It's justice, in cutoffs

MIAMI - If we can draw any conclusion after the first week of the trial of the former FBI agent John Connolly, it's that Miami will never be confused with Boston.

This is more than a clash of courtroom lawyers. It's a clash of courtroom cultures.

From the standpoint of history, and as an example of venal corruption, there is nothing in Boston that matches the FBI's Faustian embrace of Whitey Bulger. Bostonians are familiar with this scandal, and the only remaining scandal is that no other FBI agents and supervisors who participated in this sham are sitting at the defendant's table with Connolly.

But here in this sunny place for shady people, it's like, ho-hum. Let's go to the beach.

Connolly's trial is not even the big trial in town. There's a case in federal court in which a guy is accused of commandeering a yacht on the high seas and murdering the crew and dumping them overboard. Then there's the case of the Miami schoolboy who, at 14, lured his classmate into the boys' room and slit his throat.

This would kill Whitey: His story isn't that big a deal in Miami.

Connolly's trial is unfolding like a Dave Barry column or Carl Hiaasen novel. You laugh in places you shouldn't. The first person most of us yokels from Boston noticed when we walked into Courtroom 4-1 of the Miami-Dade Circuit Court last week was a young woman who bore a striking resemblance to Marisa Tomei in "My Cousin Vinny."

She introduced herself as an intern for Connolly's lawyers. Only she wasn't. She just said she was. The first day, she wore a leopard-skin top, which is not unusual in the halls of justice here. The second day, she was wearing a pair of platform shoes last seen on RuPaul. When Liz Connolly, the defendant's wife, entered the courtroom she was intercepted by the "intern," who proceeded to hug her. Liz Connolly appeared stunned by the embrace of a total stranger.

Then, on the third day, the "intern" got caught taking photos of the jurors on her cellphone. The judge, Stanford Blake, admonished her, telling her it was a no-no. But she was allowed to stay in the courtroom. If she had pulled that in a Suffolk County courtroom, Dan Conley, the DA, would have indicted her.

But, hey, this is Miami. Have a mojito and chill.

Judge Blake cracks jokes, talks about his fantasy football team, and is solicitous of the jurors and everybody else in the courtroom. You would think he's a politician. And you would be right. He has to get elected, so most everybody in the courtroom is not just a spectator but a potential voter. In Boston, judges regard those who people their courtrooms the way Marie Antoinette regarded the poor. Here, Judge Blake actually let us eat cake: He gave everybody, jurors included, pieces of his birthday cake the other day. I am not making this up.

Mike Von Zamft, the Miami-Dade prosecutor, is in his element. He's serious when he has to be, but likes cracking wise. The Massachusetts delegation on the prosecution team - prosecutor Fred Wyshak, DEA agent Dan Doherty, and Massachusetts State Police Sergeant Steve Johnson - is still trying to get acclimated to the different courtroom climate. These guys spent half their careers trying to clean up the mess made by corrupt FBI agents and now they're watching the case of a lifetime being tried in an atmosphere that sometimes resembles "Judge Judy."

The other day, Johnny Martorano's monotone, soulless recitation of his many murders was interrupted by the afternoon recess, the judge was making jokes, and all I could think of was that scene in "Miami Vice" when Brenda contemplates both Miami's beauty and the seamy side that Sonny Crockett has to occupy.

"How," Brenda asks, "do you go from this tranquillity to that violence?"

And Sonny replies, "I usually take the Ferrari."

Kevin Cullen is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at cullen@globe.com