The invitation to give a speech at the Baytown Country Club was bittersweet in a number of ways. From third grade through high school my family lived in the shadows of the country club, a world apart, foreign to our everyday reality. The invitation came two years after an extended and bitter fight over prayer in school. The case, Santa Fe School District v. Doe, wound a tortured path through the United States District Court, Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals and the United States Supreme Court. My representation of the Doe(s) served as one of the impetus for then federal judge, Samuel B. Kent, personally expressing his intended life’s mission (“I will make the next forty years of your life miserable” (his actual quote was more profane and colorful – mean-spirited, bordering on bullying. Absent spelling out the profane words, the descriptive words used above, coupled with one’s imagination should suffice to provide a proper setting)).
I drove that day with the intent to make the luncheon speech on time. It was now clear to me His Honor had made good on his promise of my intended demise. He had dismissed 18 out of the 25 cases in which I had in his court. His Honor crafted three opinions a week, over a six week period, releasing each opinion with great fanfare. The opinions inferred the plaintiff’s lawyer (interpretation – me/moi/mì) was suffering from drug or alcohol problem(s). Each opinion contained faint praise – he at one time was an excellent lawyer, but that something was now amiss in his behavior and practice before the Court (please read this with a cultural twist on my part – “He be talking about me”).
His honor, in those 18 orders, directed I forward a copy of the orders to the affected clients. All of the orders contained an explicit recommendation for plaintiff file a grievance against their lawyer or sue the lawyer (again, me/moi/mi). Not surprisingly the clients took the Court’s advice, 18 grievances alleging their lawyer violated his obligations to them. In hindsight I don’t blame the clients. The cases were now dismissed. Their only remedy was an appeal. They didn’t know my history with His Honor. Not many people would resist an explicit order from a federal judge inferring their lawyer was a drunk, on drugs, or made a mess of their affairs. Part of me was internally insulted: never consuming alcohol in my life, refusing to allow any type of drugs/mind or body altering substance to enter my body. Avoiding advertisement, peer pressures, expected behavior. I saw too many of my classmates succumb and fall by the wayside because of the use/abuse/addiction to those substances; substances readily available, far more available than say a fresh apple in our neighborhood. I wonder why? I wonder why?
His Honor also visited his fellow federal judges and told of his life altering plans for me. He requested his fellow “his/her honors” become active participants his goal to rid the bar of my presence. His expressed invitation was extended in a meeting of his fellow judges for the Southern District of Texas. One of his fellow judges revealed this secret to me, even though the judges’ meetings are confidential. Her Honor wasn’t the only one who told, another Her Honor spouse revealed the remaining judges’ decision to reject Judge Kent’s invitation to participate in my demise. The judges directed me to file any new Galveston Division case in the Houston Division. The remaining judges directed me to file any new case in the Houston Division, assuring me those cases “would not” be transferred back to Judge Kent’s court. My complying with the other his/her honors’ request did not protect me from the pending grievances, nor shield me from the public relationship war being waged by Samuel B. Kent as he continued to issue opinion after opinion. The other judges also made clear they had no authority to remove any of the pending cases from Judge Kent’s court.
When Judge Kent issued his weekly opinions, he followed his orders with a phone call to the local print media (Houston Chronicle and Galveston County Daily News). The reporters would then in turn call me for my response to the latest edict. I gracefully demurred. My addressing the press in a state of anger simply didn’t seem to me a likely path for success or survival. Judge Kent’s initial attacks began in 1997. The Supreme Court heard the Doe case in 1999 and issued its opinion in 2000. I was now two years removed from the Supreme Court’s decision; time’s passage did not make my drive any less internally traumatic.
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The drive from Galveston to Baytown was bittersweet because all which preceded my invitation to speak gnawed at me in the same manner the chemical plants gnawed at Baytown’s harbors. My office had now been gutted. Fear of the unknown became the burden imposed on the young lawyers and staff members prior to their fleeing to safer, more reasonable and lucrative harbors. As they fled, the office became a poor facsimile of our previous self. His Honor’s much public attacks devastated our federal docket, obliterated the overall caseload and caused our income to plummet. Samuel B. Kent’s actions mirrored others’ acts which had played out during my existence in Galveston – different actors, a different time.
The trip to Baytown allowed His Honor’s unwanted attention and my childhood memories of a changing/challenging world of a desegregating south to play out. The landscape was familiar to me, somewhat akin to watching a well-worn movie, listening but not listening, watching but not watching. However, none of this is why I muse. I muse because history is a vicious reminder of our past, and a wonderful predictor of our future. I muse because as I happily now exit the legal stage somewhat similar to the boxing ring, my history tells me that my being excluded, mistakenly being invited or being expelled from the ring were constants of history’s lessons.
I was running a little bit ahead of schedule. My decision to travel to the speech immediately after my court appearance in Galveston allowed me to save some time. I left early also because of other obligations, a requirement I appear in federal court in Houston after the speech. My office had informed the Houston court of the conflict and the possibility of running ten to fifteen minutes late.
When the invitation was extended, I had not been told much about what my host wanted me to speak about. The only information given was their wanting to hear of my experiences in Santa Fe v. Doe, no other instructions. My childhood anxieties refused to remain in the car – they walked with me every step of the way – from car, to sidewalk, to door. The well-appointed room served as a backdrop for my history and anxieties. I was immediately met by a gentleman.
“I am glad you made it. I am glad to meet you personally and not just talk with you on the phone. We were worried whether your hearing in Galveston would go over. And then the rains came.”
“I finished early and made up some time. Thank you for the invitation.”
“I am so excited you are here.” It was at this time I was given a fuller picture of what the host wanted to hear. “We want to know whether you were disappointed in the Supreme Court’s ruling and if so what do you expect in the future? … Is there a chance of any additional test cases? … Prayer in schools is important to our members. … We request you speak for thirty minutes, leave a little time for questions.” …
The host left me little time to answer his questions. He left even less to take in this new information, saying, “Excuse me, I must check with my colleague on something else.” Walking away, leaving me to my own devices.
Why on earth would I be disappointed with a ruling which was in my clients’ favor? What test cases was my host referring – I didn’t have a clue. This smartly dressed business man moved across this once prohibited sanctum to visit with others of like ilk. I had not moved far from the front door when Wanda Cash, a former Assistant Managing Editor for the Galveston County Daily News, approached and asked whether I remembered her. I assured her I did. She now occupied the position of editor and publisher of The Baytown Sun. Wanda too expressed unbridled excitement with my appearance. A smile seemed permanently etched on her face. Wanda appeared to be enjoying herself a little too much.
When Wanda left my presence, I reached for a program on the front desk. I was now confused. I was described in the program as the lawyer representing the school district. “An unfortunate loss” the members were informed, but “optimism for new strategies, new cases all to assure prayer in school.” The Baytown Rotary Club invited the wrong person. I wasn’t the other lawyer. I had no earthly idea how those lawyers felt, and was pretty sure no one was going to inform me of any planned test cases in order to get the question of prayer in public schools back before the United States Supreme Court.
My predicament was not one of “guess who coming to dinner”. I was already at dinner. When I looked up from the program my smartly-dressed host was approaching again.
“We are going to do some general business first. There are some agenda items we need to address before I introduce you. I say five minutes.”
“Sir, I have something to tell you.”
“You need something from us?”
“No sir, I’m fine. The description of me on this program is not me. I think you invited the wrong person. I represented the children and parents who challenged prayer in the public schools, not the school district. We won.”
As Ali’s phantom punch of Sonny Liston, in their second fight, was too fast for the human eye to perceive so was the effect of my words on this stranger. Those words propelled his 165 pound frame across the floor. The tails of an immaculate grey suit flapped as he approached other similarly attired men. He may have attempted to mask his horror, he couldn’t. His hands served as tell-tales, flailing uncontrollably. His body appeared distended with gas. He attempted to whisper, but the other men did not.
Oh shit is right. I’m hungry. I did not eat breakfast. I started my day at 5:00 a.m., prepared for two hearings, spent two hours in the first hearing and traveled here in a driving rain storm for the last hour. If I don’t find something to eat, I’m not going be able to get anything in my stomach until 4:00 p.m. The first time my Negro butt gets to go the Baytown Country Club and I am going to get kicked out! I have seen this dance before –‘no you can’t come in, no don’t use that water fountain. Why to the back of the bus, are you kidding me.’ It wasn’t my mistake! Oh come on, I’m hungry!
I immediately identified where the food was coming from and played bird dog and headed in that direction. I was met by one of the wait staff at the door. I told her what I perceived, what I expected to happen. I don’t remember what she looked like. I only remember her showing all thirty twos when I told her what was going on.
“Can I get a plate to eat before I get kicked out?”
“Sure baby, absolutely.”
When my food was brought, it appeared the entire kitchen staff came out – all people of color. They were the most friendly, happy bunch of Black people I have ever seen. Joy filled the air. Joyous, joyous people of color; I expected a chorus line to form. While I ate I noticed the word of the mistake passing from lip to lip, ear to ear. I noticed Wanda Cash standing and watching – the wait staff – her fellow Rotarians – me. She was happy, a profane giddy happy; happy, happy.
The food was excellent. The okra gumbo competed with my mother’s. I consumed the food as fast as I could – wiping and eating, wiping and eating – as efficiently as a starving man could only achieve. The same fast when you realize the dad doesn’t like you. The same fast when you realize you don’t like him. I knew I had to leave as soon as possible.
“Thank you. The food was good.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed the food.”
“Did you cook the okra gumbo?”
“Check your foot, one may be missing.”
“Oh baby please, you made all our day. If you want to take some with you, I will make you a container.”
Their day became more joyous as I approached my hosts, still conversing in the southwest corner of this temple of my anticipated expulsion.
“Sorry, excuse me. I figured out how we can address the mistake. You can tell your members, I got sick from the food. I will gracefully excuse myself and make my court appearance on time.”
I expected my host to accept my proposal, he did not. The frown gracing his forehead, which first appeared when I told him of my discovery, seemed to have become permanent scarring. “No we want you to stay.” I was shock by his stance, shocked enough to accept and begin thinking about what I could possibly say at a luncheon I shouldn’t have ever appeared.
The wait staff pretended not be listening, not to be watching. I pretended not to be noticing those colored people now lining the walls. Wanda Garner Cash wasn’t having any of our cultural “not be(s)”, she smiled, bounce in her chair in a perceptible manner. She enjoyed these events more than anyone should publicly enjoy themselves. Her public display of joy in all probability could meet the definition of obscenity.
I told the shocked faces I knew of the mistake. I identified myself. They didn’t clap. The … Oh Shit … moment still lingered in the air. The wait staff was having none of our socially acceptable behavior – clapping, smiling, watching – standing in a row, glued in place, collective humanity holding up the wall.
I explained, “My belief in the Constitution was borne in Goose Creek’s public schools, funded by their tax dollars. “You have no one to blame but yourselves.” Visions of years past came back, flooding and clouding my thoughts. Some in the audience flashed oblique smiles. The wait staff didn’t care, extending a laugh of appreciation, as if Richard Pryor had healed and was on stage again.
I tried to explain the importance of free speech, why the parents’ complaint was upheld by the Court. “Thank you for the food. Thank you for the invitation.” They remained in their seats – astonished – well, except Wanda and the wait staff; standing, clapping, enjoying life’s contradictions a little too much.
After speaking, I hurriedly made my way through the sea of blues and grays. I was stopped by Wanda before I could escape. “Anthony wasn’t this just a great meeting”, all spoken while her body continued to tremble with glee, a giddy glee. Wanda’s only attempt to control her condition came in the form of wiping her eyes. We wished each other well as I made by dash for the door to escape “Wanda, I’m so glad you had such a good time.”
[Author’s note: The above muse was initially published on November 1, 2014 on Blog.com – thus a throw-back musing. The musing is the Web-Manager’s favorite musing, and remains so. It is hoped you enjoyed this version, with slight modifications from the original.]