Judge who did time peddling prison survival skills

BY DAVID OVALLE

Former Miami-Dade County Judge Harvey Shenberg returns to Miami this week to promote his new consulting business, Prison Planning, which helps inmates prepare and cope with their new lives in prison.
For newcomers to the federal pen, mistakes are easy to make: cutting in the chow line, arguing about what's on television, befriending the wrong inmates.

In his shell-shocked early days behind bars, former Miami-Dade County Judge Harvey Shenberg angered a fellow inmate when he casually looked into his cell while walking down the hall. He saw nothing -- but wasn't spared some angry words of advice.

``You might see somebody raping someone, you may see someone getting killed,'' Shenberg said. ``So now you're in the middle of it and witnessed something you didn't want to witness.''

After nearly 11 years in federal prison for his role in the notorious Miami-Dade judicial corruption scandal dubbed Operation Court Broom, Shenberg, 67, is hoping to parlay his mistakes and successes behind bars into a new career as an advice guru and social worker of sorts for inmates and their families.

Shenberg returned to Miami-Dade County last week to start promoting his new consulting business, Prison Planning, and meet with two clients soon headed to prison and a third awaiting trial.

It's the latest twist for someone who staked his career on law and order, first as a Dade prosecutor, then as a 19-year defense attorney, and finally as a county court judge.

But that life came crashed down in embarrassing fashion.

BUSTED

In 1991, federal agents videotaped Shenberg accepting cash for giving a defense attorney the name of a confidential informant who had been marked for murder. Shenberg -- who earned about $90,000 a year and later lost his state pension -- famously told a fellow judge he needed the money to put his son through college.

The investigation netted several other Miami-Dade judges and lawyers. After a 10 ½-month trial, Shenberg was convicted of racketeering conspiracy and extortion.

Today, Shenberg admits: ``I was a crummy criminal.''

But he doesn't shy away from his past. On his new website -- PrisonPlanning.com -- he even displays his prison ID card and a lengthy description of his time in the pen.

Released from a Miami halfway house in February 2008, and having just completed court supervision earlier this year, the idea for the consulting firm came from Shenberg's volunteer work helping inmates with the Aleph Institute, a nonprofit that supports Jewish prisoners.

``I wish I had had someone like me before I went in -- and that's with 20-something years in the criminal justice system. Prison is a whole other world,'' he said.

DIPLOMACY, SMARTS

Shenberg says he survived through a mix of diplomacy and savvy in a ``world inside a world'' segregated by race and internal prison class, where outcast groups like ``cooperators'' and child molesters stuck together.

Mostly, he says, he learned humility.

``All of a sudden you go from being in control of your life to someone controlling your life,'' he recalled. ``You go from telling people what to do to begging people on the outside to send you a magazine, or to help your family out.''

His company, run with his wife from their Arizona condo, is one of a handful of for-profit consulting companies nationwide aimed at walking prisoners and their families through the experience.

Herbert J. Hoelter, executive director and co-founder of the nonprofit National Center on Institutions and Alternatives, said Shenberg's effort will be positive for clients, though probably not too lucrative.

``I think it's helpful. To me, it's not a big for-profit money-maker thing,'' Hoelter said. ``But people need assistance, whether they can afford it or not. Prison is a searing experience.''

For business, Shenberg -- whose mother still lives in Miami -- is soliciting lawyers in Miami-Dade. He says he doesn't expect to rake in the money, but wants to help.

``There is use for his services. A lot of attorneys are ill-equipped to give out the type of information he is giving, or don't have the inclination or the time,'' said Miami defense attorney Jose Quiñon, who represented co-defendant Alfonso Sepe, a Circuit Court judge.

``Maybe [Shenberg] can help some people, and at the same time put some food on the table. He's paid his debt to society.''

POTENTIAL CLIENTS

Shenberg's target clientele: white-collar convicts who will likely be allowed to surrender, rather than being thrown in the slammer straight from the courtroom.

Shenberg offers advice on free videos, but he stresses the benefits of dialogue that books and Web pages can't provide. That may run a couple of hundred bucks for a telephone consultation, or up to $1,500 for a face-to-face meeting.

The advice starts with the practical: Before surrender, get your teeth deep-cleaned by a dentist, make copies of your medical records and, if needed, pack two pairs of glasses. Lockdowns are inevitable, so stock extra food and books in your cell.

There's also the philosophical: Prison isn't fair. Stay under the radar. Don't gripe. Accept that some guards live to make your life hell.

Shenberg thinks he's earned credibility. He spent time at nine facilities, including in Miami and Mississippi, and two short but hellacious stints at the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary, where he was locked up 23 out of 24 hours.

When Shenberg first arrived at Miami's federal prison, one inmate marked him for stabbing because he mistakingly thought he was the judge who had sentenced him. The plot fell apart when the inmate learned Shenberg was in fact not his judge.

``Three weeks later, we had a great relationship,'' Shenberg said.

In the Miami penitentiary, Shenberg refused extra protection or to be placed in special housing -- even when a newspaper article about Operation Court Broom circulated among prisoners.

Just as he didn't cooperate with federal agents in Court Broom, he chose not to complain to guards, lest he end up in special housing alienated from the prison populace.

And while some inmates hustled by gambling or washing laundry for food, he was lucky to have family replenishing his commissary account. So he worked resodding sports fields and handing out sports equipment and ceramics supplies. And, as he got closer to release, he began to work on a plan for his new business -- something he hopes his clients will be able to emulate.

``We want people to get something beneficial out of a terrible situation,'' he said.