TRAFICANT ON TRIAL The height of witness intimidation or a tall tale?

By PATRICIA MEADE
VINDICATOR CRIME REPORTER
CLEVELAND -- By Monday, the number of FBI agents who whupped up on Jim Traficant's friends will reach 61.
By Wednesday, it'll be 83.
By Friday, the number may reach 100.
That's his goal. He won't be happy until it's 100.
The intimidation FBI agents perpetrated on Traficant's friends is a national disgrace.
The congressman is taking agents' names. He's filing affidavits. He's on a roll.
Consider how FBI agents sometimes showed up to interview witnesses without calling ahead.
How frightening! (Not to mention rude).
They looked like FBI agents -- neat, bland suits, short hair, nondescript gray government cars.
Instant panic set in.
Some of the agents were tall!
That alone sent one former congressional staffer in Florida over the edge.
Who among us can't relate to the kind of mind-numbing fear that strikes in the presence of a tall person?!
The agents were polite, straightforward and considerate.
Where's the Valium? The smelling salts! The heart pills!
Sometimes two agents showed up to ask if Contractors A through Z did free work at Traficant's horse farm.
Now it's getting really scary.
The agents usually asked for copies of invoices, just in case a bill was sent to the congressman.
(The list of bills Traficant didn't get is staggering. He sat by the mailbox, waiting for bills. None came. It's not his fault. All those contractors who fell over one another on their way to the witness stand sent no stinking bills. His excuse is repeated daily: "I didn't get a bill. How could those FBI bastards expect me to pay a bill I never got? Those bastards.")
The terror the contractors felt by the agents' invoice request probably resulted in hives.
Didn't it?
Response: Uh, no, they all said, the agents were very nice.
To hear Traficant tell it, dozens of burly menacing agents in armored troop carriers would show up to interrogate witnesses. Interrogate -- not question -- interrogate, which conjures up visions of rubber hoses.
The agents, all former schoolyard bullies with sadistic mean streaks, made sure they dressed in full battle gear, weapons drawn.
They used bullhorns to announce their arrival and yelled: "COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP AND BRING YOUR FIRST-BORN CHILD! WE WILL KEEP THE CHILD UNTIL YOU GIVE US SOMETHING ON TRAFICANT! IF YOU DON'T HAVE A CHILD, WE'LL TAKE YOUR WIFE!"
Well, Traficant says, his arms stretched out and up like the pope, can anyone blame his friends for making up stories to appease the FBI?
If they didn't make up stories, they'd rot 20 years in prison for bribing a congressman with oats and sawdust for his horses, driveways, farmhouse additions, riding lawnmowers and free labor.
Because they gave up Traficant, the contractors' only punishment is 100 hours of listening to old tapes of his radio appearances on WKBN and WTAM.
If the contractors can predict before the tapes play how many times Traficant will say "son of a truck driver," "relative to," or "salient points," they can reduce their sentence to 75 hours.
Server: Traficant says some of the out-of-control FBI agents, easily spotted by the wild look in their eyes, black earpieces, rifles with laser scopes, night goggles and infrared cameras, have been following his subpoena server.
Those agents need to find out who the defense witnesses are! They need to neutralize them! They need to take the witnesses' children or wives hostage!
Uh, the agents could save themselves a lot of time and just check the U.S. District Court Web site. It shows all the returned subpoenas, complete with each witness's name and address.
OK, the subpoena server, a "private investigator," didn't get the license plate number of the small silver car he followed. He didn't exactly see the badge, either, but swears (under oath) that it appeared to be an FBI badge.
Well, the obviously terrified subpoena server can't be expected to recall all the alarming details. He did his part by giving an affidavit to Traficant.
Short staffer: The scariest story yet involves a tall (therefore terrifying) FBI agent and a short 23-year-old congressional staffer who has a driver's license. Without it, she couldn't ferry Traficant to court each day.
She's missed only one day.
Forget Pearl Harbor, the day the 60-year-old congressman had to walk to court is the day that will live in infamy.
That's the day the staffer had to talk to a doctor about her mental health.
She went to the doctor after four sleepless, nightmare-filled nights.
The 5-foot 2-inch staffer (see the imagery here: big mean FBI agent and tiny little thing) has been scared to death since the agent dared to speak to her. She's got migraines. She's popping sleeping pills.
Huh?
Oh, yeah, he had the audacity to ask why she wanted to get into the locked courtroom.
Huh?
She never felt so intimidated or scared in her life! She wasn't sure what he was going to do to her!
Would he shoot her outside Judge Lesley Brooks Wells' courtroom? FBI agents' guns have silencers, you know.
He could have dragged her lifeless body into the witness room, grabbed a towel and wiped the blood off the marble hallway.
Yeah, that could have happened.
No doubt.
Probably happens all the time.
She doesn't trust the government now. Who could blame her?
The FBI agent, Traficant says, tampered with a witness, obstructed justice and probably has lots of witnesses' first-born children or wives stashed in his garage.
The agent, No. 47 in Traficant's imaginary tally, is not gonna get away with speaking to a staffer. Not while Jim Traficant has a pair of denim bell bottoms and skinny tie left to his name!
Well, the staffer must have an evil twin.
The evil twin called the agent a son of a bitch -- yelled it down the hall.
Afterward, the evil twin, minus any signs of a migraine, exchanged pleasantries with reporters outside court.
Hey, reporters asked, what's with Traficant saying today that one of his staffers was intimidated in the hall?
The evil twin knew nothing about it.
The staffer -- or her evil twin -- is a defense witness.
Predicting how long it will take the delicate staffer to cry big sobbing tears -- after she swears to tell the truth and takes the witness stand -- is the latest game in and outside Cleveland's federal courthouse.
meade@vindy.com