Bust Me if You Can

Besides his stellar career as South Florida's premier cardiologist, Dr. Zachariah P. Zachariah moonlights as a bigtime Republican fundraiser. He sits on a slew of corporate and government boards. He has campaigned for three different Bushes. He has eaten dinner at the White House and loaned his private jet to Governor Crist. Reports estimate that over the years Dr. Zachariah has raised nearly $20 million for various candidates. One associate describes him as a "political animal." Presumably it takes a lot to impress such a man.

One March day in 2007, Dr. Zachariah entered the Wellness Pavilion at Holy Cross Hospital, where he serves as director of cardiology. The luxury gym and fitness facility was named after his family, which donated $3.1 million to build it. Inside the doctor noticed a young gentleman, about six foot two with dirty blond hair, wearing a Harvard shirt — and a Harvard class ring to match. Since Zachariah's own son was considering going to school there, the doctor struck up a conversation.

According to his lawyer, Dr. Zachariah was wowed by the young man's knowledge of land use and zoning. He was amazed by his grasp of local politics. Whatever the exact details of their conversation, Dr. Zachariah walked away with the impression that Robert Charles Jones Brady, known as Chas, had graduated from Harvard Law, an alumnus of the most prestigious school in the country.

Shortly thereafter Brady, then 26, became a regular guest of the doctor's. The two traveled together to New York. They socialized on Dr. Zachariah's yacht. Zachariah introduced his young protegé to his friends — successful businessmen and political notables. In November of 2007, when Dr. Zachariah hosted a $2,300-a-head political fundraiser at his Fort Lauderdale mansion, he proudly presented Brady to presidential candidate Fred Thompson.

A few weeks later, Brady landed in a cell at a Broward County jail, the subject of six criminal complaints, at least three civil lawsuits, and five investigations by the Florida Bar. Authorities would later describe him as a curious con man, blessed with intellectual gifts and cursed with psychological troubles. They compared Brady's story to Hollywood movies like Six Degrees of Separation or Catch Me If You Can, both featuring clean-cut imposters who knew how to push the right buttons to finagle their way into influential circles.

Said prosecutor David Schulson, "Brady's a poor man's Leonardo DiCaprio."

Brady's case has inspired a host of emotions: anger, sympathy, bewilderment. With his cultured manner and polished public persona, Brady never looked like much of a criminal. Even in his mug shot, he smiles broadly like the boy next door.

In the days before his arrest last fall, Brady seemed to have ended up where he always wanted to be: in the company of the rich and well-connected. But what leaps had he taken to get there? And how many influential people would he embarrass along the way? Most important, as far as the criminal justice system was concerned, was he really guilty of any serious wrongdoing? Or was he having the book thrown at him because he had embarrassed a bunch of muckety-mucks. It'll all come out in the wash, lawyers say. According to one who has represented Brady, the young Ivy Leaguer-manqué cleverly bulletproofed himself against would-be legal complications. Brady shouldn't have to do serious time, defense attorney Lawrence Livoti says.

"The law imposes no obligation to dispel a misunderstanding," Livoti argued in court (before withdrawing from the case because Brady couldn't afford his services). "Saying you are a Harvard law graduate is not holding yourself out to practice law. Nobody testified that he was a member of the Florida Bar. Nobody stated that."

Was it Brady's fault if Dr. Zachariah — as well as a lot of other Broward County movers and shakers — was a sucker?

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Chas Brady's stepfather James Eddy is now in his late 70s. His associates report that Eddy is winding down his law practice in Oakland Park — perhaps because of his age, perhaps because of his troubles. From 1963 to 1968, Eddy served in the state House of Representatives. By all accounts, the elder man had carved out an admirable career and enjoyed the respect of his peers.

Chas Brady assisted his stepfather in his law practice. Many clients believed that Brady was a lawyer too — a Harvard-educated one. Brady now maintains that he was only an assistant, a consultant, a paralegal, and a lobbyist — jobs that don't require special training or advanced degrees.

But his future — and possibly his stepfather's — hinges on whether he engaged in the illegal practice of law, which is a felony. Brady also faces charges of grand theft, forgery, and organized fraud. If convicted on all of the 14 counts against him, Brady could face a maximum sentence of more than 75 years in prison, his public defender says.

With his fate in the balance, seemingly minute details have assumed unforeseen importance. Take Brady's business cards. An associate says they included his name and contact information, but not a title. Documents show that Brady set up, and was sometimes paid through, a business called Crimson Consulting. (Crimson is the school color of Harvard.) At some point, Eddy's law firm made a distinction on its letterhead: Next to Brady's name, there was an asterisk; at the bottom of the page, a disclaimer read, "Not a member of the Florida Bar."

But multiple people, including state prosecutors, say that, technicalities aside, Brady represented himself as a lawyer and that his betrayal cost friends and clients thousands if not millions of dollars. And not least of all, in the behind-the-scenes confines of the South Florida power structure, it left them with a fair amount of egg on the face.

In police reports, one alleged victim, a businessman named Brent Fardette, claims that Brady introduced himself as an attorney when the two met at a political fundraiser in 2004. Shortly thereafter, the pair began planning a business deal. Brady told Fardette he knew of a shopping plaza for sale in Pompano Beach. If Fardette bought it — for $19.5 million — they could flip it and resell at a steep profit. In fact, Brady advised, he already had buyers in mind. They were people he knew through his stepdad's law firm: major condo developer Jean Francois Roy of Ocean Land Investments (famous for an unsuccessful bid to buy the town of Briny Breezes in 2006 for $510 million) and State Senator Steven Geller.

In June of 2005, Brady presented Fardette with documents to back up the deal: a contract supposedly signed by the seller and a letter of intent to buy, supposedly signed by buyers Geller and Roy. Fardette gave Brady a $100,000 deposit.

Meanwhile, Fardette's friend Frank DiMaria — the owner of Frank's Restaurant in Pompano Beach — came calling to see if Brady could help him too. DiMaria hoped to open a juice bar on Pompano Beach, but first he needed to obtain a variance from the City Commission. Between October 2004 and April 2005, police reports say, DiMaria gave Brady $25,000 in retainer fees.

Cash was rolling in. At the end of the summer, Brady apparently thought about rewarding himself. He showed up on the tony Isle of Venice in downtown Fort Lauderdale to look at a three-story waterfront townhouse for sale.

Pleased with the property, Brady agreed on the $1.5 million purchase price and produced a check for $199,000 as a deposit. The check was drawn on the SunTrust bank account of his stepfather's law practice. With it, a police report says, Brady presented a letter purportedly signed by his stepfather's law partner, Donald Corbin, assuring that funds were available in escrow to cover the check.

A witness says that Brady wore a suit and spoke with confidence that August day: "His whole demeanor was like a cocky young gun." According to the witness, he remarked that the attached boat slip would make a perfect home for his yacht.

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Prosecutors would later say, forget Harvard Law School — Chas Brady never even graduated from college.

He did, however, attend Fort Lauderdale High, an academically rigorous public school in an urban neighborhood. A former classmate named Sara remembers Brady. He was one of "the waspy kids that came from money (or faked it)," she says.

Another alumna, Jessica, knew Brady from ROTC. "Only his close friends called him 'Chas,'" she says. "Most of us weren't in that category, usually by choice, so we called him 'Cheese.'"

Brady wasn't a horrible person, Jessica says, but he came off as arrogant, and maybe a bit of a fibber. "He liked to brag about things that just seemed so unrealistic for a 15-year-old."