A Lawyer to Wiseguys Would Rule Sin City

By Steve Lopez/Las Vegas

He calls his swanky law office "the house the Mob built." Its walls are decorated with newspaper stories about acquittals he won for alleged organized-crime figures. A toy rat lies dead in a trap near the fireplace, and a pair of steel balls given him by two reputed wiseguys hangs over the door. His name is Oscar Goodman, and he could be the next mayor of Las Vegas. As he tours Sin City on the campaign trail--gloating over its tacky exuberance, making love with it--I ride shotgun.

"Did you see those women crying?" Goodman asks as his driver pulls away from the Showboat hotel and casino. Just moments before, he had moved a group of seniors with a story of his 89-year-old mother teaching sculpture to blind children. Goodman, 59, walked out of the room with votes sticking to him like Post-it notes.

In corporate offices around town, though, Goodman's critics are worried that his client list--which once included Meyer Lansky and is riddled with the names of other alleged mobsters--could spell trouble. Chamber of Commerce president Pat Shalmy says that if Goodman is elected, "the image we've been trying to improve over the years might be set back." Goodman responds by quoting his mother: "My son's clients don't hurt anybody. They just kill each other."

This is where my past and Goodman's intersect. I have dodged mortar shells in Bosnia and once kissed a photo of Saddam Hussein on orders from Iraqi soldiers, but never have I been more terrified than on a lovely day in May 1988, with Goodman at my side.

That was in Philadelphia, where Goodman grew up, and still defended clients. And on that Tuesday--just as he had promised--nine reputed members of a local crime family, including a Goodman client nicknamed Crazy Phil, beat a murder rap. Goodman had vowed to mark the moment by jumping nude into the fountain of the Four Seasons Hotel, but was stopped by hotel security. He put his clothes on and joined a party of hundreds of the defendants' friends feasting on champagne and hoagies.

In what might have been the dumbest move in the history of journalism, I crashed the party--and was recognized as the local newspaper hack who had been hammering the Mob. When I was threatened--something about sleeping with the fishes--I turned to Goodman for help. He shrugged. I ran for my life. And 11 years later he makes no apologies. That's why he might be perfect for Las Vegas, a town that apologizes for nothing.

Goodman's practice includes civil law, and he represents only a few reputed wiseguys, but that's where his celebrity comes from. Goodman played himself in the movie Casino, as the attorney for a Mob character portrayed by actor Joe Pesci. At a roast honoring Goodman, tributes poured in from prisons across the land, including a teasing video from an alleged mobster who said, "Without you, I wouldn't be where I am today."

So why would a guy so rich and famous run for the mostly thankless job of mayor? "I had always fought the System from outside," says Goodman, "and figured I'd take a shot at doing some good from inside." Goodman has lived 35 years in Las Vegas and has proved a tireless glad-hander during this campaign. He has led in the polls, including one published last Thursday, and is expected to win this week's primary, though not with a margin large enough to avoid a runoff vote in June.

And what of the issues, you ask? Well, Las Vegas, the fastest-growing U.S. city, is choked by traffic and smog, and Goodman has accused his chief rivals--city councilman Arnie Adamsen and developer Mark Fine--of being part of the problem. While at a candidates' forum, Adamsen fires back, whispering, with eyebrow raised, that Goodman has told a local newspaper that he favors legalizing drugs and prostitution (the latter is already legal in most parts of Nevada).

Goodman dismisses the charge as "out of context" and adds, somewhat menacingly, that his rival "is going to end up on his knees begging forgiveness." Though he believes philosophically in legalization of those vices, Goodman says, he would never push for it as mayor. What he would push for is impact fees on developers to pay for new roads and parks. (But Las Vegans should be skeptical: Goodman, a bench warmer for the Haverford College football team, told his future wife he was a star--and she still believes him.)

That night, at the Palm restaurant in Caesars Palace, Goodman is greeted like a Roman god by diners and staff. "I love it, I love it, I love it!" he exults, and after his meal, when a waiter comes up to hug him, Goodman uses a line he picked up in Philadelphia: "Vote early and often."