Justice? [fourth daily dose of How I Came to be a Lawyer]

Leaving the Courthouse later that morning, I could maybe have thought, “Yea, Justice, Glad I went to law school,” because Fabio truly was grateful – even brought me a gold pen & pencil set as a gift a few days later.  But I didn’t.  In the intervening 10 years between my own courtroom injustice and Fabio’s semi-rendering of justice, I’d come to learn far too much about a world filled with injustice.  [Read “What I Did with My College Education.”]   I was thinking about the King and Kennedy assassinations, the Chicago police riot, those who died at Kent State, Watergate, the falsely charged Indians at Wounded Knee, and Black Panther Fred Hampton’s murder.  I was just starting on my career to change things inside the Halls of Justice.  Only I was slowly beginning to realize that the law is often the last thing to change and mostly the tool of those with plenty of money and property to keep peace for the status quo.   Oliver Wendell Holmes was right when he said “The Path of the Law is the Experience of the People.”

I’d also learned first-hand in law school the separation between law and politics.  My father had a stuttering problem so he couldn’t be a teacher even though that’s what he wanted to be.  So instead he wrote and edited reading and writing programs for kids in first through sixth grade.  He was pretty good at it.  In 1968 D. C. Heath & Co. (a huge text book publishing house) hired my father to write a brand new set of text books where not all the kids were white, had a dog named Spot, and lived in grassy suburbs with both a mom and a dad.  The books became a big hit – D. C. Heath’s sales force was in all 50 states and it looked like the Dawkins were going to be millionaires even at only a nickel a book.  The first state to adopt my father’s text books was the State of West Virginia.  The teachers who met to decide the state-wide curriculum and purchase of text books also voted to adopt a high school reading program that included some excerpts from Black Panther Leader Eldridge Cleaver.

Marchers in support of Dad's books

Marchers in support of Dad’s books

But Justice wasn’t able to handle what happened next.  One single individual was able to stop this improved education curriculum in all 50 states, and my first year Constitutional Law Professor told me there was nothing the law could do about it – it was strictly in the political domain.  I could do nothing as a lawyer to save my father’s books, to give more kids a chance to be better readers, to have the Dawkins become millionaires.  Here’s what happened:  A Fundamentalist Baptist on the Charleston (West Virginia) School Board had decided the books the teachers adopted were “un-American,” didn’t stick to a White America view of history and had too many open-ended questions for the kids to answer themselves rather than strict teaching of a moral code, and she got the coal miners to go on a sympathy strike until the teachers rescinded.  After the UPS driver was driven away at gun point from delivering the books, Walter Cronkite went down and did a special report for CBS national news.  The sales force reported after that no one wanted to touch the books.   (There, however, is one happy ending to this story – my dad’s stuttering problem went away and he’s still teaching remedial reading to community college kids.  At age 90 !)

Tomorrow:  Power to the People!

 


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Ten Years After [third daily dose of How I Came to be a Lawyer] [1976]

Ten years after my high school court appearance,  I had my first chance to fight for justice as a lawyer in the courtroom. Fabio Dominguez didn’t read or speak English.  I was a “Certified Student Attorney” still in law school but allowed to practice because I represented “legal aid clients,” those too poor to afford a lawyer.  I was putting the Spanish I learned in high school and college to good use working in a Legal Aid office in South Jersey, with lots of farmworkers (why New Jersey is known as “The Garden State”).  Fabio had bought a used car at Hansen Motors.  The salesman had told him (in Spanish) that if anything went wrong in the next 30 days, just bring it back.

Mom & Dad were not lawyers (but Mom always said, "You're shaped into who you will be by the time you're 5."

Mom & Dad were not lawyers.  Mom always said, “You’re shaped into who you will be by the time you’re 5.”

The legal problem for me was that the contract (written only in English) said Fabio was buying the car “as is.” Fabio told me that within a week of buying the car, he brought it back because it wasn’t running right.  They tried to fix it he said, but he had to bring it in again.   Finally, on the 30th day, still unsatisfied, he brought it back a third time, parked it, left the keys in it, and told them they can keep it.  Several months later the Sheriff showed up at Fabio’s door with a Summons saying he owes Hansen Motors $2,000, the full purchase price in the contract.  Lawyers call this an “acceleration clause,” the full amount comes due if you don’t keep up with your monthly payments.  After getting the Summons, he came and saw me.

First I tried to settle the case, but the lawyer for Hansen Motors tells me (a) they don’t have a Spanish-speaking sales guy, and (b) they never got the car back!  After he saw my responsive pleadings, he used the “impleader rule” to add Hansen’s insurance company to the case (in case the jury found that the car had been returned and then stolen off their lot).

Finally the Day for my First Jury Trial!   All the lawyers (me, Hansen Motor’s, and the insurance company’s) are there in the Courtroom waiting for the Judge to finish up another matter.  The Judge finishes and calls us all back into his office (called “chambers”).  There were no lawyers in my family, I didn’t know any judges (other than the one who had convicted me ten years earlier), and law school had not prepared me for dealing with a vulgar judge.  Once we were all in his chambers, even before he took his robe off and sat down, the Judge says gruffly “What the FUCK is this case all about?!”  Though shocked at this kind of language coming from a judge, I was quick to be the first one to respond.  While I’m explaining the facts, the Hansen Motor’s lawyer tries to regain the upper hand, jabs his finger at me and says, “Now look young man . . .”  But I’m quick and interrupt him to say “Don’t you ‘young man’ me, this is lawyer-to-lawyer!”

“Yah! You tell him!” the Judge says, liking the swagger that comes with my tale of righteousness.  And then the Judge went to bat for me.  “Look,” he says, “here’s what we’re going to do.  Dominguez pays 1/3rd.  The Insurance Company pays 1/3rd.  And Hansen eats 1/3rd.”  We all have the sense that the Judge will be really tough on any party who doesn’t go along with the proposal, so I tell Fabio I think it is the best we can do even though it means him forking out $667 for nothing.

Tomorrow:  Justice?


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How I Got to be a Professional Story Teller (A Story in an Envelope) [1976]

 

 

That was me!

In my 20s as a night law school student out East working days at a legal services office, my best friend was a guy named Bob.  One night Bob invited Lisa Garlandson to come down from NYC and play guitar on open-mic night at the Sea Breeze Tavern.  I went along and when the guy at the door asked me to pay the $5 cover charge, I said “Hey, I’m performing too – I tell stories.”  Didn’t work.  Had to pay the $5.  After a couple other musicians performed, it was Lisa’s turn.  As she was setting up, I jumped on stage, grabbed the mic, told the whorehouse story and brought the house down.  The bouncer gave me my five bucks back and asked if I would come tell stories again next week.

Along about the third week the word started getting around and one of the lawyers at the Courthouse came up to me and told me if I really wanted to be a lawyer in this town I’d better quit telling “those kind of stories.”  Since “those kind of stories” were the only ones I knew, I quit telling stories (for awhile).

Ten years later, after being elected to the Minnesota House of Representatives, one of my constituents heard the Florida Rescue Story as part of a campaign speech about domestic violence.  (As you know I think all my stories have some moral value.)  Turns out this constituent managed the Jungle Theatre and asked if I’d tell stories there.  I was so proud of being a professional story teller I never cashed my first check from the Jungle Theatre and instead framed it.  Still have it on my wall.

Click "Like" for more!

Click “Like” for more!

Part of my routine included a four foot long scroll of paper rolled up with a small weight at the bottom so it would unfurl when I held it out, revealing a long handwritten list of stories.  I’d say to the audience “These are the stories I can’t tell.”  To this day I keep it a closely guarded secret (like a chef keeps secret recipes) as to which stories I tell, which stories I will take to my grave, and which stories are for select company because you had to be there.

Well, one night I’m telling the Florida Rescue Story – which includes making-out with some girl on the beach whose name I’d long forgotten – and this lady’s voice in the audience pipes up with “That was me!”  After the show she comes up and introduces herself saying she really was the girl at the bonfire outside Skip’s Bar on Madeira Beach.  But by this time I was a married man so I’ll never know for sure whether it was her or not.

 

 

 


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Two Buses to Buffalo

 

Two Buses to Buffalo

In 1979, leaving Bob with his job in Portland, I bought a three week Amtrak pass and followed the White Sox around the country.  After a homestand in Chicago it was off to Detroit, Toronto and New York.  After the Toronto games I took a bus from Toronto to Buffalo to get back on Amtrak because the train out of Toronto takes the long route via Montreal, whereas the train out of Buffalo gets you to NYC in a jiffy.

At the Toronto Greyhound Bus Terminal I noticed there were two buses leaving for Buffalo just minutes apart.  The earliest departing one was almost full and the later departing one totally empty, so I asked that driver, “What’s up?”

“Well,” he said, “Greyhound of Canada gets to bid last for its routes and schedules, so whatever time we (the American Greyhound Company) put in for a departure, they put theirs in a half hour earlier to get all the customers.”

“But come with me,” he said, “and I’ll get you to Buffalo sooner because they always get stuck taking a long time at Customs and I usually zip through.”   So I bought the American company ticket and, sure enough, an hour or so later we cleared Customs while they were still re-boarding.

–  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  – –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  – –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –

There is another quirk to our transportation system in and around Buffalo.  There’s only one passenger train a day, The North Coast Limited, that goes through Buffalo heading east to NYC and only one passenger train a day that goes through Buffalo heading west – and they both happen to be in the middle of the night – so the Buffalo train station is only open from 1 a.m. to 5 a.m.

When I got off the bus in Buffalo it was a little past midnight.  The New York City train was scheduled to depart at 3 a.m. so I had plenty of time to walk the ten blocks from the bus terminal to the train station.  When I walked out the door of the bus station there was a group of men, sketchy at best, lurking in the shadows and one of them approached me to ask for the time.  I was never one for wearing watches so I said, “Sorry, I don’t have the time,” and kept on walking with an occasional sideways look back to make sure I wasn’t being followed.

Buffalo Train Sta.

The train station in Buffalo

The train station, which sits on a hill, was totally dark when I arrived and with the clock tower silhouetted by the moon looked like the backdrop to a movie about the headless horseman.  But rather soon this jaunty fellow walks up to open up the station.  “Yah, I’m the station master,” he says and explains the odd hours the station is open and why.

He was very talkative and pleasant and we got along swell for the time we were alone.  Eventually the station came to life with gaggles of people coming to pick up arriving passengers and drop off departing passengers – an odd sight for 3 a.m. – as if it was 3 p.m. in the station’s glory days.  But before he turned all the lights on it was odder yet in darkness with high ceilings, terra cotta walls, empty benches, closed counters, and pitch black corridors, but our station master was a very jovial fellow so everything was cheery enough.

Then, out of the darkness, this couple started walking towards us.  Bedraggled and woebegone they had a very sad tale to tell us.  They are on their honeymoon, heading for Florida.  They had taken the bus from Toronto with tickets for the train to New York City and then Florida.  When they walked out of the bus station in Buffalo this guy approached them and asked what time it was.  When our honeymooner pushed up his sleeve to glance at his watch, the guy pulled a gun on him and demanded the watch and his wallet.  Well, not only did they lose all their money and credit cards, the train tickets were in the wallet and now they were stuck without any money or anyway to get to Florida.

“Aww, this happens all the time,” my friendly station master says, “I can fix you up with some new tickets.  We’ll call the credit card company, and by the time you get to New York there’ll be a new credit card you can use on your honeymoon.”  He then went to work, opened-up his station, turned on the lights, made the calls for the honeymoon couple, issued them new tickets, and had everybody in good spirits.  Quite a station master.

Katie! [third daily dose of Tucson]

One more thing about Tucson before I tell about falling in love with Debbie’s sister in San Francisco.  On what turned out to be the last day of our scrap out jobs, we finished an apartment early, around noon, and I suggested we play hooky and find a swimming hole.  Bob, dedicated worker that he was, said no, he was going to find the boss to see what he wanted us to do next.

Now, you already know from reading the beginning of the “Rescue Mission” story that Bob was a really tall guy who could look out a windshield over a dashboard filled with layers and layers of accumulated junk and momentos, so of course the back sleeping quarters of the Volare had become quite a pit – and I took the opportunity of his going off to find the boss as a good time to do a little scrapping out of the Volare.  When he came back he was furious!  Bob and I had been friends for a long time without an angry word between us, and I know it’s hard to imagine two men in a Volare in a “domestic quarrel,” but that’s exactly what happened right in front of a he-men crew of construction workers.   What a comedy for them!

A quick side-trip to Phoenix was eventful, L.A. was great, and the commune we visited outside of L.A. with a woman named “Peach Blossom” was quite the experience (all stories for later), but I want to speed ahead to Katie in San Francisco.  Bob and I easily patched up our relationship after the domestic quarrel and by the time we arrived in San Francisco had spent many hours talking about what a fine lady Debbie was – so maybe we actually should look up her mother and sisters – and am I ever glad we did – what a great family one and all!

stunningly beautiful but heart-breakingly young

stunningly beautiful but heart-breakingly young

Mom, Liebe, was attending Hastings Law School on the rebound from losing her husband (a former Speaker of the Arizona Legislature) to cancer.  Katie was a senior in high school and played cello in the San Francisco Symphony.  Abby just a sophomore.   They had already heard all about us from Debbie and we were invited to supper.  What a place high in the hills of Tiburon overlooking the Bay.  Extra bedrooms for me & Bob.  We stayed a week there too.  Katie had dark hair and was absolutely stunning in the black gown she wore performing in the Symphony.  She also was the one who taught me the joke I re-tell in “The Summer of ’76.”  How many 17 year-olds have enough self-confidence to tell a very lame joke one night and then wait a week before starting another joke which turns out to be the very good punch line to the first joke?  She, however, was too young to start a romance with – and never knew how I felt about her as she died young – before my next trip to California years later.

 

 


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