On a Great Man

　

　

1.

The Great Man outlived his infamy. When he died at the ripe old age of 98, very few people remembered him and his deeds had, also, been forgotten. If he had died, ten years earlier, his passing would have warranted an article in the back pages of our newspaper and there would have been some mild controversy about the morality of his public praise. If he had died at 78, the newspaper would have used a headline on its front page to trumpet the report of his demise and fist fights would have erupted between admirers and detractors.

But at 98, the news of The Great Man’s death wasn’t news at all. Most people, one assumes, would have supposed him dead long ago. Indeed, when I emailed condolences to TGM’s nephew, he told me that the family had ceased mourning ten years earlier when the last spark’s of the old man’s mind flickered out. He had been, I am told, a body without intelligence or will for more than a decade. Because he was so preternaturally strong, his heart continued beating and his lungs kept pumping air into his carcass long after he should have been buried in the cold ground.

There was an extended obituary, probably written by his eldest son, in the newspaper. The obit said that TGM was born in 1920. He graduated from the Catholic High School in town and, then, attended the University of Minnesota. It wasn’t clear what he studied: most likely, it didn’t matter because his best efforts were devoted to football. TGM was a lineman for the late thirties Golden Gophers, a legendary team coached by Bernie Bierman – it is said that when TGM played for the Gophers between 1939 and 1942, the football squad was undefeated. (It’s worth mentioning that in 1941, TGM won the heavyweight Golden Gloves boxing championship at the University of Minnesota as well.) After graduating in 1942, TGM played professional football for one season with the Cleveland Rams. World War II was in progress – in 1943, he enlisted in the navy and was stationed on a destroyer cruising the sea amidst the Aleutian Islands. After the war, TGM married, studied law on the GI bill and was admitted to the Minnesota bar in the late forties. He practiced in the family firm in our town for a few years before being appointed to the Bench in 1955. TGM was a Judge of District Court in my rural county in Minnesota for 26 years, retiring in 1981. He returned to the practice of law, unsuccessfully ran for State Office, and continued appearing in Court through the early nineties. By this time, his mind was fading. I last saw him about ten years ago at a meeting of the noon Kiwanis. TGM was seated with his son and a couple of old men at a table set aside from the rest of the group. He was still physically imposing, a big, oblong block of a man, neatly groomed and dressed. I recall that he wore a black beret that seemed comically small for his big, ferocious-looking head. His jaw was a little slack, however, and the habitual disinterest in his eyes had sharpened to something that looked like panic. TGM was still handsome in bland sort of way – he had the good looks of a heavy-set B-movie actor, a big lunk like William Bendix.

In the newspaper obituary in our town, the paper published a photographic portrait of TGM in his judicial robes, smiling in a sinister way against a backdrop of anonymous-looking law books – the picture was famous from a scandal involving an ex-nun. Below the picture of TGM as a judge, there was a photograph of him as a young man wearing a leather football helmet. In that picture, TGM is showing his "war face" – he is grimacing horribly at the camera and his eyes are maniacal. (I am told that pictures of this sort were conventional in the forties, but the image is still frightening – the insane craziness displayed on the young man’s face doesn’t seem feigned.) The two pictures together comprise an eloquent composite image of TGM. There is another old photograph of TGM on his Wikipedia page, a terse note that says nothing other than that he played line one season for the Cleveland Rams. That page is illustrated by a photograph taken when TGM was at the University of Minnesota – TGM has a big face and a protruding nose meant to be broken and there is weird hump in his hair, a sort of ascending cumulo-nimbus formation rising up over his right temple.



2.

I came to town to practice law in 1979. I had taken the Bar exam but not yet received the results. It was a hot July day when the senior partner in my law firm took me in his Cadillac ten blocks from our office downtown to the Courthouse square to meet the District Judge. In those days, lawyers owed fealty to the local judges and it would have been an insult to the Bench to harbor me as a law clerk without making a proper introduction to the sitting judge.

Security didn’t exist in those days. You walked into the Courthouse through any one of three doors, navigated the cool, dim corridor to the judge’s chambers and, then, walked right in – there was a counter raised high enough to be convenient for signing papers and the judge’s court reporter, serving as a kind of secretary, sat at a desk behind the counter, pounding away at a type-writer. TGM served as a District Court judge while also operating a trust and bond company, a pretty overt and egregious conflict of interest – tact required everyone to simply look the other way. The Court reporter, a wizened gnome of a man who wore huge black glasses like aviator’s goggles, was probably typing bonds or trust indentures for the Judge’s financial enterprise. My senior partner greeted the Court Reporter by his first name and asked if the Judge was available to meet me. I recall a huge poster of the King Tutankhamen’s golden death mask looming over us on the wall behind the Court Reporter’s desk. In a glass vitrine, the sort of thing you might see at a museum, there was a withered-looking football, a sort of leather raisin, and a picture of TGM as a young athlete, wearing the armor of his football gear.

TGM was jovial, enormous, with a booming voice and an acrid and cackling laugh. His horny fist crushed my hand. He grinned at me like a carved jack-o-lantern. He told my senior partner that an old lawyer in town, Roger C – , had just concluded a jury trial in his court. In a stage whisper, TGM said: "D’you know what? He forgot to ask for the insurance instruction on voir dire. In a car crash case involving State Farm? Malpractice – Roger shouldn’t be trying cases. It’s malpractice." My senior partner grimaced. "Really?" he said in a non-comittal voice. "It’s malpractice pure and simple," the old Judge said. (Lawyers are forbidden to mention insurance in a civil jury trial arising from a car-crash. An exception is that during voir dire – that is, while picking the jury – a lawyer can ask the Judge to inquire if anyone is a shareholder, employee, officer, or director in the insurance company providing indemnity to the defendant. This is a back-handed way of implying to the jury that the proceeds to compensate the injured person will not be paid by the defendant but by his or her insurer.)

TGM glared at me. "You’re showing me your poker face," the Judge said. "Juries don’t like a lawyer with a poker face." I nodded. "You have to smile," TGM said. "You have to show them your teeth and smile and, then, they will like you."

I nodded again and, even, forced a wan smile across my lips. "There," TGM said, "that’s better."

We went back through the courthouse to the curb where my senior partner had parked his Cadillac.

"There," he said. "You’ve met Judge Bizarro."

"Yes," I said.

"We call him Judge Bizarro," the senior partner told me. "He hates Roger because he used to represent the Hormel Company." Hormel operates a slaughterhouse and meatpacking plant in my town. "He hates Hormel with a passion."

The senior partner said: "I’m not so quick to think Roger committed malpractice. Roger is a very experienced lawyer. Everyone today knows that people driving automobiles are insured. That’s just Judge Bizarro casting aspersions."

He sighed: "Well, now you’ve met him."

　

3.

Three months later, a client hired me. He was on probation for a gross misdemeanor and wanted the terms of the sentence relaxed a little. I was skeptical about whether this could be accomplished. But there was a rule and a couple of cases that could be cited in support of this relief. Accordingly, I drafted a petition and filed it with the Court.

The matter was called for a hearing in front of TGM. It was a "cattle call" – the Judge was conducting status conferences with the lawyers involved in about twenty cases. The courtroom and corridor was crowded. The lawyers were pretty tight-knit in those days and they enjoyed status conference Tuesdays. Everyone got to see everyone else and exchange gossip. There was a lot of chatter in the hallway, groups of lawyers laughing and boasting while small, huddled groups of clients stood fearfully against the wall, clustered by the benches outside the big courtroom.

My client and I sat in the back of the courtroom. I didn’t know any of the lawyers well enough to stand around shooting the breeze with them. In fact, even the older lawyers from my law firm ignored me. TGM called my petition and we went to stand before the Bench.

I made about a third of my argument and, then, the Judge brusquely interrupted me. "Did I order your client to serve jail time for this offense?" he asked. "No," I said. "So he’s just on probation?" "That’s my understanding, your honor."

The Judge grinned his Halloween-pumpkin grin. "Well that won’t do," he said. "Mr. Beckmann, I’m denying your motion. Please go to your office and draft an order requiring your client to serve out the remainder of his jail term in the County jail." I stuttered: "But you stayed sentence." The Judge cackled at me: "I’m revoking that stay."

He dismissed me and I went into the hallway full of gossiping lawyers. My client was sobbing. "What have you done? What have you done?" he cried.

We went to my car and drove back to my office. At the office, there was a phone message that I should call the Clerk of Court. I placed the call and the Clerk told me that the Judge was just joking and that I should draft an order simply denying the petition."

"No jail time?" I asked.

"No jail time," the Clerk said. "The Judge was just joking with you."

　

4.

You might want to check on my stories. Perhaps, you will feel an urge to do some independent research. In that case, you will be disappointed.

Transcripts prepared by Judge’s loyal court reporter almost never contained any of TGM’s asides or improper comments. Those remarks were simply not reported. The Judge and his Court Reporter were fellow members of the Knights of Columbus, Fourth Degree, and they had an understanding.

Once, my partner, then, employed as County Attorney, was trying a felony case to the jury in TGM’s court. A young man named Danny H– was called by the defense to provide alibi evidence. In the middle of Danny H–‘s testimony, the Judge leaned forward, casting his shadow on the witness box. "Now, now, Danny," the Judge said. "We all know your not telling the truth. The jury knows and I know and the lawyers, particularly this bird who put you on the stand, know that you’re not telling the truth. You’re just like your daddy – he was also a liar. So I’m telling you now, stop with this lying and tell the truth."

In fact, Danny H– was lying. He clammed-up and answered every other question with the words: "I don’t recall."

When his testimony was concluded, the Judge wagged his long finger at Danny and said: "Now, you be a good boy, Danny, and don’t be telling no more lies."

The State won the case. The defense lawyer asked for a transcript of this proceedings involving the Judge’s comments from the Bench. But the record had been sanitized – it was clean as a hound’s tooth with nothing to show that the Judge had intervened during Danny’s testimony. Enough other evidence existed to convict the Defendant and so no appeal was taken.

A few months later, my partner, later in his career, but then County Attorney, was trying an important homicide case. An African-American drifter was shacked-up in a rotting hotel down by the Milwaukee Road railroad tracks on the East Side of town. The drifter had a floozy in his room. They were both smoking in bed and a cigarette lit the sheets and mattress on fire. Everyone was drunk and a couple of old winos flopping in the hotel were found burned to death in the rubble. There was a hue and cry, mostly for the lynching of the Black man.

During the trial, the County called the floozy to testify. She was a tired-looking blonde woman with a beer belly that made her look pregnant. In the middle of her examination, the Judge put up his hand to stop the testimony. "I’ve got a couple of questions, if you don’t mind, counsel," the Judge said. The lawyers looked quizzically at one another and, then, held their breath. The Judge said: "You like that black stuff don’t you?" He used the witness’ first name. "I know you’ve always liked that black stuff, isn’t that true?" The woman began to cry and the Judge called a recess.

In chamber, the Judge met with the lawyers. The conference was on-the-record. The defense lawyer moved the Court for a mistrial. The Judge nodded gravely and, then, turned to the County Attorney – "I presume you oppose this motion." The County Attorney shook his head. "No, I join in the motion." The Judge growled at both of them: "Well, the motion is denied. I was just trying to establish that the witness is a woman of bad repute and that she isn’t credible." He snarled at the defense lawyer: "You don’t see I was trying to help out your boy?" The defense lawyer said: "I stand by my motion."

TGM said: "I talked to the officer who arrested your man." He paused: "You know your boy came sprinting out of that hotel buck-naked?" "I’m aware of that, your honor," the defense lawyer. "The arresting officer told me that your boy’s cock was a yard-long, that it was hanging down below your boy’s knees." The defense lawyer stammered something.

Of course, the jury convicted the African-American man. An appeal was filed. When the transcripts were printed, there was no record of the colloquy between the witness and the Judge. Similarly, not one word of the motions for mistrial survived. Both the defense lawyer and County Attorney filed affidavits with the Supreme Court attesting to the conversations in chambers and the Judge’s intervention from the Bench. These affidavits put the appellate Court in a difficult position. The Supreme Court ruled that the record was uncertain as to what the Judge had done but that, in light of other evidence, any error that occurred had been harmless and that the conviction for double manslaughter should stand.

　

5.

TGM didn’t forgive my future partner, then, the County Attorney, for the affidavit filed with the Supreme Court. He took his revenge a couple years later.

In our part of the State, elections in the country are managed by the Township Board in the voting precinct. During a nationwide presidential election, one of the local townships determined that inclement weather – there had been an early morning ice storm – had prevented a number of citizens from voting. The Township Board, accordingly, kept the polling place open for a half-hour after it was supposed to be closed at 8:00 pm. There was a tightly contested local race and the losing party filed an affidavit that the polling place had been kept open a half-hour after the statutorily mandated time that the vote should have been closed. The five members of the township board admitted their error but contended that they had all acted in good faith. Nonetheless, the election offense was serious – it is a felony to violate Minnesota’s voting law.

The County Attorney charged all five members of the Township Board with felony voting crimes. All of the Township Board members were well-respected, honest farmers of unimpeachable rectitude. None of them had any sort of criminal record. Their offense was based on ignorance. The County Attorney appeared in Court recommending leniency – he advised the Judge that he had negotiated a plea arrangement with counsel for the Township Board members: each of the defendants would pay $250 as a penalty and the cases would be dismissed with a stay of entry of Judgement. (By this mechanism, the felony charges would not appear on the farmers’ records.) After the County Attorney recommended this plea agreement, the Judge cast back his leonine head and roared at him: "Mr. W—, you seem to think that these willful felonies are trivial matters. Well I disagree. These men tampered with an election. I don’t accept the plea deal. Go out in the hall and get an agreement that includes at least a month jail time for each of these defendants."

The County Attorney withdrew the plea agreement. In the hallway, the farmers were all weeping and shouting and gnashing their teeth. "We’ll have to let this simmer," the County Attorney said. A month later he came back into Court with a plea proposal that each defendant pay a $1500 fine, that jail time be suspended, and that entry of the felony plea also be stayed with records expunged after the penalties were remitted. TGM accepted that plea. A month later, the County Attorney came to my law firm and asked that we hire him – "I’m not going to appear any more in front of that son-of-a-bitch," he told my senior partner. And, indeed, he filed affidavits of prejudice against the Judge during the next year of so on every case over which TGM was assigned to preside.

　

6.

For many years, TGM moonlighted as CEO of a firm that administered trusts and sold bonds of various kinds. That business was located two blocks from the Courthouse in an incongruously big building that had once been a grocery store. Good synergy existed between TGM’s two enterprises: on the Bench, TGM encountered people daily, most of them elderly, who would be well-served by having their assets administered by a reputable trust company. Further, the Court was often called upon to approve the disposition of probate assets or the distribution of funds on wrongful death or for an injured child. Conveniently, the Judge could simply order that those proceeds be responsibly managed by a trust company with a good reputation, that business located within hailing distance of the Courthouse in the old Piggly Wiggly supermarket building. The TGM’s trust company had millions of dollars under management, a substantial business responsibility that required that the Judge spend several hours a day optimizing company investments and responding to customer inquiries. This labor was accomplished by abbreviating the Judge’s time on the Bench – he generally began hearings in his Courtroom at 9:30 am, took a two-hour lunch break, and knocked off for the day around 3:30 pm. Trials in his court were notoriously lengthy because the Judge was on the bench only 4 to 4 and a half hours a day.

For intricate reasons, the leading business in our town, a famous meatpacking concern, was operated as a trust. Family members who owned the business had all decamped to Los Angeles or San Francisco, preferring a Mediterranean climate to our Winter’s icy hell (and equally infernal, mosquito-haunted Summers.) People with lots of money and clever, beautiful friends in Hollywood really don’t want to be associated with an enterprise that slaughters pigs and hacks them apart to make canned pork. Accordingly, after two hardworking generations, the meatpacking family had declined (or, perhaps, one might say evolved) into a clan of socialites wired into the arts, film, and recording industries on the West Coast. The vast wealth produced by the meatpacking business on the icy steppes of Minnesota was managed as a trust for these socialites and invested, as well as disbursed, according to complex bylaws.

Trusts must present their accounts on an annual basis to the probate Court. For several years, TGM approved the accounts of the family trusts operating the company for the benefits of the heirs of the hardworking old Germans who had founded the firm. Researching the law, TGM discovered an anomaly – the law didn’t permit a family trust of this specific sort to own a business or make profits. The trust, accordingly, had been proceeding under false premises. When TGM discovered this defect in the management of the family trust, a scheme occurred to him – something far-reaching, bold, and profitable. What if he could order that the family trust run by the meatpacking company instead be transferred to his own trust and estate company located in the defunct Piggly Wiggly store? TGM always thought that he could run the business more effectively and for greater profits than the feckless executives in the corporate offices and, certainly, there were enormous fees in the offing if the meatpacking firm could be transferred for management to his trust company. Of course, a conflict of interest might arise if TGM issued the order transferring the management of the Fortune 500 meatpacking business to his own Trust Company – someone might ask importunate questions about that transaction. Accordingly, TGM conferred with his fellow judge chambered in the adjacent county. The fellow judge was a huge bombastic fellow, vicious in his own right, the former commander of the American Legion in the State of Minnesota and a famous bully. TGM conspired with this fellow and, ultimately, persuaded him to take the trust accounts of the meatpacking company under his advisement at the annual hearing. This brethren Judge, then, chastised the company’s management for attempting to run a for-profit corporation under trust statutes designed for non-profit enterprises. He ordered that the management of the entire firm be transferred lock, stock and barrel to the trust company occupying the old supermarket building two blocks from the Mower County courthouse.

To say that the meatpacking company responded with alacrity would be an understatement. The afternoon after the probate Court issued its order, motions for injunction were filed by several large law firms in New York City. The corporation has a jet airplane and it ferried a team of lawyers from Manhattan to our small town. Of course, the local judges were all disqualified from hearing the injunctions and writs filed to restore the Fortune 500 company to its proper managers and directors. A Judge from another county was brought into the litigation and an order issued almost instantly enjoining TGM’s trust company from its operation of the meatpacking firm. The injunction was made permanent and, apparently, laws were passed for the purpose of insulating the pork-processing company from this sort of intervention in the future. (Local lawyers representing the company had to testify in Washington before Congress to obtain this special dispensation). To punish TGM for his role in this scheme, the company’s New York lawyers publicized the debacle in newspapers in the Twin City and stirred-up an investigation of the TGM’s business. (From time to time, TGM’s trust business was investigated, generally, with the outcome that the scrutiny was like turning over a flat stone in a backyard garden – all sorts of white writhing things and creepy-crawlies were observed in the muck, cavorting and disporting themselves.) TGM was smeared in the newspapers, rebuked by the professional committee supervising judges, and ordered to divest himself of the trust business to avoid conflicts of interest. He obeyed these orders, albeit contemptuously, appointing his wife, who was a homemaker, to the management of the trust and estate business. Everyone noticed that his wife’s signature on the official documents of the trust company bore a surprising similarity to TGM’s handwriting.

And, so, TGM continued to run the trust company in the old grocery building although covertly, making investments and studying ticker-tape over his two hour noon breaks and during the hours before and after his brief time on the Bench. Although his wife signed all bonds and trust documents, one knew the lion by the mark of his paw.

7.

When he left the Bench, the Bar sponsored a retirement party for the Judge. The affair took place at the Country Club. Everyone attended.

TGM sat next to his brother. TGM’s brother was also a judge albeit of a court of jurisdiction lesser (or, at least, different) from his. TGM’s brother was a studious, courtly man who collected rare books. He was soft-spoken and a little indolent – the lawyers who appeared in his Court loved him without reservation. He was a reasonable man and didn’t put on airs. A photographer had been commissioned to take a picture of the Bench and Bar in our county as gathered for the Judge’s retirement. TGM, plotting a run for public office, didn’t want to be photographed with a cocktail in his hand. He sat in the center of the picture next to his brother. "I’m not gonna be shown in a picture with booze in front of me," he loudly proclaimed. He took his highball and set it next to his brother’s gin and tonic. "There," he said. He smirked at his brother. "You always were a two-fisted drinker," he said. After the party, I stood in the parking lot at the Country Club. I looked at the evergreens screening the tees and greens from view. Someone was standing by me, but this was many years ago and I don’t recall who it was. "I’m going to piss on his grave," I told the person next to me. "You’ll have to stand in line," the other person said.

Alcohol had been the scourge of TGM’s family. My senior partner told me that the Judge acted all high and mighty but that his father had been a reprehensible, stinking drunk, an old man always found in downtown alleys or gutters, passed out in his pissed pants. The Judge’s older brother was avuncular and had married well – his wife was the daughter of the Director of a well-known insurance company located in the Midwest. That company initiated a class-action suit against pharmaceutical companies alleging price-fixing and the TGM’s older brother, who was also a local lawyer, had piece of that action. The price-fixing class action made that man, and his brilliant oldest son (who went on to become a famous class action lawyer in his own right) very wealthy. TGM’s older brother purchased a horse ranch south of town and raised thoroughbreds. He attended all social events hosted by the local bar and was greatly beloved, a rich source for local legal lore and legend. TGM’s younger brother, as we have seen, was also a Judge. When he retired, he opened a bookstore near the Mayo Clinic in Rochester – he was a happy man, buying and selling the rare books that he loved.

One of TGM’s relatives told me that on Christmas day, in his mansion designed by an iconic architect, and, after their turkey dinner, the men all retired to the basement to smoke cigars and drink brandy. TGM had an 8 millimeter film showing the different ways in which animals copulated. He showed the movie and everyone smoked expensive cigars and sipped their expensive cognac and laughed at the animals having sex. It was very comical. The turtles were a particular favorite every year.

8.

After his retirement, TGM’s first order of business was to run for public office. He moved his framed poster of the Pharaoh and the football that was like a shrunken head to the Piggly Wiggly. Of course, he had a few clients, but, initially, his ambition was to secure election to the State legislature. (Who knows what perfidious schemes he had hatched for that post?) The local legislator was DFL, a post-Vietnam progressive, a nondescript middle-aged woman with a big, jovial laugh. She had once been a nun and her sexual preference was a little murky and, as a feminist, she was soft on abortion. The former Judge was a Vietnam hawk, a staunch, if non-observant Catholic, and, of course, pro-life. During the primary, TGM bought several billboards looming over central intersections in our town. On those billboards, TGM posted a barn-sized picture of himself, smooth-faced and bland as William Bendix, an image of the sort that one might imagine chiseled into the heights of Mount Rushmore. TGM smiled serenely at the camera like a cat that’s just eaten a canary, a wall of law books behind him – presumably, he intended the billboard both as an advertisement for his campaign and his new, burgeoning law practice. He was wearing his judicial robes in direct contravention of Minnesota statutory law and rules governing the decorum required with respect to both sitting and retired Judges. His adversary, the progressive feminist immediately pointed this out to the Commission governing the Professional Responsibility of Judges. An order issued that the billboard showing TGM dressed as a Judge be removed.

TGM was nonplussed, that is, unperturbed. He issued this statement: "I am a retired Judge and, therefore, can still be recalled to the Bench, therefore, the picture was correct. My opponent took a vow as a nun. Presumably, she is still a nun and could be recalled to her convent." The statement highlighted his adversaries problematic status as woman who had broken a covenant, perhaps, due to an imperfection in her sexual orientation and who stood ready, willing, and able to slaughter the unborn.

The strategy didn’t work and, after losing the election, TBM returned to the practice of law.

9.

A creek snakes through a wooded ravine fractal with other smaller wooded ravines at the edges of our town. An elite neighborhood, largely occupied by the executives at the local packing plant, was established in the late forties on a relatively level terrace next to the stream. In the old days, before cars were ubiquitous, the executives lived in mansions embedded around Main Street – that is, within walking distance of the plant located on the other side of the 19^th century mill pond. During the twenties, the execs built their homes another ten to twelve blocks to the west where the downtown relaxed into big wooded lawns. Those homes were miniature castles with fairy-tale towers and turrets. The next generation of movers and shakers built on the lots near the creek, a watery, if picturesque, area that was prone to flooding. One of the executives went so far as to commission Frank Lloyd Wright to build his home, a long angular structure with wooden struts and girders painted in the architect’s trademark color, Cherokee Red. The neighborhood was eclectic – there were glass modular houses closer to the river, the sort of thing you might see in New Canaan, Connecticut, perhaps, built as a rebuke to the slumbering monstrosity of the huge FLW edifice a little uphill. The local personal injury lawyer lived in a wood-shake shingled home with, of course, a turquoise swimming pool – other houses in the neighborhood were vast sprawling structures (the company overpays its executives) like the barracks in a Shaker commune as well as little Grimm brothers gingerbread houses, witches cottages with archaic gabled roofs in the tall trees. The whole neighborhood was shady with curving streets and no sidewalks and gutters full of fallen leaves.

TGM hosted a big party in his FLW home. Rumor had it that he had substantially modified the interior lay-out of the house, not content with the famous architect’s design, and, even, probably vandalized the place, although no one knew this for sure. One of my partners was invited to the cocktail party. TGM made a short self-aggrandizing speech promoting his new law practice. Both of his sons were working for him and he had just hired a female attorney, Helen V–. The Judge said: "This will be a trial practice. We’re trial lawyers. None of the other attorneys in town like trial practice. Frankly, they don’t have the guts for it. But I’m comfortable in Court – after all, I was a trial judge for 26 years. We’re gonna take cases to trial. Count on it!"

After this speech, the Judge roamed the crowd shaking hands and boasting about his courtroom prowess. One of my partners was in attendance and he shrunk against the wall as he saw TGM approaching him. The Judge stuck a huge bony finger on my partner’s sternum and pushed hard. "We’re comin’ to get ya," he said. "We’re comin’ to get ya for sure." My partner nodded his head and tried to interpret the assault as a friendly gesture. "Okay, if you say so," my partner replied. "You know," TGM said, "I was a Golden Gloves boxer. Champion. And I never threw a punch in anger without my fist breakin’ the bone. Ya know?" "Oh, I know," my partner stuttered. "Helen..." the Judge said. "She’s like a junkyard dog. She’s meaner ‘n a junk yard dog. She’s gonna get cha." My partner shrugged and grinned and the Judge grinned and, then, sailed off to menace some other poor soul.

About six months later, Helen V– left town in the middle of the night. No one knew where she went. She abandoned the law practice, TGM, and her litigated files, most of them involving frivolous suits. She also abandoned the apartment TGM had rented to her. She left in the middle of the lease and so TGM sued her for the balance of the rent. Helen V– defaulted and TGM took a judgement against her. He also kept her damage deposit because she had pounded some nails in the wall to hang a couple pictures of her dogs and her pony.

10.

I was involved in one of TGM’s first cases after his retirement from the Bench.

An old lady owned a vacant house in our town. She placed an advertisement offering the house for rent. An African-American woman answered the advertisement and demonstrated that she was qualified to rent the property for her small family – she worked as a motel manager and had two little children. The old lady delayed. She wondered what the neighbors, all of whom were White, would say about her renting the home to the Black lady. When the prospective renter put her off a couple times, the African-American woman contacted the Minnesota Department of Human Rights with her suspicions that she was the victim of housing discrimination. The Department sent a fresh-faced and friendly White couple in their early thirties to inquire as to the house. The old lady met them and agreed to lease the property to them for a hundred dollars less a month than her proposal to the Black woman. The Department immediately sued her and she sought the legal advice of the former Judge.

Many old people, particularly those living in rural Minnesota, don’t know anyone who is Black. In my experience, almost everybody is instinctively racist, although these atavistic tendencies can be readily overcome if your imagination is sufficiently flexible and empathetic. But the older you get, the more you’re set in your ways and the less flexible you become with regard to accepting new ideas. These are cliches and truisms and I blush to write them – but the point is that the old White lady was a victim of her own prejudices and, suddenly, found herself named as a defendant in a scary lawsuit. The evidence against the White defendant was clear, convincing, and unequivocal – any competent lawyer would have recognized the case as indefensible and have, immediately, initiated damage control measures, that is admitting liability and working to negotiate a prompt and reasonable settlement. (The Black lady’s actual damages were minimal – she had found another better place to live for less rent.) TGM didn’t take this approach – to the contrary, he exacerbated his client’s exposure by defending both vigorously and ineffectually. (Fees are shifted in civil rights cases – the losing party pays the winner fees and expenses and, so, it is important to promptly evaluate this kind of case and try to resolve it by settlement without incurring significant fees.)

TGM set the Black woman’s deposition. In that proceeding, he belabored her about the Civil War. Q: Do you believe there is discrimination against African-Americans north of the Mason-Dixon line? A: Of course. Q: Do you even know what the Mason-Dixon line is? She did. Q: Do you have any idea how many White boys died for your people, all White boys from north of the Mason-Dixon line? A: That is about the most ignorant question I have ever heard. And you were a Judge? During his colloquy, Assistant AG appearing for the Department was squawking out objections. Things went downhill from that point.

TGM refused to conciliate and demanded a jury trial. He hoped to impanel a White racist jury. But, in those days, Civil Rights lawsuits were not tried to the jury but to the judge. In fact, the Attorney General for the State of Minnesota handled the case on behalf of the African-American lady. There was a short trial and the Court issued judgement in favor of the African-American lady in the sum of about $85,000. (This was a case that could have readily been settled for $10,000 to $15,000.)

TGM counseled his client not to pay the judgement. Instead, he brought a separate lawsuit naming the Black lady as a defendant. The theory of the case was that the African-American woman’s civil rights claim was a malicious abuse of process and that the woman had lied in the proceedings and, therefore, committed perjury. (Perjury is a criminal offense but TGM argued that the plaintiff’s deceit in the litigation involving this discrimination in housing had influenced the outcome of the case.) The complaint served on the Black lady claimed damages in the amount of one million dollars.

The Black lady brought the complaint to me. I was astonished. I immediately filed Motions pursuant to Rule 12 of the Rules of Civil Procedure to dismiss the case as failing to state a cause of action. When I argued the motion, TGM didn’t appear. Instead, he sent his stepson. The Trial Judge looked at the Complaint and my motion for dismissal. He shrugged and, then, glared at the young man appearing in his Courtroom. "May I ask," the Judge inquired, "where is your stepfather?" "He’s ill today, your honor," the young man said. I stood up to make my argument. "I don’t need to hear from you, Mr. Beckmann," the Judge said. I sat down. The Judge said to TGM’s stepson: "What do you have to say?" "Nothing, your honor," the young man said, almost in a whisper. The Judge dismissed the complaint from the Bench and awarded attorney’s fees and damages. There was an Appeal, quashed at an early stage, with an another award of fees and costs.

Later, TGM was publicly reprimanded by the Board of Professional Responsibility. Particularly embarrassing and racist exchanges from the Trial and deposition transcript were printed in the Opinion. The old lady who had made the mistake of retaining TGM as her counsel lost the house to the Black lady – it had to be sold to pay the Judgement. The Black lady affirmed that our community was more racist than the deep South from which she had come. She took her money and returned to Atlanta.

11.

If you want to see TGM depicted with eerie accuracy, I commend to you Orson Welles 1958 film noir,

Touch of Evil. There are many reasons to watch this movie – it is one of Welles’ best pictures and prescient of today’s troubles (both actual and purported) at the Mexican border. Welles plays a fat, vicious, and corrupt sheriff, Hank Quinlan, who rules a border town where there has been a dynamite attack that seems to be a terrorist act. Welles tears into the part with Shakespearean bravado, channeling sometimes Richard the Third, sometimes, Iago, and, even, Lady Macbeth – after his final wicked act, the murderous cop staggers down to a filthy canal full of rotting detritus to wash his bloodstained hands. (There’s an element of King Lear’s arrogant savagery embedded in the part as well.)

Quinlan is a bully who uses his authority to torment others, but his instincts are sure – in fact, he knows who has committed the bombing even though it’s something that he can’t prove. He’s simply willing to bend the rules to reach an outcome that he knows is correct – even though he couldn’t achieve those results by behaving legally or, even, with any scintilla of honor. Corrupt to his very marrow, Quinlan knows that the ends always justify the means because this is, not only, what he believes but the way that he has always acted. He also knows that people will lie and that no one tells the truth except under compulsion – and, not even then if there is some other avenue of escape: this is something that he understands because he is an accomplished and vicious liar himself. Ultimately, Quinlan knows that everyone has a price and all men are corrupt because, of course, he is profoundly corrupt and morally rotten himself.

Quinlan’s mannerisms in hectoring suspects, his intonations, his facial expressions and gestures are all exactly similar to TGM’s demeanor and appearance – it’s as if Orson Welles came to my little town and sat in the courtroom day after day committing to memory the Judge’s conduct on the Bench. Art imitates life, I suppose. No one saw the great film maker in my town, but he must have been there to commit to the screen such an exact, truthful, and damning representation of TGM.

12.

A woman was injured at her place of work. She recovered worker’s compensation benefits. Ultimately, the injured worker was presented with a release to sign with respect to a disputed lump sum payment. She signed the release and received the money. Because she was unable to return to her manual labor job, the employer discharged her. The woman went to TGM and hired him to sue the employer for penalizing the worker for filing a claim for compensation. TGM’s complaint was vivid and malign – it was also completely wrong with respect to all factual allegations and didn’t state a viable cause of action.

I was retained to defend the employer. It was my suspicion that the former Judge had no idea how to present his case-in-chief and would simply call his plaintiff to testify to her vague suspicion that she had been fired for filing the workers compensation claim. We appeared in Court and made brief opening statements – the law required that the case be tried to the Trial Judge without jury. This seemed to baffle TGM – he made several bizarre motions asking that a jury be empanelled. Of course, this was not authorized under the statute and, in any event, you can’t simply materialize a jury by waving a wand – juror’s have to be summoned and oriented, fed coffee and donuts, shown videos as to their civic obligations, in short, trial by jury is a major production and one that the Clerks of Court responsible for orchestrating all of this heartily despise. (Judges like jury trials – they are good advertising for the elections for office for which they have to stand from time to time.) The Trial Judge patiently, but with a hint of malice, explained to TGM that he wasn’t going to be able to perform for a jury. TGM noted an exception, an archaic gesture objecting to the ruling, and, then, gazed wistfully with his big, sad William Bendix eyes at the empty jury box.

When I stood up to argue, a horrible sound vibrated in the air – aaaraggggghhhhhh!!! ending in a wet gulping sound. The Judge had just inhaled a sinus full of mucous into his throat, gargled with the gobs of snot, and, then, swallowed them down. I paused and looked over at TGM. He grinned at me looking quite satisfied with the phlegmy bellow that he had produced. I said a few more words and, then, the Judge produced the wet, rattling roar again. I glared at him. He grinned back at me. He wasn’t poker-faced at all but very pleased at the distraction that he was creating. I continued my opening statement vexed every two or three sentences by this growling, leonine roar of aspirated snot. After my opening, the Judge’s sinuses seems to have been evacuated and he called his first and only witness, the unfortunate female worker. He examined her for an hour or so urging that she testify as to her unwarranted, even, paranoid, suspicions of wrongdoing. When I began to cross-examine, TGM’s sinuses filled with mucous again and that had to be flushed down through his throat into belly again and again.

After my cross-examination, TGM rested his case. Again, he gazed longingly at the empty jury box, the vacant seats, the wooden rail where he wished that he could have gone to loom over those twelve men (here six) tried and true. I moved for a judgment of dismissal. My oral argument was punctuated by volleys of wet, torrential throat-clearing. Again, my opponent’s mucous problems cleared up when he rose to argue. During his pitch, TGM sometimes turned to glare at the non-existent jury. The Trial Judge dismissed his case after he had spoken his piece. He stood up and bawled "exception". Of course, he took an appeal but it failed and his client received nothing except charges for a couple of thousand dollars costs and disbursements owed to the employer.

13.

And, then, there was the sex case. Feelings are still raw about this lawsuit and it’s subject to protective gag orders and so I can’t say much about it. Names, places, circumstances are all changed here, although the gist of this nasty thing (I think) can be disclosed.

An employer, let’s say a school district, had a married worker on its payroll who was involved in a love affair with a woman. This woman provided janitorial services to the employer, albeit as a temp hired through a contractor. The romance dissolved in recriminations and the woman alleged that she had been coerced into sex. And there were video tapes that the couple had made showing their encounters.

TGM represented the woman. He filed a lawsuit on her behalf seeking as damages the sun, the moon, and the stars. During discovery, TGM demanded that he be shown the video tapes documenting the trysts between his client and the School District employee. On the basis of circumstances not here relevant, my law firm had possession of the video tapes and, indeed, kept them locked away in our old safe downstairs. The defendant School District wanted to settle the lawsuit before adverse publicity could arise. Plenty of defenses existed to bar the woman’s claim – but the District didn’t want the accusations filed as a matter of public record at the Courthouse. So, there was a settlement conference at the former Judge’s offices. The District offered a million dollars, two million, ten million – but TGM demanded that we surrender the video tapes to him as a precondition to any negotiated settlement to the case. The lawyers for the District were dismayed. "Why won’t he take the settlement?" one of them asked me. "Because," I said, "he wants to see the video tapes. There is no amount of money that will move him to settle this case until he has enjoyed watching those tapes." "What about his client?" one of the lawyers asked me. "He doesn’t care anything about his client.""But this is crazy," the lawyer said, blinking his eyes hard and fast. "You’re right," I replied.

Later, the Court ordered that we provide TGM with access to the video tapes. By order, he was to view that evidence in our presence. The retired Judge came to our offices and my partner picked out a tape at random and put it in the video machine. A TV was set up against the wall of the conference room. The tapes were all more or less the same – you could look at any moment and it would be like any other moment. Sometimes, the camera angle changed or the lighting was amped-up for more detail or the people on screen made some sounds or whispered words – but the pictures were pretty much just more of the same. TGM took off his coat (it was winter) and settled in to watch the movies. "Do you have popcorn?" he asked my partner. "No," my partner said. "This isn’t supposed to be some sort of entertainment." TGM gazed with delight at the TV. "That’s a hard-working little girl," TGM said. My partner was outraged. "This meeting is over," he said. He shut of the video-player.

TGM rose up to his full height. He began to clench and unclench his mighty fists. Aaaaarrrrrghhhh-harumph! he bellowed, clearing great columns of gunk out of his throat. He raised his fist to mid-torso. Remember, he had never thrown a punch in anger without shattering bone, a complete transection through the marrow and comminuted to boot. His seminal vesicles were miswired and shooting hot jism into his sinuses and esophagus. AAAAARRRRGHHHH- HARUMPH he thundered again. He dropped his fist slack to his side. My partner showed him to the door.

There was ice outside on the sidewalks and it was cold and TGM walked gingerly – he seemed a little bent and crooked: after all, he was an old man.

14.

Shakespeare’s Mark Antony says: "The evil that men do lives after them/ The good is oft interred with their bones". There’s a disgusting coda, as it were, to TGM’s malice.

TGM’s trust company had weathered many storms. Over the years, many complaints had been made against the firm. Heirs found their accounts liquidated. Exorbitant sums were paid for administration. In one celebrated case, a Catholic priest became famous on the air-waves as the "cowboy Padre." Apparently, the priest had a radio show in which he preached, strummed guitar, and sang cowboy songs. For a time, the show was wildly popular and the "cowboy padre"made a fortune. His vow of poverty kept him from enjoying most of his money and, so, it was entrusted to TGM’s management. The priest lived forever and died, like TGM later, ancient and forgotten – no one remembered the once-famous radio show and its eccentric host. TGM apparently determined that the "cowboy padre" had no real heirs, no next-of-kin interested in the small fortune under the trust company’s management and, so, the money, it was alleged, was misappropriated. But there was an heir, a niece twice-removed, and she was appalled to learn that the priest’s money was all gone, ostensibly applied to administration of the trust. She made complaints to the Commerce commissioner and sued – for a few days, headlines blossomed, but the media quickly learned that no one really remembered the "cowboy padre" or his on-air exhortations any longer and that readers met the story with indifference. The Trust company somehow survived the scandal and, presumably, a settlement was negotiated – the outrage, which had been feigned in any event, subsided.

But, then, a few years later, authorities in Colorado discovered that 4000 bail bonds had been improperly executed, apparently signed by officials of the Trust company long in advance of their being used – this is a statutory infraction and, although technical, the sheer scope of the malfeasance was sufficiently egregious to result in the firm being barred from selling bonds in Colorado. A criminal prosecution ensued. TGM’s son was now at the helm of the firm. He was a reasonably honest and virtuous man, but the poison from his father’s innumerable misdeeds tainted the air around him and chopped the soil out from under his feet. The misdeeds committed in Colorado followed the firm to its headquarters in our city. "This was a troubled company," said Commerce Commissioner Mike Rothman when he announced the forced liquidation of the firm. "Given the company’s history, its disregard for state law, and its bad financial condition, the state has no other recourse (but to revoke the firm’s authority)." It should be noted that the president of the company, then TGM’s son, protested but his defenses were unavailing. The company was involuntarily liquidated and, further, its president was suspended for six months from the practice of law. The ancient sign above the old Piggly Wiggly advertising trusts and bonds had to be taken down.

15

When the sun was setting, the wind stirred, kicking up a little snow not ice-bolted down on the hard alabaster drifts. The tree-line was an anguished palisade of bare sticks and twigs and the sun, futile this time of the year, was entangled in that wintry thicket.

I walked through the gate of Calvary cemetery and followed the lane toward the place where a Hobbit-sized Christ was tacked to a cross above two Hobbit-sized mourners. TGM had been buried in January and I wondered where his grave was located. The wind had worked the snow into bony vertebrae and ribs between the polished marble stones. Some ruts where mud had frozen over lateral slashes in the grass filled with black ice led me toward a place where the snow was disturbed. A kind of frozen crater was scooped out in the ice and snow, a brown funnel cut down into the frigid earth. I inspected the crater and, then, had the awful sensation that the hole hadn’t been excavated down into the ground, but rather marked the place where something had emerged, had risen, clawing its way up through the steel-hard clods of dirt. The snow creaked behind me and I slowly turned. The Judge was advancing through the snow drifts, kicking them away with his heavy boots that swung like pendulums below his lurching, unsteady torso. Decay had withered his lips away so his jaw was all gleaming tooth and bone. His big William Bendix face pale as wax shone against the gathering gloom. The corpse was trying to clear its throat and I could see his fists, all dark with black mold, clenched. Those fists had never thrown a punch in anger without smashing a bone to pieces. I was paralyzed with terror, unable to move as he came for me.

16.

When the sun was setting, a few gusts laden with snow that the wind had chiseled off the drifts whirled around me. The sun, cold and futile, was clawing at the horizon, digging down into the underworld. My bladder was unpleasantly full. There were no mourners – just the stucco figure of Christ, three-quarter sized, hanging from the cross. Ice veiled the faces of the two plaster-cast women looking up at the tortured figure.

I didn’t know where the Judge had been buried. The way between the tombstones was uneven with frozen drifts and there were small graves concealed under the snow. After searching for a few minutes, I felt the wind burning on my jaw and face, threatening me with frost bite and, so, I supposed that I had best get about doing my business and, then, fleeing the place.

I was friends with a grave-digger who worked at five or six small rural cemeteries. In the winter, the grave-digger "burned" the grave, by lighting a big bonfire on the place where the shovel and pick-axes were supposed to eke out a hole in the frozen ground. It was convivial. The grave-digger was an Irishman and, with his helpers, they would squat by the fire and pass around a bottle of Jameson’s whiskey. I’m sure that an industrial-size propane torch was deployed in Calvary cemetery to cook through the sod so that TGM could be interred. No one passed a bottle in his memory. But I couldn’t find the disturbance in the snow and ice where the grave had been cut and there was no sign of his monument.

When I thought of TGM, of course, my penis shrunk. This would pose a problem because I would have to root around in my trousers for the tiny, ineffectual thing and, indeed, there was no real warrant to believe that I could find it, or even point it’s tip to spray pee on the earth where the old Judge had been buried. TGM was the kind of manly man who made other men’s genitals shrink until they were so small that, for all practical purposes, they ceased to exist. I put my cold fingers in my open fly and dug around in that cavity but couldn’t find anything. I supposed that I would have to squat like a woman to mark the place where his grave might or might not be and this seemed to me to defeat the whole purpose of the gesture.

I looked around me. The wind wailed and the snow stretched level and undisturbed in all directions.