It's the morning of August 18th, 1980.

Outside of federal courthouse in Brooklyn, the sidewalks are packed with journalists and

TV cameramen.

There's a row of photographers leaning against parked cars like soldiers in a bunker.

And nearby, dozens of onlookers are standing around, trying to figure out what's causing

such a scene.

A minute later, they get their answer, as a sedan pulls up to the curb in the journalist's

pounce, snapping photos and hurling questions that a man who's become the center of one

of the most unusual political scandals in decades.

Mel Weinberg is a lifelong con man.

He's barrel-chested and wearing a cream-colored three-piece suit and a pair of tinted aviator

sunglasses and on his pinkies or gold rings studded with diamonds.

It's been a long time since Weinberg had any trouble making money.

For years, he'd made a fortune stealing from celebrities, businessmen, members of the

mob, even terrorists.

Some of his schemes are so brazen and creative, he's earned a near-mythical status among fellow

criminals.

Weinberg has a reputation as someone who can con even the most powerful people in the

world, people who enjoy special privileges and layers of protection and security.

Now, Weinberg's job is to lay it all out for a jury, telling the truth as far as he

sees it, that elected leaders are nothing more than common crooks, and that as long as

he's got an envelope stuffed with cash, America's politicians are willing to play ball.

...