Caviar Crimes: A Tale of Smuggling, Internet Fraud and Stand-up Comedy

By Jonathan Schwartz

Tom McGuire is on stage in a comedy club, pursuing his dream as a stand-up wannabe. A disturbance in the audience leads to the discovery that one of Maria's 'clients' at her County job is the aged mother of a Russian caviar smuggler in big trouble with the FBI. Tom represents the smuggler, with disastrous results. A stock promoter Tom prosecuted while working at the US Attorney's office has put Tom's friend and dock neighbor Murray Markoff up to promoting a bogus public company on the Internet, touting the stock of a cold fusion company through a variety of misleading screen-name personae. Throughout, the action is punctuated by Tom's comedy performances and nights in stand-up comedy workshop, and well-informed descriptions of stand-up technique, and the culture of comedy and comedians. The author describes the step-by-step process of a classic 'pump and dump' stock scheme, and how promoters have learned to use Internet chat rooms to generate buying momentum.

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Editorial Reviews

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Schwartz
• Release date: Aug 25, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465726735

Jonathan Schwartz

Jonathan Schwartz was born in Washington D.C. After graduating from Bard College and the University of Pennsylvania Law School, he went to work in Washington D.C. for the Federal Trade Commission, and later for the Department of Commerce. He ultimately made the decision to accept an SEC position in Los Angeles, and decided to make Southern California his home. He now lives and practices law in Marina del Rey, California, where his private law practice is limited to securities regulation, disputes between broker-dealers and customers, securities fraud, and enforcement. He worked his way through college as a professional musician and has performed stand-up comedy at numerous venues in the Los Angeles area.

Book preview

Chapter 1

NOW COMING TO THE STAGE, A VERY FUNNY MAN AND A GOOD FRIEND OF MINE. PUT YOUR HANDS TOGETHER FOR....SHARKY!

The secret of performing standup comedy is convincing yourself that you belong up here. If you believe it, so will your audience. It had taken me years of doing these shows before I had the courage to look at the audience. I would see myself on videotape with my eyes squinted almost shut and tell myself it was because of the spotlight, but really I was scared to look. Even now someone up front with a big 'I'm bored and I'm pissed' look on his face can throw me off. One night I called it, and told the guy that he looked like he had a rutabaga in his ass, and if I helped him get it out would he laugh at my jokes. It got a laugh, and after that I could ignore him. The rutabaga guy went from boredom to hatred, of course, but that was ok because by then I had the crowd with me. It's funny how you can single out one person and they're ready to turn on him.

It's all over in the first thirty seconds. They like you or they don't.

IS IT TOO LATE TO DO EARTHQUAKE MATERIAL?

There was a major earthquake two months ago, and a couple of strong aftershocks last week. It scares people. Tonight I'm hoping they're still anxious, and ready to laugh about it. They give me permission; do the earthquake material.

IF YOU WRITE MATERIAL ABOUT CURRENT EVENTS IT GETS OLD FAST, THEN YOU CAN'T USE IT ANYMORE. THAT'S WHAT HAPPENED TO ALL MY CIVIL WAR STUFF, MY TRUMAN ADMINISTRATION STUFF

Now they want to hear the earthquake jokes, but I'm not going to do them right away.

I'VE GOT TEN MINUTES OF DYNAMITE DAN QUAYLE.

It's funny that after all these years you can still get a laugh if you say 'Dan Quayle.'

COMEDIANS HAVE A DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVE ON THINGS. WHEN THOSE AFTERSHOCKS HIT THE OTHER DAY, MOST PEOPLE WERE SCARED TO DEATH, BUT I WAS THINKING ‘OH GOOD, NOW I CAN DO MY EARTHQUAKE MATERIAL AGAIN.’

This invites the audience inside; lets the barrier down. I'm telling you how it feels to do comedy, to think about putting together a show. See, I'm confident enough to discuss it, not just stand up here and do my act like a windup toy.

I WAS PREPARED FOR THIS EARTHQUAKE. I HAD SIX CASES OF BOTTLED WATER. I HAD A BATTERY POWERED RADIO. I HAD A FLASHLIGHT. I HAD A CASE OF BATTERIES, A CASE OF CANDLES. I HAD A FIRST AID KIT. IT WAS ALL STACKED UP IN MY BEDROOM. WHEN THE EARTHQUAKE HIT IT FELL ON ME.

Got 'em. Now let them laugh. Cutting off a laugh is one of the biggest mistakes. Being nervous so you hurry on to the next piece of business. You're there to get laughs. When you get one don't step on it. If you start talking while they're laughing they'll stop to hear what you're going to say.

I'M LYING THERE. I'M PINNED TO THE BED. BUT IT'S OK, I'VE GOT EVERYTHING I NEED. I LIGHT A CANDLE. I POUR MYSELF A GLASS OF WATER. I TURN ON THE RADIO. THE RADIO SAYS THERE WAS AN EARTHQUAKE. I KNEW THAT.

I wasn't kidding when I told them the aftershocks were a godsend for me. The show is off the ground now. I can relax and enjoy myself.

I GOT AN INSIGHT INTO THE KIND OF PERSON WHO DOESN'T UNDERSTAND ANYTHING UNLESS HE SEES IT ON TELEVISION. THE EARTHQUAKE HITS, I FINALLY GET OUT IN THE STREET IN MY BATHROBE. IT'S DARK. MY NEIGHBOR IS STANDING THERE. HE SAYS 'I CAN’T WAIT FOR THE POWER TO COME BACK ON SO I CAN TURN ON THE TV AND FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENED.'

A few laughs; people in the audience recognizing their own reaction to the big event. I wait for a moment, milking the line, then.

I TELL HIM 'MAX, IT WAS AN EARTHQUAKE. YOUR HOUSE FELL DOWN.'

Enough earthquakes. There's a man at ringside with a woman sitting on either side of him.

SIR, CAN I ASK YOU YOUR NAME?

He winces, but he tells me. Am I going to pick on him?

ARE YOU HAVING A GOOD TIME?

They always say 'yes.' I've never had to deal with a 'no.'

YOU LOOK LIKE YOU'RE HAVING A GOOD TIME, SITTING THERE BETWEEN TWO GOOD-LOOKING WOMEN.

His companions smile. I'm not going to pick on them after all. I'm buttering up my audience.

THE ONLY THING THAT'S MORE FUN THAN SITTING BETWEEN TWO WOMEN IS SITTING BETWEEN ONE WOMAN.

This is an effective joke but it always takes an extra beat or two to sink in. I don't know what it is; they don't believe I said it or they can't figure out what it means all at once. Sooner or later the light goes on, and it always gets a laugh. I stand there and mug; wide-eyed innocence. Let them laugh. Did I say something naughty? A little shrug. Goose the laugh along. Then when it starts to taper off.

I REALLY LOVE THAT JOKE

Once you get them laughing it's much easier. If it gets good enough they say you can read from the phone book. Again, I'm lowering the barrier, letting them inside, telling them how I feel about the material. The key to standup comedy is sincerity. When you can fake that you've got it made.

IT'S GOING TO BE ON THE FINAL.

I'm careful not to tell my clients that I do standup because I know it would inspire distrust. It scares you to imagine your lawyer making jokes in Court. 'A funny thing happened to me on the way over here, your Honor.' And deep down most people sense that the mental attitude you need to do comedy, whatever that attitude may be, is inconsistent with the kind of outlook needed to do law. Once you start to laugh at the legal system, after all, where are you going to stop?

Some lawyers are impressed with my comedy, though, the ones who don't dismiss me as a fool. A couple of the biggest, scariest courtroom litigators I know have told me they couldn't imagine having the nerve to do it. These are men who could intimidate the paint off a locomotive. Them I don't mind telling I do comedy.

Doing standup has been good for me. After you've done a bad set in front of a hostile crowd, screwing up worse and worse as your interminable time goes by, most things that happen offstage tend to be less frightening.

I get the light, and get off. Win or lose, at least I've learned to bring my show in on time. I go back to the greenroom, where there are more performers waiting to go on, some of them staring into space with glazed looks, mumbling lines to themselves. Nobody looks relaxed. There's an undercurrent of tension that runs through the whole place, including the audience. You can feel it in any comedy club. Standup is edgy, and not just because it can be obscene or abusive, though it often is. It can just as easily be too intimate for comfort. Take your date out for a few drinks and a laugh and suddenly you're witnessing revelations, confessions, nightmares, all tricked out as entertainment. You don't need lions to eat these Christians; they eat themselves.

Maria is sitting at a table in the audience. There's a glass of white wine on the table. I wonder which was the greater imposition, asking her to come with me or subjecting her to comedy-club house wine instead of her usual white Bordeaux. Her dark Hispanic good looks float luminously in the half-lit room. Another comedian is on stage, complaining about being out of work and out of luck.

I DIDN'T EXACTLY LOSE MY JOB; I KNOW WHERE IT IS

Maria has been more or less living with me on my boat for years now; she's heard all my jokes. You live with someone, you hardly ever crack them up. Still, I can get her once in a while.

I get closer and see she's talking with somebody sitting next to her, a short bulky man in a suit. The out-of-luck comedian is just winding up.

THOSE GUYS WHO STAND AROUND WITH SIGNS SAYING 'WILL WORK FOR FOOD?' WHAT DO THEY THINK THE REST OF US ARE WORKING FOR?

Something peculiar about the suit, but I don't have time to figure out what it is because just then he grabs Maria's arm, hard. I can see her wince. I'm standing right behind them. This is where things get strange. I pick up a beer bottle from another table and slam Maria's assailant with it. On the temple. He goes down. I was going to hit him on top, but as I go into it I remember the phrase 'upside the head' and think the side must be the right place.

The last time I hit anyone I was in grade school. It's been a long time since grade school so I figure I've got to put the guy out of action before he gets a chance to deal with me. But really, in the moment I'm not thinking at all; I'm like the hundred-and-five pound housewife who lifts the car off her kid after a traffic accident.

As the beer bottle connects, beer spurts up the sleeve of the silk tweed jacket I always wear on stage, and I think about how chancy it can be to dry clean silk. People scream, jump up, draw away from us. House lights come on. No more comedy tonight. I put the beer bottle down and raise my hands up a little. Call the police, I say. Maria, who owns and operates a small collection of handguns, pokes at the guy's suit jacket a few times and finds a semi-automatic handgun, which she unloads and puts down on the table next to her untouched glass of wine. They don’t use metal detectors at the Comedy Store on weekday nights, only on weekends.

As we wait for the police, the room empties out except for the Manager and some of the other comedians on the bill; friends of mine. Mostly I'm hoping the man I hit doesn't get up, but I'm also thinking of all the improv classes I took at Second City a few years back when I couldn't seem to get my standup moving. Improv teaches you how to do things without thinking about them first. I never realized how dangerous that could be.

* * * * * *

Chapter 2

West Hollywood uniforms. Gutierrez and Tran, looking like high school kids. They had waived the height requirement for Tran but he didn't look like it was going to be a problem for him.

Whattayou, a comedian? Gutierrez wanted to know. Tran was off in a corner talking into his radio and looking at papers he had taken from the unconscious man's wallet. Bad Suit was downstairs with the paramedics. He was still unconscious when they carried him out. Upside the head had obviously been right.

Only in my spare time, Officer. My name is Tom McGuire. I'm a lawyer.

He looked at a scrap of paper in his hand. So who's Sharky? It must have been a list of that night's comedians.

Sharky is my stage name.

Cute.

It had really been an astonishingly bad suit, vaguely reminiscent of the material used for auto seat covers in the late Fifties, shiny and strange.

He grabbed you? Whattid he want? To Maria.

He sat down at my table and started talking to me, she said. He had a heavy accent. Russian, I think. That explained the suit. I told him to be quiet, there was a show going on. That's when he grabbed me.

Gutierrez said You know the guy?

No.

You ever seen him before?

No.

You took that handgun from him?

Yes.

Why'd you take his weapon?

So he wouldn't be able to shoot me with it.

It was going to take Gutierrez a while to make Sergeant. He turned back to me.

So basically he's coming on to your girlfriend so you assault him with a beer bottle? Writing his report already in his head.

Maybe I should have waited till he pulled the gun?

He squinted at me. Right. A comedian.

He wanted to arrest me, not the guy I hit, but it was the automatic that made the difference. Good guys don't carry concealed weapons into the Comedy Store. Also, I told Gutierrez to talk to Detective Radovich at County Homicide. We had been on the same side of something, once. I hoped he would stand up for me. We were free to go.

We drove up Sunset, then down the long hill at La Cienega. The streets were dark and empty. New York may be the city that never sleeps; West Los Angeles sacks out most nights around two or three.

Maria said You know, a lot of times it can come down to knowing how to ask the right question.

What do you mean?

In my job, for example. You can interview someone all afternoon and get nowhere. But there's a magic question, the one you need to ask that gets you the information you want. You almost have to read their minds, when it's someone who's embarrassed or protecting a family member, or just scared.

Maria worked for the L.A. County Department of Adult Protective Services, which usually involved defending the elderly from their children, or from the assaults of time, illness or poverty.

So what's the question?

Gutierrez asked me if I knew the man you hit, and I said I didn't. But I know who he is. He didn't ask me that.

So who is he?

Sergei Istkovich.

Who's that?

Irena Istkovich's nephew.

Of course.

I had no idea what she was talking about. We turned right at Venice Boulevard, and drove for a while in silence. We were exhausted. Things were finally slowing down.

I said So please, who was he?

Irena says he's a poet.

Huh?

In Russia. She says he used to write poetry.

I looked over at her sitting in the passenger seat, gorgeous in tan cashmere and pearls. Maria always seems to have a still center about her. Just the opposite of me. She could be completely open, sometimes shockingly so, but not to cross-examination. In the years we had been together I had unlearned a lifetime of that kind of technique. Sometimes it seemed things took a little longer her way, but there were rewards.

I said You're going to explain all this to me, right?

She shrugged. "It's nothing much, really. Irena

Istkovich is one of my cases. I’ve been expecting her nephew to come looking for me. I didn't expect he'd be so rough."

I could say the same thing about myself. I might have killed him.

At Marina del Rey, we drove along the seawall of C Basin and parked near our dock. A stiff wet wind was blowing across the Marina, raising a chop and rattling halyards. Den Mother bobbed sedately at the end-tie in the semidarkness; forty-eight feet of post-war mahogany Chris-Craft. Waterfront