Power: The Importance of Being Ernie

A year in prison for campaign finance abuses transformed former State Attorney General Ernie Preate from a grandstanding death-penalty advocate to a humble prisoner-rights crusader. Or so he needs us to believe

But this is Ernie Preate we’re talking about. Now he’s back home in Scranton, running his own law practice in his late father’s law offices, and it’s hard to imagine Ernie — old or new — getting enough visibility and an adoring audience through his prison-reform and criminal defense work. Although Ernie does make a good case for his reclaimed soul when he talks about what drives him to get out of bed in the morning, his second wife and young daughter and the clients and families he helps, “solving people’s problems or just consoling them.” There’s the mother he counseled one night recently whose son is facing a life sentence in federal prison for drug charges; Ernie is trying “to save him some life down the road.” And Ernie was in his office on a recent Saturday night when he got a call from a convict’s mom asking him to negotiate her son’s surrender: He’d been released by mistake from a New York City jail. Ernie handled it first thing Monday morning. But when he talks about that one, Ernie comes off as much more excited about all the media coverage than about helping a family. Ernie says he just picked up three or four federal drug cases. “The word is getting around,” he crows. “‘Get me Ernie!’”

But which one?

 

Ernie Preate isn’t what he used to be. Ernie the Humble, 64 now, makes the basis of his new life simple: “I’ve lost my father and my brother. I survived a motorcycle accident that could have killed me. Now I have a three-year-old daughter, a two-year-old grandson, and another grandchild on the way. I want to live to see them grow up. It’s very basic.”

Nothing with Ernie is that simple. Back in November, I met him for his first state Supreme Court argument since he got his law license back. He’s representing prisoners who claim they have the right to a hearing to determine how the money they make in prison is spent, as opposed to the state deciding for them.

After I watch him argue in court, we walk around outside the capitol. This is the first time I’ve seen him in a decade, since I covered old Ernie as a legal reporter. He stops walking, points up at the 16th floor of Strawberry Square, and says wistfully, “That’s my old office. What a great view I had out those windows.” I stand there counting the floors of Strawberry Square so I can fix my gaze on the right one, and Ernie asks, “How did I do in court?” I say, “You did a good job, Ernie.” He was asked to take the case as court-­appointed counsel — he’s only making $40 an hour. Ernie’s doing it because he can, he’s back, he’s thrilled to have appeared before the justices. And, in fact, he argued forcefully on the prisoners’ behalf. “Did you see Justice Castille nod at me?” Ernie asks. He recognizes prosecutors, pols and sheriff’s officers, and glad-hands them all: “Hey! I saw Vinnie upstairs. Told him I ran into you!”