As the influential chief judge of the state's top court, Sol Wachtler defined the law on solitary confinement, strip search, and random drug testing. He later became personally acquainted with those procedures as an inmate in federal prison.
His life is full of such ironies.
Once considered a Republican contender for governor, Wachtler, now 82, is living out his later years advocating for, as he described it, "a population that no one gives a damn about": mentally ill prisoners.
He knows this indifference from personal experience.
First elected to the Court of Appeals in 1972, Wachtler was smart, attractive and confident. He built a solid reputation as a brilliant jurist during his over two decades on the bench. Then came his shocking arrest in 1992.
In the lead-up to his downfall, Wachtler had been quietly unravelling, and was convinced his mental instability was the result of a brain tumor. Psychiatrists explained to a handcuffed Wachtler that the manic highs and depressing lows he'd been living with, and which influenced his criminal behavior, were manifestations of his severe bipolar disorder. He went on to spend 11 months in prison, where he said he was treated as a "nonperson."
Medication stabilized his mind, and as a free man, Wachtler wants to ensure that other mentally-ill inmates have it better than he.
It's a plight that's become a defining focus in his life.
Wachtler's spectacular collapse began after a four-year affair with heiress and Republican fundraiser Joy Silverman ended. In his desperation to get Silverman to seek comfort from him, Wachtler engaged in a 13-month campaign of obscene letters and hang-up calls under the guise of concocted identities. Exacerbated by a mix of amphetamines and tranquilizers, his psychosis intensified, along with his bizarre behavior. Wachtler is adamant that this does not excuse his actions. It does, however, at least help explain it.
Wachtler eventually threatened to kidnap Silverman's daughter, who was then 14 — the one charge to which he ultimately pleaded guilty.
He was sent to a federal prison in North Carolina, just hours from where he grew up. While there, he was stabbed by a fellow inmate, and then placed in solitary confinement for his own protection. He spent over a month completely alone in a cell the size of a bathroom, where the detrimental effects of isolation threatened his new-found mental clarity.
Sometimes, his thoughts drifted to a decision he'd made a decade earlier, when he expressed little sympathy for a man who spent five days isolated in a tiny cell.
"Merely confining an inmate in a segregated cell does not constitute cruel and unusual punishment," Wachtler wrote in Wilkinson v. Skinner.
His firsthand experience convinced him to ponder such questions more deeply. After his release, he spent years lobbying for a law in New York to keep the seriously mentally ill out of solitary confinement and provide them with treatment.
The law was passed, though there's debate over whether it's been fully implemented.
Wachtler also started the Law and Psychiatry Institute, which is part of the North Shore-Long Island Jewish Health System. The institute has held training for police, lawyers and judges about mental health disorders, and in recent years has been devoted to helping veterans with post-traumatic stress disorder who get caught up in the system.
While in prison, Wachtler had noticed the disproportionate number of veterans he was locked up with, and developed a friendship with one Vietnam veteran named Carl Terpak.
A three-time recipient of the Purple Heart, Terpak's desire to forget the horrors of combat spiraled him into a life of addiction and crime.
As a Korean War-era veteran and former military police officer, Wachtler understood the psychological consequences serving this country can bring.
Since prison, he's played a critical role in the establishment of the Veterans Court Program, which was created to ensure that veterans who commit nonviolent crimes as a result of combat-related afflictions are sent into treatment, not prison. He was also influential in the establishment of mental health courts in New York.
There are now 28 mental health courts and 17 veterans courts across New York, including two in Albany and two in Rensselaer counties. Yet Terpak wasn't fortunate enough to receive the compassion and support offered in a veteran's court. "I see no hope for Mr. Terpak without treatment," wrote one of his treating psychiatrists, care which he never received in prison. Terpak later committed suicide.
This death saddened Wachtler, as did a recent suicide of Bartholomew Ryan, a 32-year-old former Marine who hung himself at the Nassau County Jail just two days after he was arrested for DWI in 2012.
"In our haste to lock them up, we not only forgot our gratitude, we also seemed to forget that there is such a thing as the hidden wounds of war — ones that afflict the mind," wrote Wachtler in an op-ed about Ryan's death for Newsday.
Wachtler publishes op-eds in lots of newspapers, yet his relationship with the press is conflicted. Once glorified, he now fears the contextual condemnation that accompanies the mere mention of his name in the news.
"Every time a bad article comes out, my friends call me and say 'I still love you." Such assurances make him squirm. "I don't want people to feel like they have to say that. Even at a cocktail party, someone will say 'that guy belongs in prison' then say 'whoops, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you.'"
Wachtler has maintained friendships with many prominent people in the legal community, including Brooklyn District Attorney Charles "Joe" Hynes, Queens District Attorney Richard Brown, and former Court of Appeals Judge Joseph Bellacosa.
Wachtler was reinstated to the bar in 2007, and does mediation and arbitration work as well as consultation on law briefs. He also teaches First Amendment law at the Touro Law Center on Long Island, where there's a classroom named in his honor.
In his last lecture of the semester, Wachtler started class with a discussion of the prosecutorial decision not to read Boston Marathon bombings suspect Dzhokhar Tsarnaev his Miranda rights.
Commenting on the law might have been a bit intimidating for those students who realized that Wachtler had first advanced the public emergency exception to Miranda in New York state, a dissent later embraced by the U.S. Supreme Court, which holds that certain rights can be suspended if authorities are dealing with an imminent threat to the public.
Listening to Wachtler talk about the law is like taking a trip with him through history. In class, he energetically recites cases from memory, intermixed with personal stories about decisions he wrote or were authored by friends.
More than once, he name-drops Supreme Court justices and other legal celebrities — it's the kind of thing that's hard to keep to himself. "A modest person would. But I'm not a modest person," he said.
Wachtler's a legal superstar in his own right, which his students fully know. "He had a kind of tumultuous background, but that doesn't invalidate all the stuff he did," said Timothy Finnegan, a second-year law student in his class.
New York's Chief Judge Jonathan Lippman said Wachtler's influence on the court lives on today. "A lot of his decisions we look to as our precedent, and many of his initiatives are things we still follow to this day," said Lippman. "He's led a full life, and one that contributes greatly to society."
It's the type of legacy Wachtler hopes he leaves behind, but he fears his accomplishments will never outshine his misdeeds. "Unfortunately, I know what the first paragraph of my obituary is going to say: disgraced former judge," Wachtler said.
He might be wrong. His impact continues to reverberate. He still gets hundreds of letters from people who read his prison memoir, "After the Madness," and relate to his struggles.
"I can't tell you how many people start their letter by saying 'I've always been strictly for law and order,' or 'I always believed that if you do the crime you do the time,' until my family member...' and then they go on to tell a story about crime and mental illness that breaks your heart," Wachtler said.
Some mental illnesses are so complicated, and difficult to see, it can take years before symptoms become self-destructive. Bipolar disorder is one. A patient alternates between a depressed state and mania, which is marked by energetic and often euphoric periods.
It's not uncommon for manic individuals to be highly productive and fun to be around. This eventually gives way to depression, where patients find concentration difficult, life uninteresting. Over time, the cycling can become more extreme and more apparent.
Treatment requires vigilance. "I take my medication religiously," said Wachtler, pulling out a small round container and giving it a little shake, the pills clanking on the sides. "This is the most important thing, because when you're in a manic state you feel great and when you're not in it you miss it," said Wachtler. "The last thing you think you need is your medication."
Wachtler said his family has a history of mental illness, though he didn't know that until his 60s. While in the hospital following his arrest, a doctor asked Wachtler how his maternal grandmother died. His whole life, he'd been told she died of a broken heart, which was the answer he gave to the doctor. Later family inquiries revealed that his grandmother had sliced her own throat with a kitchen knife, Wachtler said.
It's a fact he wishes he had known. "I was stupid enough to think I could cure myself of it. If someone had said, 'Your grandmother cut her own throat and you think you can stop this with sleeping pills?' I might have had second thoughts."
He's still married to his wife, Joan, and the two live in Manhasset, Long Island. He still maintains his home in East Greenbush. He has four children, eight grandchildren, and enjoys a much quieter life now. He will celebrate his 83rd birthday Monday.
But he can't forget his past. In one recurring dream, he's in the Court of Appeals, wearing his robes, feeling delighted to be there. "I have that dream all the time, when I'm not having nightmares," he said.
The images and sounds of solitary confinement still haunt him. Sometimes he thinks he sees the cockroaches that visited him in his cell while he's lying warm and comfortable in his home.
The spectrum of his dreams reflect the breadth of his experience with the criminal justice system, from the heights of authority and adoration to the depths of powerlessness and disregard.
"I'm constantly aware of the fact that I'm diminished," said Wachtler. He feels that he's never had more to contribute, yet his past keeps him sidelined. "It's eliminated my value as a resource. And that's hurtful."
Still, Wachtler speaks to whoever will listen about the improvements he feels are needed in our courts and prisons, and hopes people will understand where he is coming from.
"That's also part of the rehabilitation process," said Wachtler. "You want to be accepted by people again."
asanto@timesunion.com 518-454-5008 @alysiasanto