Judge Not

Fall from honor. How Sol Watchler went from esteemed Chief Judge of New York to shamed prison inmate.

By PT Staff, published on July 01, 1997 - last reviewed on February 08, 2007

Believe it or not, the worst moment was not when I was stabbed and put in solitary confinement—although, if you put splints under my fingernails and told me to tell you what happened in solitary, I couldn't, because the human mind locks these unpleasant thoughts out. No, the worst moment was when I was flown from one prison to another, with my wrists shackled together and a waist chain on, and I had to walk across the airport tarmac with everyone staring at me. And then the two sets of guards from the different prisons argued as to whom the chains belonged to. And I couldn't even go to the bathroom.

In your prison diary, you go from a position of shock and profound humiliation to a sort of forgiveness—forgiveness of the illness that contributed to your downfall.

You mean resignation. Up to a certain moment, if they had told me to jump off the roof, I probably would have done it. I was just so sapped of any self respect or dignity. I was a prisoner. I was dirt. I even tried to filch a bag of potato chips [from the prison cafeteria].

But there was a point at which you resisted.

When I had to go to the Mayo Clinic to be tested for cancer. They opened up a suitcase and started putting on the shackles and chains. I said, "No, I'd rather die of cancer."

It also struck me that you seemed to develop a sense of humor—which was no doubt difficult given the circumstances. Was that a survival tool?

Absolutely. After a while I started listening to the guards. A guard would say, "What're you doing, sitting there?" I'd say, "I'm resting." "Who told you you could sit there?" "Well, no one. But there was a bench." "If you are going to sit on a bench, you are to sit on that bench over there." "Yessing" I get up and sit on that bench and the guard says, "Who told you you could sit there?" "You just said that's the bench I could sit on." "If I give you permission to sit on it." Now normally I would either be intimidated or upset. After a while I said, "This is really funny." I started to be more philosophical.

To read your book is to think this sort of sadism exists throughout the system, from the guards to the prosecutor to the way the FBI handled your case.

Each one is different. The prison guard was a bully, but the prosecutor was a publicity hound. When I was arrested, he said, "Keep Wachtler here until the press is seated and the cameras are set up for the press conference. I want to make the evening news." That's a terrible abuse of power. And where did the FBI arrest me? On the expressway. If they had waited five minutes, I would have been in my driveway and they could have arrested me there.

[In a letter to the New York Times in May, the prosecutor in Wachtler's case, Michael Chertoff, wrote that the FBI apprehended Wachtler on the expressway because there was a slight risk "that Mr. Wachtler could harm himself or others" if arrested at his home. "In fact," continued Chertoff, "the last place law enforcement officers want to arrest a potentially violent individual is at his home, where there may be weapons or where others may be placed in jeopardy."]

In a book called The Abuse Excuse, Allen Dershowitz complained about people who attribute their criminal behavior to mental disorders. He called this a cop-out. What do you think?

Dershowitz is saying these conditions shouldn't be an excuse, and I agree. You have to draw a distinction between excuses and explanations. There is something called "diminished capacity," where the judge can take into account a mental illness or some disorder to diminish the sentence. But very few judges do it. And prosecutors never recommend it. Prosecutors say that just about anyone has some explanation for aberrational behavior unless the person is a sociopath.

When is something an explanation for a crime, and when does it become an excuse?

The law doesn't recognize explanations in terms of guilt or innocence—only in terms of lighter sentences. But it does excuse a crime in cases of legal insanity, where you didn't know right from wrong.

At the time, did you know that you were doing something wrong?

When you're manic, your judgment is so skewed that you think your actions have a justification. But this is not a legal excuse for misbehavior. It is a condition that should be treated. If it's not treated, then the person who commits an antisocial act could very well commit it again. Let's assume, hypothetically, that I served my 13 months, never was put on lithium, and never saw a psychiatrist. I would come out and be manic again.

There are still remarkably intelligent people who don't believe there's such a thing as bipolar disorder. And yet we have evidence that, to a certain extend, it's genetic.

The psychiatrist who treated me insisted I'd had bipolar disorder in my family. And I said "no." Then, after I thought through my family history, my wife went to my mother, and asked her how my maternal grandmother died. My mother had always told me my grandmother died of a broken heart. But then, when my wife asked my mother, she responded, "It wasn't my fault. I wasn't in the house when she died." It turns out my grandmother had violently committed suicide.

One of the key points you make in your book is the profound distinction between nonviolent and violent offenders.