In a federal courtroom in Los Angeles, the final scene in the decades-long saga of the law firm Milberg Weiss Bershad Hynes & Lerach—a tale that some in Corporate America might call a horror movie—has now played out.

Melvyn Weiss, one of the firm's founders, has been sentenced to 30 months in prison by Judge John Walter. Weiss pleaded guilty to a federal racketeering charge, for paying illegal, secret kickbacks to people who put their names on securities class-action lawsuits filed by the firm for more than 25 years. The judge also ordered Weiss to forfeit $9.7 million and pay a $250,000 fine.

William Lerach, Weiss' former law partner, recently checked into the federal prison at Lompoc, California, to begin serving 24 months—the maximum time allowed under his plea agreement for his part in the conspiracy. Tart to the end, Lerach told Judge John Walter in February: "I pleaded guilty in this case because I was guilty, I knew what I was doing was wrong," he said. "It was, as they say, felony stupid."

And there may be a coda for the firm itself. Nathan Koppel of the Wall Street Journal reports that Milberg L.L.P., which was indicted two years ago, is close to a deal with federal prosecutors that calls for the firm to pay roughly $75 million. A trial of the firm is scheduled to start in August.

Of the lawyers charged in the long-running criminal investigation, Lerach was the one reviled by corporate titans. They even formed a verb from his name: to be "Lerached."

Yet Weiss, who turns 73 on August 1, received a much stiffer sentence: Prosecutors were pressing for 33 months, the maximum under his plea agreement, while Weiss and his lawyers were seeking a more lenient 18-month term.

If the Federal Bureau of Prisons honors his request to be incarcerated at the federal prison in Morgantown, West Virginia, Weiss will get the chance to reminisce with John Torkelson, a former expert witness for Milberg Weiss who pleaded guilty to working on a contingency-fee basis when he was supposed to be an independent expert witness. 

Weiss and Lerach have always been an odd pair, a fact played out by their respective ends. After pleading guilty last fall, Lerach began to shape his eventual comeback, penning op-eds in several national newspapers, spouting about the rights of investors. On the eve of his sentencing, he gave an interview to the Wall Street Journal, saying of the kickbacks, "Believe me, it was industry practice."

Weiss, by contrast, has expressed nothing but shame since pleading guilty on March 20. "I deeply regret my conduct and apologize to all those who have been affected, including all of the wonderful and tremendously talented lawyers and other employees of the firm, none of whom had any involvement in any wrongdoing," Weiss said in a statement that day.

The voluminous materials filed by Weiss' defense team as part of his plea for leniency includes a letter from Weiss himself. He begins: "Looking up from the bottom of the deep pit into which I have descended has been painful. I have spent day after day, and sleepless nights, reflecting on how I could have permitted myself to stray so far off course from the hopes and desires I established for my life's work."

A host of impressive personalities have weighed in for Weiss, among them the constitutional law scholar Arthur Miller (who has made a great deal of money serving as a Milberg Weiss consultant), the maverick former federal judge Stanley Sporkin (who was also chief of enforcement at the Securities and Exchange Commission), trial lawyer David Boies, who considered joining Weiss' firm after he left Cravath Swaine & Moore in 1997, and even Arthur Levitt, the S.E.C. chairman.

Weiss spells out his "life's work" in a 125-page document submitted to the court, which tells the story of Mel as we never knew it. (That is just the beginning: There are four volumes in all, to make room for the 250 letters submitted on his behalf.)

Weiss begins with his "humble origins" growing up in the Bronx, the son of an accountant. Weiss, according to the story, rose at 3 a.m. to work with his father, delivering invoices to meat markets and bakeries, "crawling into dusty attics to find client invoices and bills." It was, as the sentencing memo states, "hard, tedious work" for which he was paid $25 a week.

Dear reader, to do justice to the panoply of good works, large and small, of the accused, would be a while in the making. But there is cinema here—some choice spots:

• Weiss had an Erin Brockovich period, in which he signed up a "ragtag group" of "moms" to a California class-action in the early 1980s, alleging toxic water in the streets. One testimonial letter from a plaintiff in the case, known as the Stringfellow Acid Pits case, talks of money he gave to the cause, telling a woman, "It's not a loan, Penny, it's a gift—Merry Christmas."

• There is an As Good as It Gets moment, which seems right out of the Jack Nicholson vehicle with Helen Hunt. In this scene, we have a patron trying to order a cocktail from a waitress, not his own—a transaction that transmogrifies from a $20 tip to $100 on "special sneakers."

• Another yet-to-be-shot "Everyone Can Count on Mr. Weiss in Hard Times" moment involves Jim Sheehy, the doorman at the St. Regis Hotel. Sheehy weighs in with a letter about the bad choice he made, sinking all of his life savings in a stock that the owner of the hotel convinced him to invest in. Weiss brought a lawsuit for the doorman, getting him a $135,000 recovery and "never charged me a dime!" according to Sheehy's letter. Weiss handled the arbitration for a co-worker of Sheehy, who was fired from the hotel.

The real-life director Steven Spielberg figured into Weiss' practice. Elly Gross was an Auschwitz survivor whose testimony was taped by the Schindler's List director. Gross, who at the age of 15 arrived at Auschwitz by cattle car, became a plaintiff in one of Weiss' pro bono class-action cases on behalf of Holocaust survivors. Weiss was part of a team of lawyers who obtained settlements totaling $6.25 billion for Holocaust victims and their families from Swiss banks and companies, including Volkswagen, accused of using "slave labor." At the time, Michael Mukasey, then chief judge of the federal court in lower Manhattan and now attorney general of the United States, said of the settlement, "It is a remarkable, remarkable thing.... When lawyers get a bad rap, I will speak up for lawyers on the basis of this, if nothing else."

Gross submitted a letter to Judge Walter on Weiss' behalf. She told two stories about Weiss: One explains that Weiss promised her a book of her poems would be published. (It was, and Weiss wrote the foreword.) Another was Weiss' donation of 5,000 beds at a hospital to honor her parents. In the letter, Gross relates that Weiss told her, "Elly, you don't have to worry anymore."

The evidence in support of Weiss' life of philanthropic efforts, especially in the service of Jewish causes, are legend. In fact, the U.S. probation officer, Kelly Watson, describes Weiss' philanthropic work as "impressive," yet recommends a 33-month sentence of imprisonment. While Lerach may have been the main villain among corporations, prosecutors claim the evidence against Weiss is much more severe: They point out that Weiss, unlike Lerach, negotiated with one of the plaintiffs for $1.22 million in kickbacks in 2003, while Weiss and his law firm were under criminal investigation for the plot.

This, the prosecutors say, "reflects a criminal arrogance that makes Weiss significantly more culpable" than Lerach. Prosecutors also point out that Weiss tried to hide a fax evidencing the conspiracy, claiming it was part of his personal records, when in fact it came from the credenza of his partner, David Bershad, who reached a plea agreement and agreed to cooperate last summer.

Compared with Lerach, Weiss has always been the more compelling and complex character, down to the diamond pinkie ring that he will probably be wearing to his sentencing hearing.

The Lerach opus filed in advance of his sentencing described the cookies, made by his wife, served to his household help. On this score, at least, Weiss has his former partner beat: Zulma LaBoy, who worked as a payroll manager at Milberg Weiss for 29 years, submitted a letter describing the "utmost respect" that Weiss offered his staff. "He is known for taking time from his busy schedule and cooking a matzah brei, a Jewish dish, for everyone in the office. It was a special treat, and we all looked forward to having it during the Passover season."