In Fight Over Fortune, a Young Man Takes on the Kingmakers of Queens

Three decades ago, this court was often portrayed in newspaper accounts as the place where loyalists to the county Democratic Party were rewarded with lucrative case appointments.

In the mostly quiet years since, the two recent cases allege, this political nature has persisted, while the consequence may have grown.

Charged with deciding inheritance disputes, New York City’s Surrogates Courts have long been viewed by critics as bastions of old-time machine politics. US Sen. Robert F. Kennedy called them a “political tollbooth” that exacted “tribute” from widows and orphans in a 1966 speech.

In Queens, Surrogate Judge Peter J. Kelly has been the sole judge overseeing this court over the past 14 years. At 66, he is nearing the mandatory retirement age for that position, and his last day was December 31 — when he transitioned to become a full-time State Supreme Court justice. His replacement won election last year with strong support from the Queens Democratic Party, defeating a candidate who had pledged to make the court “transparent and independent from political influence.”

The court’s critics have historically alleged cronyism in judicial appointments. But recent allegations against Kelly go further.

In his waning months as Surrogate, Kelly was accused in two separate court cases of slanting case proceedings to suit a political patron — Gerard Sweeney, whose law firm plays a big role in deciding who lands Queens judgeships.

In a federal lawsuit, an attorney accused Kelly of aggressively demanding that their client settle for terms favored by Sweeney, or face the prospect of getting nothing. The case was still in its early stages, and Kelly allegedly took this inflexible position without hearing a real rebuttal from Sweeney’s opposition.

And in a second case, 23-year-old Brandon Bishunauth is alleging Kelly’s conduct, at Sweeney’s behest, cost him a shot at winning $330 million. In this case as well, Brandon accuses the judge of adopting and pushing Sweeney’s negotiating position during the case’s embryonic stages.

Kelly told New York Focus his actions were appropriate and normal.

As his legal odyssey began, Brandon was just finishing up college. A film major, he wanted to make movies for a living.

Still, he distinguished between life and art. In the case’s early stages, at 22 years old, he didn’t see real people as anything like the plotting antagonists of fiction.

Over the past year, that worldview has evaporated. He now believes a kind of script has played out in Queens Surrogate’s Court, only he was not privy. The cast: People long atop Queens’ political pyramid.

“It felt very staged,” Brandon said in an interview with New York Focus. “Like it was being orchestrated.”

The ensemble has only grown more colorful. It now includes a prominent attorney, once reputed for leveraging courthouse connections, who is now acting as a fire-breathing reformer; and a Brooklyn Democratic boss, who has joined the side alleging corruption.

The most recent twist: An alleged murder plot — at least on paper — in Pakistan.

Last winter, Brandon and three of his relatives showed up in Queens Surrogate’s Court, the borough’s venue for inheritance disputes. His aunt, Yasmin Malik, had agreed to attempt to negotiate a settlement and avoid years of litigation. Brandon was willing to talk.

He walked out of the room that day with the promise of $2 million — and a mandate to stay silent about what had happened inside.

On that day, and over the weeks that followed, Brandon says Kelly took improper actions to help his aunt secure the vast majority of the $330 million. And while the $2 million offer was substantial, it was less than one percent of the total estate that Brandon could potentially gain by going to trial.

The settlement was certainly favored by the law firm representing his aunt, Sweeney, Reich & Bolz — a formidable trio of attorneys whom Brandon knew little about at the time.

He didn’t know that Sweeney was one of the most powerful figures in the Queens Democratic Party, which wields near-total control over the selection of local judges, or that another of his aunt’s attorneys was prominently involved in the party’s judicial endorsement process.

He didn’t know that Kelly has deep ties to the party and owed his long career on the bench to it.

He didn’t know that taking on private clients was not the only job Sweeney held — that the lawyer also occupied a fabulously lucrative position within the surrogate’s court itself, serving at the pleasure of the judge overseeing Brandon’s case.

“I might have been naive, but I’ve learned a few things over the last few months,” Brandon told New York Focus in August. “I’ve learned that this is not a very kind world.”

Born in Pakistan, Brandon’s father — Mohammad Malik — had emigrated to New York City and initially worked as a hot dog vendor, then a cab driver, according to the Bishunauth family. With the help of his own father back home, Malik moved into the real estate market — and, brick by brick, built a commercial and residential real estate fortune. He died owning dozens of properties across New York City. He also had a liquor store business and a portfolio of billboard companies.

“He was a very hard worker, a smart worker. And he knew how to screw people,” said Malik’s younger brother, Nicholas Galafano. Malik would buy stolen alcohol at cut-rate prices from a figure tied to the mob, according to Galafano, who once ran one of Malik’s stores.

Real estate tycoons need lawyers, and Malik’s stable included the borough’s most politically connected: Sweeney, Reich & Bolz. The law firm that would later represent his sister had long played a role in Malik’s real estate affairs, from loan foreclosures to lease disputes.

One day in the mid-1990s, Malik was having lunch in Jackson Heights when he saw a striking woman sitting with several friends. Dayawati Bishunauth had been a beauty queen in Guyana before moving to the United States. Malik, a regular at the restaurant, walked over to the group. He offered to buy lunch for the table, but the women declined.

A few months later, Dayawati was driving home from the Long Island City jewelry store where she worked. Another car came up beside her, the driver signaling her to pull over. She rolled her window down. It was the man she’d met months earlier — and there was nothing wrong with her car.

They dated for several years, and Dayawati became pregnant. But Malik wasn’t ready for fatherhood and told her there was “no need to rush,” Dayawati recalled. She had her first abortion.

She became pregnant again, and Malik still wasn’t ready. This time, before having a second abortion, Dayawati secured a promise from Malik, she said: The next time they conceived, they would keep the baby, get married, and raise the child together.

She became pregnant by Malik a third time. But according to Dayawati, Malik backtracked. When she was six months along and had started to show, he asked for a third abortion.

“He said he knew a doctor who could do it at six months — and that he will give me everything that I need,” Dayawati recalled. “He will give me a house. He will send me to get my master’s.”

She declined the gifts and had the child. Looking over to Brandon on a recent evening, she smiled and said, “I think I made a good decision.”

Malik did not show up at the hospital for Brandon’s birth, and the child was given his mother’s last name. The father then allegedly provided no money for child support. Dayawati took him to family court.

During those proceedings, Malik claimed he earned $250,000 a year. Dayawati now thinks that was a gross misrepresentation. After a court battle, Brandon’s mother settled for $1,500 a month.

Brandon met his father only once, after middle school one day, in the driveway of his home. He grew up solidly middle class, supported by Aunt Bea and his uncle-in-law, Akram Somaroo, who both continue to work into their seventies — Bea at an investment bank, Samaroo as an accountant.

Brandon made his way through Fordham University on an academic scholarship, government grants, and student loans.

On Feb. 12, 2023, Malik died of cancer. A month later, an attorney named Damianos Markou was on the other end of the line, informing Aunt Bea of the death, she said.

Markou believed the son was worth millions and could be “set for life.” The attorney wanted to represent Brandon in probate court proceedings.

For 22 years, Brandon had been shielded from his father’s world: the wealth, the power, the family feuds, the business battles, and the lawyers. Brandon was bright and book smart.

But to this world, he was naive.

“They call you into the room, and you sit with Greg Meeks, Michael Reich, and Frank Bolz,” Morrill said in an interview. “And they ask the candidate, ‘How’s your support in the community? How’s your fundraising?’”

Their law firm partner, Sweeney, once served as the party’s law chairman. He now plays a less visible public role, but has long been a crucial behind-the-scenes strategist to county leaders and has deep relationships in the judiciary. His opinion about judicial endorsements is known to carry significant weight.

After party leadership recommends who should become a judge, most district leaders or judicial delegates simply rubber stamp their picks, as occurred at the August meeting. And in Democrat-heavy Queens, the party’s support is usually akin to election.

Morrill said that, within this party culture, loyalty is a foremost virtue.

“It’s like a soft cult,” Morrill said. “Whatever the party leadership decides, you have to go along with it. And they’ll do something to you if you don’t do what they want.”

A startling speech, delivered during an August 2023 judicial convention, drives home this idea.

At that meeting, former Assemblymember Ari Espinal rose to nominate her friend, civil court judge Jessica Earle-Gargan, for a vacant Queens Supreme Court judgeship, according to an audio recording.

Espinal began by explaining that growing up in the Queens Democratic Party, she “learned two things.”

“Loyalty,” Espinal said. “And always listen to the chairman.”

Explaining why delegates should vote for her friend, Espinal did not tout Earle-Gargan as an independent jurist. Instead, she described the judge as someone “who’s been loyal to this organization, will continue to be loyal, throughout.

“And always listens to the chairman,” she said.

Brandon’s attorneys — who stood to take one-third of the settlement as their legal fee — counseled that $2 million was a “good deal,” according to Brandon’s statement. Indeed, Brandon stood to inherit only $25,000 from his father’s will; going to trial would mean forgoing the $2 million, and betting on a case where Brandon would face obstacles.

Aunt Bea recalled asking for more time, that the family be permitted to go home and consider. According to the Bishunauth family, no reason was ever given for the day’s urgency — when they walked into court that day, they’d thought it was still a preliminary discussion.

A clerk said Kelly had other appointments, and the court was called into session. His heart racing, Brandon told his lawyer he would take the $2 million, and under oath, told the judge that he understood the settlement’s terms. In exchange, Brandon would drop a challenge to the validity of his father’s will.

Yasmin Malik would get most of the fortune without any vetting of a document signed as her brother lay dying.

Then, at Sweeney’s prompting, Kelly asked Brandon’s mother, Aunt Bea, and uncle-in-law to sign documents barring them from speaking to anyone about what had just happened.

“That means to friends, relatives, neighbors, hairdresser,” Kelly said. “You name it, that’s it. The only people that are supposed to know anything about this settlement here are the people in this room.”

The relatives had begun the morning in a public session of court, sitting in the gallery, and had no financial stake in the outcome, they said. The secrecy conditions seemed unusual.

“I’m a brave person, but I was so scared,” Aunt Bea said. “Because I said [to myself], ‘If we refuse, they’re going to throw us all in jail.’”

Markou and Matalon, Brandon’s attorneys, did not object, according to the court transcript. In response to questions from New York Focus, Matalon said his law firm does not comment on matters involving current or former clients.

Under the deal, Brandon would receive $1.5 million after a month; if he stayed silent for a year, he would get $250,000. After another year of silence, he would get the final $250,000.

The judge praised both sides’ attorneys for reaching the accord — and told the 22-year-old he was pleased with the outcome.

“There was a great potential that this matter would have been litigated and gone on for years and years and years — and there was nothing really to look forward to but a lot of misery and angst and aggravation, for ever,” Kelly said. “I’m supposed to be impartial. But I think you’re making a very educated and a very wise decision.”

After leaving court, the Bishunauth family began having second thoughts.

“I couldn’t sleep for three nights,” Aunt Bea said. “I thought I was going to have a heart attack. I got up in the middle of night [and thought], ‘What have we done’? [Brandon] was so upset. He was crying all the time.”

“The $2 million they were offering meant nothing,” she added. “What made me so angry is that we were sworn to secrecy. For what? We haven’t seen anything, we haven’t done anything — we didn’t even hear anything.”

Brandon’s uncle-in-law, Somaroo, said he emigrated from Guyana in 1984 because of the country’s rampant racism and corruption. He believed that the rule of law in America gave everyone a fair shot at success.

“There is no corruption here. If you follow the rules and obey the laws, you have nothing to fear,” he said. “When we came here, we found a paradise — until that day in court.”

Now, he said, “I’ve lost the belief that I had.”

According to state law, a judge must disqualify themself from hearing a case if the judge’s impartiality might reasonably be questioned.

Given that Sweeney’s law firm plays a role in deciding who lands Queens judgeships, Kelly should have disqualified himself from overseeing Brandon’s case, according to Cynthia Godsoe, a Brooklyn Law School professor who specializes in legal ethics issues.

“I think the appearance is terrible,” she said. “Because the standard is ‘might reasonably be questioned.’ Of course it’s going to be questioned, right?”

Godsoe said judges are “always going to deny” that their decisions are influenced by external factors. It’s difficult to prove otherwise, so the law focuses on recusal as a means of protecting the system’s integrity, she said.

In response to questions from New York Focus, Kelly declined to say whether it was a conflict of interest for Sweeney to represent a private client in his courtroom.

In 1991, Nahman was promoted to Queens Surrogate Court judge by the party chairman. Kelly came along, to again serve as principal law clerk. Here — more than three decades before the Mohammad Malik case — the paths of Kelly and Gerard Sweeney began to entwine.

During Nahman’s tenure, local newspapers reported on his penchant for granting lucrative court appointments to Queens Democratic Party insiders.

For a wildly lucrative post within the courthouse, Nahman appointed Sweeney — the party chairman’s close confidant and campaign treasurer.

When a person dies without a will in Queens, a publicly funded office — the Office of the Public Administrator — is called in to pay the estate’s bills, locate heirs, and assist the court in sorting out who should inherit. But surrogate judges also retain private attorneys to perform this work, and in Queens, Sweeney has been the office’s appointed “counsel” for more than three decades.

It’s unclear how much Sweeney’s law firm has made since 1992, but it’s been at least tens of millions of dollars, funded by the estates he’s been assigned to represent. His firm made more than $3.2 million just in 2023, according to records obtained by New York Focus. Unlike other boroughs, where the work is split between private law firms, in Queens, Sweeney’s has been granted all of it, the Daily News reported in 2017.

Sweeney’s earnings are not based on the number of hours he works, but rather the size of the estate left without a will: The bigger the estate, the bigger the payday. In an especially lucrative case finalized in 2023, a multimillion-dollar estate was required to pay Sweeney’s firm $1,713 per hour.

In a court filing, Sweeney called the $204,000 fee — for 119 hours of work — “fair and reasonable,” and Judge Kelly signed off. (Sweeney’s firm also must take on complex cases for smaller estates, which pay far less.)

In some respects, Sweeney has functioned as an extremely well-paid public employee. But he can also still represent private law clients — including in cases before the Queens surrogate judge.

In 1998, Joseph Crowley was elected to Congress in Queens and immediately hired Anne Marie Kelly, who served as chief of staff for most of two decades.

Meanwhile, Peter Kelly was elected in 1998 as a Queens Civil Court judge, then picked for Queens Supreme Court, all with the party’s backing. In 2010, Crowley — who by then had ascended to become Queens Democratic Party leader — supported his chief of staff’s brother to become the new Queens Surrogate Court judge.

Kelly has since kept Sweeney on as counsel to the public administrator.

Kelly told New York Focus that he’s never appeared before a screening panel that included attorneys from Sweeney, Reich & Bolz.

“Judges are elected. It is a political process,” Kelly said. “I was lucky to be afforded opportunities. But what is omitted is that I am unquestionably one of the most qualified jurists in the state.” Kelly said he’d been found “eminently qualified” by every bar association and judicial screening panel he’d ever appeared before.

After a 14-year term as a surrogate, Peter Kelly is four years away from New York’s mandatory judicial retirement age of 70. As a result, he did not run for reelection in 2023. But for supreme court judges, there is an exception, allowing them to serve until 76 if granted waivers by the Office of Court Administration.

So the Queens Democratic Party nominated Kelly for a return to supreme court in 2023, potentially giving him a total of ten more years on the bench. Last year, Kelly served as acting surrogate court judge.

Kelly was formally elected a supreme court justice on November 7, 2023.

Less than a month later, Sweeney was in Kelly’s Surrogate courtroom, representing a private client, in the battle over the massive estate of Mohammad Malik.

Brandon also never agreed, either verbally or in writing, to the requirement that his three relatives remain silent. Yet at the settlement conference, Kelly stated that if the relatives did not abide by that demand, Brandon stood to be penalized $500,000.

Kelly provided New York Focus with a written statement more than 1,500 words long, much of it dedicated to slamming Batra. He declined to answer many questions, including about his issuance of the decree, despite settlement terms allegedly being unresolved. Kelly said he was “prohibited by the rules of Judicial ethics from commenting on any case.”

Kelly also did not comment on a “sealing order,” which he issued in December 2023, shielding the case’s records from public view.

Within such an order, a judge is required to include a written justification specifying why public records may be rendered secret. In his order, Kelly cited only unspecified “arguments” made at several settlement conferences. It’s unclear from public records what those arguments were.

Batra said that unlike certain cases, such as those involving sexual abuse, nothing here required confidentiality. The only people protected by secrecy, Batra argued, were Kelly and Sweeney.

In response to questions, Kelly did not say whether he’d pressed for Brandon to quickly agree to a settlement during the hearing, or whether he’d stated during those discussions that $4 million was “too much” for a 22-year-old.

He did say that all judges “discuss pros and cons as well as offers and demands with counsel for litigants” during settlement discussions.

Kelly refuted Batra’s allegation that political influence impacts his judicial decisions. According to Kelly, Batra is engaging in “character assassination.” In a lengthy written rebuttal, Batra wrote that the judge’s “animus” towards him left him “speechless.”

In late October, Batra filed an appeal in mid-level appellate court, arguing that Kelly’s probate order and sealing order were illegal. Batra hopes to win the appeal, then win a change of venue — outside of Queens — and present evidence to a jury that Malik’s wills should be invalidated.

While Kelly sought to make the case’s records confidential, many have since appeared as exhibits in Batra’s publicly available appeal filings.

In submitting them, Batra said, he ran into a series of unusual procedural roadblocks. He believes Queens court staff — which are on the payroll of the state Office of Court Administration — intentionally hindered his appeal to protect Kelly and benefit Sweeney.

According to Batra’s appeal, court staff improperly “impounded” filings that should be public; kept important evidence off the docket; took a month to process his “notice of appeal”; refused to take a paper copy of a key motion; and delayed the production of transcripts.

“I have discovered in this case that it’s not just Brandon who’s being victimized,” Batra said. “The entire system in Queens Surrogate court needs to be sanitized, disinfected.”

Kelly said that court employees gave Batra advice several times about how to file his paperwork — advice that Batra “did not always follow.”

“In my opinion, there would be two reasons for this,” Kelly said. “First would be that he was intellectually incapable of complying with the court personnel’s directives. Second would be that he deliberately chose not to follow [the directives] so he could make unfounded allegations about this court’s operations.”

In response to questions from New York Focus, Sweeney said he could not provide on-the-record answers because the case was a pending matter.

But in a filing late last year, Sweeney called Batra’s allegations about the court’s operations “unsubstantiated, absurd, and frivolous.”

Sweeney also dismissed the notion that Brandon was improperly pressured into reaching a settlement.

The day of the settlement conference, Brandon “could have expressed dissatisfaction with the settlement, refused to agree, or requested additional time to think or break for lunch or conference further with family,” Sweeney wrote. Instead, Sweeney continued, Brandon said under oath that “he understood the terms of the settlement, that he was represented by counsel, and that he was entering into the settlement under his own free will.”

Sweeney wrote that “all material terms” of the settlement were agreed to during the settlement conference — although a year ago, in his confidentiality agreement proposal, Sweeney had stated the opposite.

Malik and Galafano had been close growing up, and for a time, Galafano ran a liquor store owned by his older brother.

But Malik accused him of stealing, and Galafano says this sprung from a false accusation lodged by Yasmin. (Galafano also angered his family, following the 9/11 attacks, when he changed his last name from Malik over disgust with Islamic extremism.)

In one of this case’s unusual twists, Batra was recently retained by Galafano to file a separate lawsuit against the other Malik siblings.

The planned lawsuit — to be filed outside of the Malik case — also fits into Batra’s narrative that Yasmin exerted undue influence over Malik’s will.

The siblings’ father — who had built a significant real estate fortune in Pakistan — died in 2006. Their mother died in 2015.

In a September demand letter, Batra alleged that the siblings falsely represented to “the Government of Pakistan that their living-brother Nicholas was dead” — an alleged act, according to Batra, explaining why Galafano did not inherit from either parent.

Batra said he is planning to file a lawsuit in Manhattan Supreme Court. Yasmin Malik’s attorney declined to respond to questions about the allegation.

Whatever the truth about the parents’ estates, Yasmin and Sweeney have taken an aggressive posture regarding the assets of her eldest brother.

A year ago, Batra had filed a notice stating he was appealing Judge Kelly’s rulings. According to Batra, distribution of assets from Mohammad Malik’s estate should not have gone forward while the appeal is pending.

Yasmin Malik, however, has begun distributing the $330 million in her capacity as executor. In mid-September, beneficiaries of Malik’s estate began receiving checks in the mail, including $25,000 that was mailed to Galafano, the amount he was stated to receive under the 2023 will.

Galafano says he’s refusing to cash the check, and that he considers the payment to be “witness tampering.” So far, Brandon has not received one.

Five months before Batra hired Seddio, Seddio’s daughter had tragically died. Batra attended the funeral, and there, Batra told Seddio that he was going to drop him as a defendant in the Brooklyn case. “I said, ‘I’m very sorry for your loss, and my gift to you is that you no longer have to worry about this problem,’” Batra recalled saying.

Their dialogue continued.

Batra said Seddio was never the real target of his Brooklyn lawsuit. As for why he retained Seddio, Batra cited his invaluable expertise as a former surrogate’s court judge in Brooklyn.

Batra also believes the influence of the Queens power brokers has impacted his ability to pursue justice. He thinks that with Seddio joining him, justice can function free of politics.

In an interview, Seddio was at times critical of Kelly, his fellow judge, calling it “extraordinary” that Kelly imposed the confidentiality conditions over a probate court proceeding. At other times, Seddio defended Kelly, while minimizing the clout of party leaders.

Batra asserts Queens courthouse staff have been actively working to block his appeal — for the benefit of a Queens Democratic Party powerbroker. Asked if county Democratic leaders possess such influence, Seddio said, “I think you’re exaggerating the ability of a county leader or anyone else in politics to affect decisions like that.”

“But the fact remains that clearly this is not functioning the way it should have functioned, and I’m working with Ravi now to look into it,” Seddio said.

As for the Brooklyn lawsuit to which he’d been a defendant, Seddio said: “I don’t really pay attention to fiction.”

“And the fact is that Mr. Batra, in that case, was representing his client,” Seddio said. “I don’t even know if [that case is] still going on, but if it is, God bless him. I hope he’s getting paid well.”

Whatever The New York Times said two decades ago, the Bishunauth family certainly sees Batra as a crusader for justice. Someone who took their case despite long odds.

“Mr. Batra is the only person that has really come up and stood up as the lone Texas Ranger,” said Somaroo, Brandon’s uncle-in-law. “I know he’s doing it from the bottom of his heart and not for money, because he can do better with his time.”

At this point, according to the Bishunauth family, this case isn’t about money. Through hard work, the family has enough to comfortably support itself. The primary motivation now, Aunt Bea said, is justice. Fighting back is a means of restoring the family’s idea of America.

“It’s not for the money,” she said. “It’s that we were insulted.”

The family was not only troubled by its experience with attorneys in this case, but Brandon’s mother’s experience in family court. Their perception of lawyers only began to recently shift.

“When we met Mr. Batra, it was like a lantern in the darkness for us,” Brandon said. “He showed us there are actually lawyers who want to protect, instead of trying to extort the system to their own benefit.”

Now 23 years old, Brandon has recently had a change in career plans, inspired by his experience over the past year — and several long conversations with Batra. He’s putting aside a career making movies, at least for now.

Instead, Brandon has begun studying for the LSAT — the law school entrance exam.