple, you guys, don’t you think Pierre?” Charlene was a shapely woman dressed in black pants and sky-blue top. A pearl necklace and jewelry on both hands signified their joint success. “I remember when we were on our honeymoon in Niagara Falls. So long ago, but it seems like yesterday. Where did all that time go?”
“I say we all get a shot to celebrate your new life together.” The offer came from Sheila, a long time girlfriend of Hank, the third man at our table. He was a burly guy dressed casually in jeans and a Mountaineers jersey evidently suffering from a sight defect because he could not seem to keep his eyes off Linda’s chest.
Sheila, on the other hand, came across as a fun-loving type, curvy figure and bleach blonde hair caught up in a bun. A red dress matched her rosy cheeks, and her arms were sufficiently intimidating to get Rambo accepting whatever offer she might make.
“Uh, sure, I guess, but I don’t do shots,” I interjected. “I’ll just substitute with a bottle of Bud. How about you, honey?” Linda was immediately ecstatic with my play-along, looking for max excitement the way a child explores a carnival, except this one had not been serving soda pop.
“Darling, I’ll have another vodka cranberry. We’ve had a long day, folks, and I can’t wait to get back to our room. You know how it is with wild sex, just can’t get enough fast enough. So the last thing I need is to pass out on my new hubby.”
Linda’s remark caused me to burst out with a laugh. So unexpected, it’s the way she delivered it, convincing yet perplexing. I guess you had to be there. I contained myself as quickly as I lost it, but our friends were already reacting with squint eyes and strange looks toward me and then each other. Linda was holding for now, but I was sure I could make her dam burst if I wanted to.
“Yeah like she passed out last night. And to think she was buck-naked when I took her off the elevator. Sweetie, you think you can make it to our suite tonight?”
“Not if you don’t get your hand off my thigh and back on the table where everyone can see it. Sex under the table is prohibited here, love, didn’t you see the sign at the entrance?”
It now appeared that our audience was unsure whether to be amused or disgusted by our x-rated, rapid-fire exchange. Charlene was cracking a Mona Lisa smile, Pierre looked stunned, Hank’s eyes were still glued to his prize but Sheila distinguished herself with an arousal at each remark.
“Yeah I saw that sign,” I replied. “And you’re going to see divorce papers if you pass out again.”
“Aw, such a jokester! See, Lee’s got this loaded gun when he doesn’t get his way. I love it when he shoots me dead at night, if you get my drift.” Linda added a few winks as if anyone needed it and pressed on. “Besides, we got company, honey, so behave.” Still sporting that trademark smile, she never missed a beat. This was getting more interesting as were the reactions.
“Alright, I’ll behave, but you owe me big time baby.”
“I love it when I owe you big time. When you’re big, I’m submissive. That’s the way it should be when a real man takes control.” Looking over her listeners with their disheveled appearances, Linda turned plaintive but only so long as necessary to keep her ruse in play.
“Sorry guys, we’ve been doing this foreplay thing all evening. It’s how we stay up all night taking care of business. How about you guys? Any action yet Charlene? Niagara Falls can’t be that far away?”
There was no reaction from Charlene. She just looked back at Linda as if she had just seen the monster in a horror flick. Linda was obviously getting quite loopy and carried away with her charade. In the process, she was taking us both over the falls here.
Concededly this was a foursome that was hard to read, square peg in a round hole, a classy reserved couple touring with Bonnie and Clyde. But give Linda credit, she was resilient. On the chance she offended anyone, she tried to make amends. Unfortunately, she overcompensated.
“I mean, we’re all here to have a romantic time together, aren’t we? I was just trying give you guys some inspiration the way we’ve been going at it. So’s it gonna be wild sex tonight or not?”
There was still no reaction from Pierre’s wife or anyone else for that matter until Sheila jumped in. It was anything but what we expected. In fact, it was much more than a game changer. Linda could never have imagined what her offer would elicit. It’s something we’ll never forget.
“Hey, whatever you two got going on, I wanna be a part of it. Did you hear that guys? Linda says she wants to share, like we all did last night. And what a night! Honey, you won’t crash on my watch, and as for your man, he ain’t seen nothing yet. You’re gonna love our toys. Let’s go now.”
Sheila’s counter-offer was shocking enough, but we were blown away when the other three at our table nodded approvingly. Linda and I were now their prey. It had to be an ambush. Neither of us could utter a word. Talk about censored speech. How were we going to get out of this jam?
They were all seriously serious, and for a moment I think Linda was feeling like she had just checked into the Hotel California. We stared in wonder, glanced at each another, our thoughts racing for a quick exit strategy. Then I took control.
“Sheila, you’re on.” I handed her a hotel business card with a room number scribbled on the back. “Bring your hottest nighty. And Hank, I got a cure for your eye problem, it’s called gasoline. We gotta go.”
I grabbed Linda by the hand and rushed her out of the club like mad monkees. That’s when her dam finally burst. Laughing hysterically, she stumbled alongside me down the sidewalk. It wasn’t long before we disappeared inconspicuously among the crowded streets.
When we got comfortable with our escape, Linda stopped, turned toward me and seized my elbows with each hand. She had that wild-eyed shock still plastered all over her face. It was as if she was suddenly back in high school after completing some kind of dare or sorority prank.
“I can’t believe what just happened,” she screamed, laughing to the point of tears. “Please tell me that didn’t just happen. Did they really think we were soliciting for a double manage-et-trois?”
“Not we, you! I never offered anything and you started it all. But I think they call it swingers.”
“Yeah like you weren’t enjoying it.”
“Actually I was, right up to the point where Bubba from the back woods was gonna have his way. I gotta say, Linda, you are crazy! I never met anyone quite like you.”
“Same here, I never met someone like me either.” She answered with a giggle as we locked our arms again and resumed our aimless stroll on the streets of Paris. “I really like you, Leon the lawyer. You got me out of a real jam there. I could use help like that in other areas. Can we get together tomorrow night? Drinks are on me.”
“I gotta hope you’re not too messed up right now. You downed a lot tonight and might forget this whole thing even happened in the morning. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Absolutely, I’m getting good at this. A great stress reliever with all of what I’ve been going through. I got this lawyer right now who’s acting like a scared boy in front of my custody judge.”
“Well, then, it’s obvious you hired the wrong lawyer. Protecting a child is a man’s job, love.”
Linda quickly wrapped her arms around my head, inflicting a French kiss like I had never experienced before. “Wild sex could be the icing on our wedding cake tonight. Whatta ya say?”
“Tempting as that is, let me take a raincheck for now. It’s been a long day. Can I get you a cab, walk you home? I can’t just leave you unescorted in this condition.”
“Aw that’s so sweet. A real gentleman. Are you falling for me too, Lee? I sensed a bit of jealousy you know, back at that Monkee club. Gasoline? Seriously?” Linda was now slurring her words.
“The guy was a pervert, Lynn, he never said a word all night, just kept staring at your breasts. Talk about mad monkees in a jungle, I swear this one couldn’t formulate words. Besides, what’s a newlywed husband supposed to do? Good show by the way. You definitely know how to take a guy off-guard on a first date.”
“Well I gotta say, you rose to the occasion and delivered nicely too. I’m so glad we got married on our first date. Never heard of anyone having a wild ride like this.”
“Maybe I delivered, but not to get a star role in some Deliverance movie. What were you thinking? I had all I could do to keep up with your shenanigans. And how in the world did those two couples match up?”
“Yeah, I wondered the same thing. By the way, you didn’t really give your room card, did you?”
“I can’t believe you’d even ask. It was one of many cards I’ve been collecting for an extended stay here in Paris. My reservation at the current place is up next week, and the card I gave is from the last hotel I stayed at. The number on the back is the basement weight room.”
Linda laughed aloud, then stopped and faced me again, this time with a serious look. “Hey Lee, with what you just said, a great idea popped into my head.”
“Please, not another one. I can only handle one per century.”
“No, I’m serious, hear me out. I got this villa on the Riviera. I only come to Paris on business. I stay with relatives when I’m here. Why not visit me this weekend? Put off that reservation. I know you’ll love it down there.” She made her pitch enthusiastically, and frankly I fell for it, if not her. The proverbial tumbleweed, what did it matter where I went?
“Wow, that’s quite an offer. I’ve never been to the Riviera. Always wanted to go there though. This is all so spontaneous, but staying on the move may be just what the doctor ordered, especially after that call I got from Judge Paris.”
“Never mind, long story. Tell you what, the more I think about it, the more I like your idea. Let’s get together tomorrow night. We’ll meet at Corcoran’s and talk about this some more. If I can survive that forest fire you started at jungle bar, I can handle anything.”
“And I could use a guy like you to keep me out of fires like that. Sorry I got you into it, but you gotta admit, we had a riot getting out.”
“O, what a tangled web we weave when we first practice deceit.”
“What are you talking about, Lee?”
“Never mind again, another long story. It’s a quote from an old friend, a real old friend. Hey there’s a cab, let’s grab it.” We hopped into the back seat and away we went.
“Two stops, Rue de Clery at Poissonniere and Montmontre,” I announced.
“You sure you don’t want to make it one stop, Lee?”
“I’m a gentleman, remember? I may end up in Paris forever. So we got lots of time to get to know one another. If it’s going to happen, I want it to be special. And I think you’re real special, unfortunately very drunk too.”
“Alrighty then, bad for me, good for you.”
Linda eased us down into the seat and assumed a commanding position over me. Then she began to kiss, caress and stimulate me as if she had not had sex in a very long time. Come to think about it, neither had I.
To my amazement, an unexpected metamorphosis was occurring, a sweet transition from nightmare to fairy tale. We were two oppressed victims making our way to paradise without a care in the world. The cab driver lost sight of us in his rear view mirror and could only fantasize about our moans and maneuverings as he navigated to our destinations.
Eventually he came to a stop. Linda got herself together and exited while I monitored her walk toward some family home in this vicinity, the drop-off location she gave me for the cab driver. Barely onto the sidewalk, she turned, bent over and blew me a kiss. I smiled back. Then she sauntered off to points unknown, her now wrinkled blouse draping off one side of a displaced skirt and whatever was left of her hairstyle in utter disarray.
As the cab driver resumed his route toward my hotel, I reminisced about this extraordinary day. I did not know what to make of it, much less a woman who won my heart in so many ways. I may not have known much about my destiny, but I did know that I wanted more of Linda. Maybe it was that perfume, her special touch, the ambiance of Paris or a wild ride at the Bastille. Then again, maybe she was spinning a web I had never seen before.
Well the day has finally come, the earliest release of my startling new book to be formally published later this summer regarding divorce and family court corruption. I am making the opening chapter available at no charge as a gift to all loving dads on Fathers’ Day 2017. Please share it freely.
Last year, I was joined at this time by a doctor, dentist and engineer from different parts of the country on the steps of the United States Supreme Court. We conducted a news conference in support of a first-ever shared parenting case.
Today, one year later, fathers continue to be discriminated and oppressed in these courts. Nothing has changed in decades while other equality movements have achieved great strides. Gay-lesbian rights, for example, have long passed us by.
Due to my continuing stand, judicial whistleblowing and a pretend mother seeking to replace me with a millionaire father, I will not be able to see my daughters this Fathers’ Day. I have never been found to be unfit, never charged with any crime, never a child abuse report. The public is witness to my model parenting.
Since my testimony before the Moreland Commission on Public Corruption in 2013, I have received no phone calls from my teen daughters. This form of cruel and unusual punishment is un-American and unprecedented from a human rights standpoint. My book is the foundation for a renewed crusade against the injustice.
The pretend mother, Kelly Hawse-Koziol, has gone to the extreme of alienating my children in every way. Sadistic judges and lawyers bent on revenge have joined her sick agenda. Together they have managed to eradicate every aspect of the paternal family in a manner which would impress Adolph Hitler himself.
The opening chapter of this book is my response. It is highly relevant to that alienation and should inspire all to action. The events you will read are shocking but true, backed by footnotes and voluminous files. Help me promote this three year project any way you can for the sake of similar victims. Unity is sorely needed.
The complete 100,000 word manuscript has been offered to New York’s high court for protection from ongoing censorship by an unethical ethics committee whose chief counsel and deputy lawyers resigned quietly due to falsified time sheets. The book relates my ordeal and that of many others I met in a nationwide reform effort.
Nearly every paragraph, phrase and word contained in this literary work carries with it special meaning for the more discerning reader. It can easily be missed. However every segment of this chapter is fleshed out with increased intrigue in the 20 chapters which follow.
Happy Fathers’ Day !
Return to Paris
Cumulous clouds were advancing toward the Maginot Line as our jet engines announced their approach to Charles de Gaulle Airport. Out of curiosity, I squinted northeast toward those extensive fortifications as we made another swing over Paris.
Somewhere out there was a barn where my father had been concealed when that Line proved ineffectual to Hitler’s invasion. Somewhere out there my dad was returned to the war against the Nazis during the liberation of France.
His name was Louis, and after that war he wanted no more of the horrors he had survived in Europe. He ended up raising a family in the United States, land of liberty as he loved to call it, never imagining that his son would one day return here to escape persecution in America.
That may seem implausible to you, but it was occurring on this very flight. I’ll explain as we go along. For now, it’s the paradox of my bizarre journey through a lucrative court system, a conscientious stand against my profession and an evil which has lurked there for too long.
As I peered out the fuselage, thoughts of my predicament overshadowed the grandeur of the city below. Still incomprehensible was my pending status as a fugitive from justice, or more precisely a victim of injustice, a whistleblower not unlike Edward Snowden or Julian Assange. The main difference is that I hadn’t even been accused of any crime. I was no threat to national security.
As insane as that paradox in the clouds, my only crime was that I wanted to spend more time with my precious daughters during a divorce case. While committing that crime, I was forced to expose the real ones in a government industry that was extinguishing parenthood as we know it. The shocking events you will now read about comprise the retributions which followed.
This was a continuing ordeal after ten years. Its perpetrators figured that no human could sustain such abuse for so long. Who would believe it anyway? Like Nazis in the day, they labeled me, seized my children, ruined my livelihood, and subjected me to a form of house arrest. Ultimately I would succumb to a stroke, breakdown or untimely death. I would simply vanish along with my judicial whistleblowing. Judicial waterboarding is the way I put it before the Supreme Court.
My dad endured five years in a Nazi camp after drinking urine from the floor. I’m not Jewish as that might suggest, but between his stories and genetics passed down, he no doubt influenced my own ability to survive. There were gang fights and race riots during my boyhood, high school football when corporal punishment was standard procedure, legal hazing in my college fraternity, law school in greater Chicago, a death defying event on a mountain and the 2016 elections.
Alas, this would be a walk in the park, or so I thought. Instead, with all the trappings of a Dixie lynching, it became anything but a routine divorce, beginning innocently enough in a city called Utica, New York. In my worst nightmares, I never imagined fleeing oppression in my homeland, seeking protection at the United Nations, on the lam in Lake Placid, addressing national media at a murder scene in South Carolina, sheltered on an island in the Pacific Ocean and now here.
I was not on some honeymoon. I had already done that in Paris and could never have planned for this. If only I could’ve avoided it altogether. But a prominent black minister in Manhattan declared this to be my destiny. So here I am, whatever he meant, and it did turn up shocking proof of judicial corruption that would make John Grisham cringe. If there was a destiny, it was shared by every mom and dad descended from the beginning of humanity itself.
For all the injury I sustained, this could have been the ride of a lifetime. But I had stirred a hornets’ nest, and in no small way, exposing the raw underbelly of a child control syndicate, a judicial forum where countless parents were summoned to resolve sensitive family matters only to be treated like common criminals. It took my case to our highest court where I filed for disqualification of Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg due to her politicking from chambers.
An accomplished civil rights lawyer, I was naturally drawn to challenge the heartless seizure of children in our third branch of government. That’s the true definition of divorce court. Family court was its evil child where the real carnage occurred. After a two year separation without incident, everything was promising for my daughters. That’s when an invasion was launched by judges and lawyers anxious to conquer my world in a parenting environment they did not belong.
A Supreme Court justice had this to say about America’s family courts: “Under our Constitution, the condition of being a boy does not justify a kangaroo court.”  But that was 1967. An erosion of parental authority since then has changed his pronouncement to the condition of being a father or career mom which does not justify the stigmatizing classification of “non-custodial parent.” We are now a society living under the yoke of an increasingly fascist system of child control.
Proof of this remains viciously censored or masked by highly convincing propaganda. The state dictates to the parents that it is acting at all times in “the best interests of the child,” an utterly preposterous, if not fraudulent claim, before it bankrupts them in a protracted custody or support battle. It creates and then fuels an incendiary contest over one’s offspring only to reap huge profits from the crimes, domestic violence or emotional trauma which predictably results.
Victims who oppose this centralized power face the prospect of losing their children, their careers or imprisonment without due process or jury rights, all of it orchestrated under “the law.” It was the common denominator of so many parental advocates I came across during my reform efforts across the country. Victims could not fathom what was truly happening to them while being subjected to investigations and examinations for every indiscretion or human error.
This easily abused “best interests of the child” standard remains the weapon to achieve all sorts of unconscionable outcomes. Our children are effectively controlling their parents now under this system, an inverted order of childrearing as I described it in my reports. Moms and dads under constant threat of losing “custody” are spoiling these children while surrendering their natural authority to parenting figures more focused on self-service than genuine parent-child relations.
That was the essence of my public message and the principal reason for persecution by my own government. It was certainly not a novel message but one which had never been so vigorously promoted by a lawyer and parent singularly qualified to achieve overdue court reform. The targeted evil had roots in feudal England where the King declared his sovereign power over all children. That edict was adopted by divorce courts here despite its clash with our Constitution. 
It gives pause for parents to reflect on a state leader who understood this power and exploited it over time to wage the most horrific war in human history:
The state must declare the child to be the most precious treasure of the people. As long as the government is perceived as working for the benefit of children, the people will happily endure almost any curtailment of liberty and almost any deprivation.
The result here was not so much a military war machine as it was a custody war machine to raise revenues and fees, to invade every aspect of our private lives, exercising power that would make the NSA, CIA and IRS envious. To be sure, a veteran family judge condemned the targeted evil long ago. Judge Dennis Duggan bucked his judiciary by refusing to continue use of degrading terms such as “custody” and “visitation.”  Here is how he justified his revolt against the state:
At the outset, the Court notes that the terms ‘custody’ and ‘visitation’ have outlived their usefulness. Indeed their use tends to place any discussion and allocation of family rights into an oppositional framework. ‘Fighting for custody’ directs the process towards determining winners and losers. The children, always in the middle, usually turn out to be the losers…
This Court has abandoned the use of the word ‘visitation’ in its Orders, using the phrase ‘parenting time’ instead. If the word ‘custody’ did not so permeate our statutes and was not so ingrained into our psyches, that word would be the next to go… This misplaced focus draws parents into contention and conflict, drawing the worst from them at a time when their children need their parents’ best.
Duggan evaded the core problem in his decision, that elephant in the courtroom known as “profit motive.” Still he was precipitously close to triggering vital reforms. It was no surprise then that his decision was quickly reversed on appeal, and despite similar condemnations in a 2006 judicial report,  the inflammatory depictions of mom and dad have survived. In my own reports, I urged that such terms were more appropriate for prisons and funerals, not parent-child relationships.
Our federal government remains a major cause. A bevy of bureaucrats has become the super-parent of American society through coercive funding laws. Enamored with wars declared on every kind of issue to incite tax hikes, they have managed to convert sensitive family disputes into rewarding public battlegrounds bleeding with militaristic decorum. These courts are now overflowing, judges so overwhelmed they delegate their entrusted duties to outsiders who complicate ready solutions.
My credible reform message threatened this gold mine. It was one that might take flight with social and secondary media. Hence it had to be eradicated from its inception. Suddenly I was a one man fighting machine according to a talk show host in Florida. I had silent supporters, parents and concerned citizens who could navigate beyond the propaganda of a self-regulating court system. But they were intimidated, and this was also a prophesy of sorts which made me more of a nemesis.
During my reform crusade, I explained how power brokers were laying a foundation for the New World Order through this custody institution. Orchestrated court conflict was being exploited to show parental incompetence and the justification for an eventual state take-over of childrearing. It was following the lead of compulsory education and how that became institutionalized. Along the way, collateral damage to our economy was immeasurable through declines in worker productivity.
They say the pen is mightier than the sword, but here the power brokers possessed both. My message was not extreme as my persecutors would claim. It was backed by true experts unaffected by the bottom line, billable hours or fictional justice. However, it was also a blow to the egos of lawyers who just didn’t get it, infected by a delusional belief that they were protecting children while profiting handsomely from our misfortunes. And that meant I had to be crushed like a bug.
Their agenda began with the usual spineless deflection from duty when a serious wrong is brought before our courts, one which threatens big money interests. Divorce lawyers, child attorneys, diverse psychologists, case evaluators and forensic experts were only some of the beneficiaries I extolled as court predators. They were exacerbating an epidemic for profit, one that was triggering suicides, serious health issues and human rights violations. It was the Goliath I was out to slay.
Unrealistic perhaps, but there were weapons in my arsenal. I had an unblemished professional record, won substantial recoveries, defeated high profile law firms to invalidate a billion dollar casino compact,  set free speech precedent as a city corporation counsel, New York Times sent reporters to cover my campaign for Congress, and Morley Safer traveled to my law office for an interview featured on 60 Minutes.  How could they discredit all that and more? Well they did.
Still, someone had to make this stand for the sake of our children and future generations, or at least go down for something more than personal gain. It is also said that a hearse comes with no trailer hitch. You can’t take your belongings to an afterlife. In this cause, I had found my life’s purpose, a way of helping people long after my time on this earth was over. Everything in my being had finally come together. Every child in every location was now my moral client.
Unfortunately, Goliath was a trillion dollar industry, and what few protesters I could find appeared traumatized by it. My own ordeal was triggered by a judge who refused to hear my arguments against the antiquated entitlements of Title IV-D of the Social Security Act. In lay terms, this was the Child Support Standards Act which required the naming of a “custodial parent” for state courts to receive federal funds. It also incited highly profitable custody wars.
I was shocked by the number of lawyers who had little or no idea how this law operated to fill their bank accounts. More disturbing, I could easily track the severe harm it inflicted upon everyday society, a veritable Titanic yet to collide with destiny and over-occupied by families originating from all parts of the world. They included stowaways from our schools, homes and workplaces routinely hauled into family courts as needless witnesses to the carnage.
Couldn’t these people see the pollution billowing out of those judicial smokestacks? With so much focus on global warming, homeland security and industrial flight, how could they glide so casually over an “inconvenient truth” at the root of so many other societal problems? With more than 300,000 lawyers in New York and California alone, this pollution was growing by the day. These elusive predators made their living selling conflict in a childrearing niche foreign to their trade.
Crucial reform was therefore long overdue, but my divorce judge was nearing retirement. Hence, it was no surprise that he was mired in the stereotypes of a distant past, when moms stayed home and dads worked to support children. He would shoe horn me into the degrading “non-custodial” category and presume that anything else I did was irresponsible. That’s before he was replaced by thirty-five trial level jurists by the time I wrote this book, unprecedented in judicial history.
Due to my exposure of court corruption, a systemic prejudice had arisen, requiring a venue change. When that was denied, it left me no choice but to move for disqualification of each newly assigned judge. I also urged that fathers remained victims to this last bastion of institutional discrimination due to the lucrative nature of the custody mandate. Shared parenting was a preferred model but this judge was not about to risk his reputation to do the right thing.
Instead he punted, referring me to the legislature for reform. Hence, you might say this entire ordeal was court ordered. That I should single-handedly seek a judicial remedy in a legislative assembly was like directing a mechanic to repair a car in a bakery. Any lobbying effort would require my exercise of free speech against my profession. Before a lawmaker could sponsor a bill to change a custody statute, his constituency would need to be convinced the old law was flawed.
When I aspired to do exactly that, it was the judiciary which opened fire on my free speech in the forums where constitutional rights were supposed to receive their greatest protection. My plain exposure of the flaws was so offensive that a family judge threatened to have me removed not only from “his” court room, but the public courthouse altogether. When that failed to intimidate me, he issued a gag order which was removed after I challenged it in New York Supreme Court.
A legislative solution was a herculean task and my divorce judge knew it. Shared parenting bills had been routinely squashed by powerful special interests because they threatened predator profits. So, like the abortion right, I pursued the fast track through our courts, insisting quite logically that the much older parenting right which enhanced life deserved at least the same protection as the one which destroyed life without having to go before a gridlock legislature.
New York was widely known to have the most dysfunctional legislature in America.  Reputable studies declared it, record late budgets proved it, and even legislators sought re-election on that theme, condemning one ethics commission after another for their impotence. I testified before the Moreland Commission on Public Corruption seeking to dissolve the “window dressing” Commission on Judicial Conduct. Instead it was the Corruption Commission that was shut down.
The futility of seeking a judicial remedy in our legislative branch was as obvious as the abortion bills were prior to Roe v Wade. No, this was not my Goliath. Such a deflection would not work on a lawyer who had held office in all three branches locally. Defamatory court decisions under the protection of judicial immunity would not dissuade me either. The best way to relate my crusade is by quoting former New York Senate Leader Joseph Bruno from his book, Keep Swinging. 
As one of the few survivors of federal criminal prosecutions against prominent state legislators, Joe chronicled thirty years of corruption, dysfunction, and budget impasses during his long tenure. Here is what he concluded before his conviction was set aside due to intervening precedent from the Supreme Court:
You’d get no argument from me that the New York State Senate and Assembly were in dire need of ethics reform. Yet if the citizens of our state ever got around to demanding those changes, it would behoove the people to pay special attention to the behavior of prosecutors and judges who cared more about making a splash in the media than they did about justice.
Well this book is about justice and that “special attention” from our citizenry, a collection of shocking stories which reduced a prominent lawyer and model parent into a bankrupt fugitive. It explains why Joe suffered as he did in court after remaining oblivious to all those citizens who complained before the very commissions he helped create. It details the potential consequences for those who truly care about abused children and seriously act to reform our courts.
It is also a story of love and devotion. You can send a man across the world and he’ll sacrifice his life in the war on terrorism, you can cultivate domestic violence through draconian laws and he’ll risk himself again in the name of public safety, you can even resurrect debtor prisons for child support and he’ll do his time under protest, but never come between a daddy and his little girls. Even when they’re ninety years of age, he’s busy constructing mansions for them in heaven.