A Guilty Verdict in the Blue Blood Trial of the (19th) Century

NEW YORK – The tabloids treated it as the greatest triumph of the criminal justice system since the 1977 arrest of Son of Sam. The New York Post, which at times makes the blogosphere seem like a bastion of old-fashioned decorum, thundered on its front page, "JUSTICE IS A BITCH" with the subhed: "Astor Verdict: Miss Piggy Big Loser."

These words were splashed over a photograph of a stiff-lipped Tony Marshall, the 85-year-old son of society matriarch Brooke Astor. He was convicted Thursday on 14 criminal counts of looting his mother's estate in the years before the white-gloved philanthropist – addled with Alzheimer's – died at age 105 in 2007. "Miss Piggy" refers to Marshall's third wife, Charlene, who was given that nickname by Mrs. Astor's nurses angered at her overbearing and parsimonious ways. Charlene Marshall was not technically a defendant during the five-month trial, but her greed and boorishness were unquestioned articles of faith in the tabloids.

Thursday's Daily News went with comparatively muted headlines like this one over a column by Joanna Malloy: "Their blue blood was ice cold." This reference to the Marshalls fit a narrative that had grown to the size of a 19^th century Russian novel – filled with subplots and society icons – that had been building since the Daily News broke the story in the summer of 2006 that Brooke Astor was in jeopardy. The triggering event was a lawsuit filed by Mrs. Astor's grandson Phillip Marshall (aided by an all-star team of David Rockefeller, Annette de la Renta and, yes, Henry Kissinger), claiming that Tony Marshall, Phillip's father, was deliberately stinting on the care of his mother, whose fortune was close to $200 million. (By the way, Brooke Astor was not an Astor by birth. In 1953 she married her third husband, Vincent Astor, the grandson of 19^th century social icon Caroline Astor. Brooke inherited the family fortune when Vincent died in 1959.)

Forgive me for getting swept away with the riveting details of pilferage on Park Avenue and money-mad machinations over Mrs. Astor's vacation enclave in Maine. But I have been living with this sad-eyed Astor saga since 2006, as my wife, Meryl Gordon, wrote a best-selling book Mrs. Astor Regrets on the family struggle that led up to Tony Marshall's criminal indictment and has been covering the current trial for Vanity Fair. As a result, I have met many of the key players and have spent several days in court dabbling as an apprentice member of the Astor press corps. I even wrote an interim report on the trial for Politics Daily.

In the 24 hours since the verdict, I have been surprised by my emotional reaction. In no way do I doubt Tony Marshall's guilt as he forced his mother (who, in her own words, was "gaga") to sign new wills and codicils that dramatically increased his share of her estate at the expense of bequests that would have gone to her favored charities such as the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the New York Public Library. Nor do I question the standard interpretation that Tony Marshall had wanted to get the Astor fortune now because if he pre-deceased his mother, Charlene would merely inherit two pieces of jewelry and two used fur coats (the Astor fortune began with fur trading) far too small for her stocky frame.

What troubles me, I guess, is that because Marshall is guilty of a felony, he will have to serve a minimum of a year in prison under New York State's mandatory sentencing laws. What possible good can come from sending an 85-year-old man (close to the oldest defendant in the recent history of Manhattan's criminal courts) to the slammer? If ever there was a case that cried out for judicial flexibility in sentencing, it is this one.

Please understand that I have scant sympathy for Tony Marshall, blessed with a far greater sense of entitlement than his modest life achievements would justify. Yes, he stormed the beaches at Iwo Jima in 1945 and apparently was a useful mid-level CIA operative in the 1950s. But this clubbable man had been living off his mother's name and money for half a century. Brooke Astor's campaign contributions to Richard Nixon bought him minor ambassadorships, and then she paid him for the arduous task of managing her money.

Yes, there was something touching and pathetic to watching him in the courtroom, frail and clinging to a cane, carrying a leather-bound book (perhaps from his mother's library) and always wearing his Marine Corps tie clip, a talisman conjuring up an era when honor played a role in his life. In all likelihood, Tony Marshall was guilty of acting cravenly, avariciously and illegally in the name of love. His love for Charlene (once the wife of the minister of the church that Brooke Astor attended in Maine) trumped all filial feeling towards his mother.

It is not necessary to get too deep into Gilbert and Sullivan ("My object all sublime/I shall achieve in time /To let the punishment fit the crime") to imagine fitting alternatives to jail time. House arrest and an ankle bracelet might be a start. But if Tony Marshall were confined to his co-op, he might not know that he was forever shunned in all clubs and other watering holes where gentlemen gather to pretend it is still the 1950s. I want him to walk the familiar streets of the Upper East Side, leaning on his cane and his wife, and notice that everyone who recognizes him on the sidewalk averts their eyes in disgust.

The label "trial of the century" was already hackneyed by the time Bruno Hauptmann was convicted in 1935 for kidnapping the Lindbergh baby. But in many ways, the Astor trial was indeed a trial of the century – the late 19^th century. Nothing is more evocative of the New York City of hansom cabs and footmen and of a social order defined by the 400 who could fit into Caroline Astor's ballroom. Then as now, character ultimately mattered as much as the trappings of wealth and privilege. And by that standard – ratified by the judgment of the eight women and four men of the Astor jury – Tony Marshall is guilty, guilty, guilty.