The best solution is to get rid of the psycho-BS testimony. People who commit serious crimes have mental issues. They are not normal. Punishment should be based on the crime, not on the perps mental problems.
By Chuck Strouse
By Scott Fishman
By Terrence McCoy
By Ryan Yousefi
By Ciara LaVelle, Kat Bein, Carolina Del Busto, and Liz Tracy
By Pepe Billete
By Ryan Yousefi
By Kyle Swenson
Boos slice through the air as Dr. Red Roberts peacocks around the ring while snapping the straps of his red and white leotard. A comic-book-villain grin peeks out from a thick beard when he jabs his chin at the full house, each jut shaking his messy brushfire of red curls. An excited surf of noise reverberates from the risers, like schoolyard kids ganging up on a bully.
It's 1986, inside a drab Miami TV studio. The rowdy spectators are waiting for Roberts' matchup with a 230-pound slab named Ted Marshall. The fan favorite is clear.
"This Roberts is a very, very controversial competitor," says a TV announcer doing his best Brokaw into the mike. "I want to get a chance to talk to this man about some very controversial comments he made last week more or less calling everyone in the state of Florida a mental midget."
After the bell, the two pro wrestlers swap body blows and leg drops. Roberts plays dirty, jamming his finger into his opponent's eye and grating Marshall's face across his white boot laces. "Of course Red Roberts will use about any tactic he can to win a match," the announcer groans. A few minutes later, the redhead is disqualified.
It was that kind of performance — the smart-ass goon whom fans love to hate — that made Dr. Red Roberts a staple in pro-wrestling circuits from the late '70s and to the mid-'80s. But hunkering beneath this Mr. Hyde was an actual Dr. Jekyll: Roberts was the wrestling persona of Michael Brannon, who's now a Fort Lauderdale psychologist. While body-slamming his way around the world, Brannon earned his doctorate from Nova Southeastern University. By the '90s, he had swapped the ring for another theatrical battle zone — the courtroom.
There, he was a financial success, by the mid-'00s earning up to $600,000 a year on the state's dime as a forensic psychologist. His reputation grew as he testified in courthouses in Miami-Dade, Broward, and Palm Beach counties. But after Brannon banked more than $1.5 million, his largest source of income, Broward public defender Howard Finkelstein, cut him off. The fallout was as dirty as any WrestleMania matchup.
"I wanted a system that was more fair," Finkelstein says. "But when he decided to bring his personal anger and resentment into the courtroom before a jury with one of my clients on trial for his life, that's when I was on legal notice."
Brannon sued in a case that has been rumbling through the courts for the past three years and is currently on appeal. He calls the dispute "a real-life death match with Howard Finkelstein." But although Brannon's brawl is with the public defender, the case has put the whole legal system in a headlock — and taxpayers are feeling the hurt.
Fighting came early for Brannon. Born in Miami to a police officer and a waitress, he took up judo as a kid. By age 6, he had brought home statewide top honors in a martial arts competition. He wrestled in high school and later at Nova University, where he earned an undergraduate degree in 1978 and a master's in counseling psychology two years later.
Brannon began his wrestling career as Dr. Roberts in the late '70s while working as a residential counselor at the Starting Place, a Hollywood youth rehab facility. "All these kids were really big wrestling fans, so I thought, Wouldn't it be great to use an athletic background," he says. "So I created this character, Dr. Red Roberts, [as] the backdrop for a morality play."
For the next decade, Brannon took Roberts on the road. The outcomes were fixed, but real punches flew. He pulled cheap shots, such as whipping out brass knuckles, or hauling mouthy fans into the ring. He'd often leave the ring ducking a hail of trash, bottles, and even chairs. He was stabbed twice after matches.
"Doc was a genius," says Richard "Gonzo" Soligny, a former local pro wrestler who grew up watching Roberts in the ring. "He really worked the crowd. He used that doctor gimmick, the I'm-smarter-than-you, I'm-smarter-than-everybody-in-the-room."
Roberts says he made up to $1,000 for a 20-minute match while he kept his 50-hour-per-week job counseling kids and worked on his doctorate. Around 1987, Terry Bollea, the real-life identity of Hulk Hogan, invited Brannon to join the big leagues in New York.
He demurred and, from the '90s to mid-'00s, established himself as an expert witness at the Broward County Courthouse. High-profile court appearances helped his image, including key testimony against Lionel Tate, a 14-year-old boy convicted in 2001 of body-slamming a playmate to death. But Brannon's main pipeline for referrals came from the public defender. "I knew I was getting a lot of work," Brannon says. "I knew I was getting more than anybody else."
Indeed, the testimony was a bonanza. From 2005 to 2008, the psychologist's practice received $1.5 million from the pubic defender's office in billings. He garnered $608,757 in fiscal year 2006-07 alone.
The workload was impressive. Brannon would evaluate clients' competency to stand trial, which could pay up to a thousand dollars. He also picked up a lot of work on "downward departures" — testimony that could knock prison time off sentences by emphasizing factors such as substance issues or a history of abuse. It could pay $400 to $700 per case, according to the defender's office.