Northwestern Law

Northwestern University – A Year of Dissent

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What a year for an Army lawyer to attend civilian schooling.  It was June 1969, in the middle of the Vietnam War, and I was delighted with my decision to go to Northwestern to get a masters degree in criminal law.*  It turned out my delight was short lived.

The students, the faculty and probably the janitorial service were strongly opposed to the Vietnam War.  I must say that a small group of faculty and graduate students that I worked with treated me well.  I was the only one on campus with short hair and, ironically, one of the few students who wasn’t wearing an Army fatigue jacket.  There was a Federal law prohibiting the unauthorized wearing of military uniforms or pieces thereof.  I mentioned it to a student one day and a professor overheard me and wanted to know why I had this deep-seated anger.  Wow!  I thought I was on my best behavior.  Ripping the jacket off and throwing the kid out in the snow might constitute deep-seated anger.

Most of the student body was involved in draft avoidance counseling.  I have to admit, it was not a good time to be a 19 or 20 year-old male.  A young female student came up to me bubbling with excitement.  It seems her family had found a doctor who was willing to certify that her brother was medically disqualified to be drafted.  I don’t think she selected me out.  I think she was telling everyone she saw.

This was the era when young women didn’t wear bras.  I’m very observant.  But, dammed if they didn’t walk around with their notebooks or purses pressed to their chests.  Now, what kind of statement does that make?  I don’t think it’s very enlightened.

I was asked during my second semester to participate in a moot court trial.  They needed someone to play the arresting officer in a drug sale trial.  I agreed to do it.  The moot court was held in a class room and when I entered to testify, the students in the back of the room started hissing and booing.  Not very professional.  The professor was playing the judge and he did nothing to stop the nonsense.  The facts were bad for the government and when the “judge” ruled that it was a bad search and the evidence was suppressed, everyone in the classroom cheered.

Northwestern had a world class criminal law department.  As a graduate student in that department, I knew all the criminal law professors.  None was teaching this class.  After I testified and while seated in the back of the room, I asked one of the hecklers what class it was.  He said, “It’s Poverty Law.”  I asked him why they were doing criminal law.  He said, “Hey man, lots of poor people get busted on bogus drug charges.”  So, I had my answer.  They could study whatever they wanted, as long as it happened to poor people.  I guess that ruled out Trusts and Estates.

On April 29, 1970, US Forces entered Cambodia where the North Vietnamese and the Viet Cong had been stockpiling arsenals for their next offensive.  Northwestern, along with most colleges shut down in protest.  A lot of students were able to avoid final exams while the protests drug on.  I was a direct beneficiary of the Cambodian Campaign because my next assignment was Vietnam and I wasn’t located that far from the border.  Shame on the US for entering a “neutral” country and destroying tons and tons of ammunition which belonged to the peace loving North Vietnamese.  If we hadn’t, I might not be writing this.

While I went to school on the downtown campus, we actually lived in Evanston, just a few blocks from the University.  The street that ran along side the University was Sheridan Road.  During the Cambodian protests, students tore down property and piled it in Sheridan Road blocking traffic.  The police did nothing to remove the blockade.  However, when an irate citizen stopped his car and tried to remove some of the blockade, he was arrested for creating a disturbance!  It was not a good year.

Periodically, I receive a phone call from someone at Northwestern asking for money.  After about 20 minutes of me telling them about my Northwestern experience, they just want to get off the phone.


* See “Long Distance Decision Making Before the Internet.”


 

Poems

Old Fuds and Older Fuds

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I think it was last October when I wrote about the Old Fuds (retired Army JAGs) and the fact that we met for lunch twice a year.  I also mentioned we had to climb to the third floor (no elevator) to get to the luncheon.

I am sure that the lack of an elevator violates the Americans with Disabilities Act, but if the Old Fuds complained and got the place shut down, then the Old Fuds would have to find somewhere else to eat.  Most Old Fuds are happy with the food and that would wreck havoc with our carefully monitored empty agenda.  The only vote we have had in the last six months was a voice vote to elect Howard Bushman assistant secretary.  He was elected, but the vote was close.  The request for a show of hands was summarily rejected by Don Deline, the self-appointed president-for-life.

Some of our elderly members had missed a couple of luncheons and Howard Bushman, assistant secretary (probably-for-life), came up with the idea of taking an Old Fuds luncheon to them.  Four of the Old Fuds live at the Fairfax, which is an extremely nice retirement community located at Fort Belvoir, Virginia.  So the luncheon was set up

Jim Macklin, Bill Fulton, Dave Bryant and Henry Cabell are the four Old Fuds who live at the Fairfax.  A small group of Old Fuds met them yesterday at the Fairfax for a most delightful lunch and gathering.  John Naughton, an Old Fud with some official capacity at the Fairfax, was handing out brochures.  Later, I explained to them that I was originally from Illinois and if we could raise enough money, I might be the next senator for that great state.  No takers.

The morning of the luncheon, I thought it might be nice to write a short poem to commemorate the occasion.  It had to be short because I only had an hour.  Below is my best effort under the time constraints.

                                    
                                          Old Fuds and Older Fuds

We do it twice a year, we put on our clean duds,
We meet at Tony Cheng’s, a gathering of Old Fuds.
We’re retired Army JAGs, we’re ever so proud
When Old Fuds gather there’s always a crowd.

But to go downtown and climb stairs galore,
It’s a difficult task just to reach the floor.
So we’re doing it differently, to everyone’s elation,
We’re going to the Fairfax, we’ve moved the location.

A much smaller group, we’ll chat and we’ll smile,
Fond memories remembered, now that’s our style.
So Cheng’s and the Fairfax, two locations to cheer,
We’ve had a great time, can’t wait till next year.

Poems

Wayne and Marie Alley – Ode to a Bad Gift

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Some time back, I believe when Wayne was a brigadier general in the Army JAG, he married Marie Dommer.  Everyone who knew them was delighted for both of them.

Bill and Jeanie Suter had a party for them and everyone was supposed to bring a pound of something as a gift.  Now, it is easy to think of a pound of coffee or even a pound of candy, but people had to be pretty imaginative to come up with other pound gifts.  When we came up with a pound of potting soil, I figured I had better write a poem.

My favorite Marie story was when Wayne retired to become the Dean of the University of Oklahoma College of Law.  They were moving into their new house and Barry Switzer, the OU football coach, came over to say hello.  Marie introduced herself and mentioned that Wayne was the new dean of the law school.  Barry then said, “I’m Barry Switzer.”  Marie said, “Oh, are you also with the university?”  I love it!


                                           Ode to a Bad Gift

A pound of this, a pound of that,
What a great idea for the night.
We’ll play them a prank, to hell with his rank,
Maybe we’ll short circuit a light.

Well, we scratched and we fought for an original thought,
Long hours over this we did toil.
But, when nerves grew frail and Dart Drug had a sale,
We decided on potting soil.

While the present may sag and leak through the bag,
And the package becomes very light,
The advantage is clear, it’s quite cheap, my dear,
And that certainly counts when you’re tight.

I ask you, is a gift from the ground fundamentally sound?
It certainly is no panacea.
So to make the gift special, we slipped in the vessel,
A plant called a peperomia.

Now, the plant ain’t so great and its size and its fate,
May never cause people to remark.
But for Wayne and Marie, people shout wild with glee,
It’s a match that will glow in the dark.

So the effort was spent and our idea became bent,
Like a pipe cleaner wrapped to another.
Then it came like a zing, they don’t need anything,
Cause what they got is they got each other.

Northwestern Law

Long Distance Decision Making Before the Internet

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I am always amazed when I reflect on the whimsical way that significant decisions have been made in my life.  In late 1968, I was in the last year of a three-year tour in Germany.  I figured I would be sent to the Career Course at the JAG School and then off to Vietnam.  Someone in my office, I think John Naughton, showed me a little squib in a JAG monthly publication which said the JAG Corps intended to send a few officers to universities to obtain a masters degree.  Anyone interested should let them know.  I submitted my name and promptly forgot about it. 

On February 10, 1969, I received a letter from the JAG Career Management Office in the Pentagon telling me I had been selected to go to graduate school to obtain an LL.M. in criminal law.  The kicker was that I had to select the law school and be enrolled within the fiscal year (that meant enrolled before June 30, 1969!).  Remember, this was before emails or fax machines.  First Class postal service (snail mail) was the gold standard.

I sent letters to Harvard, Michigan, Northwestern, Stanford and Texas University.  The only things I attached were the letter from Career Management and a copy of my undergraduate and law school transcripts.  Then, I just had to wait.

I just took a look at a copy of the letters I sent out.  They were dated February 10!  It was nice to be married to a legal stenographer.  I wrote out the letters and Carole put them in perfect form that very day (did I mention that in law school, I got an A in the Drafting Legal Instruments course?).

Believe it or not, I received a response back from all five schools within two weeks.  Both Harvard and Michigan sent me back my correspondence advising me that they did not have summer classes for graduate students and consequently, they could not meet my requirement of being enrolled by 30 June 1969.  I always think fondly of those rejections.  They could have rejected me for a hundred reasons, but they were kind enough to say they could not meet my requirements.  If you’ve got to be rejected by Harvard and Michigan, that’s the way to go.

Northwestern University sent me back a two page letter telling me they had a graduate level criminal law program and that I would fit in nicely.  It would include obtaining admission to the Illinois bar and carrying a case load down at the Cook County Jail.  Did I mention that I was born and raised in downstate Illinois and really wanted to be a member of the Illinois bar?  When I graduated from law school, I did not have time to take the Illinois bar, because of my military obligation.

The word from the University of Texas was also good.  The had an experimental project on criminal justice funded by the Ford Foundation.  The professor who wrote me said they envisioned using some graduate students and that they were quite interested in me.  The problem was his title.  He was “Chairman, Special Advisory Committee on Recruiting Law Students From Minority Groups.”  I wasn’t sure what that meant, but it spooked me.  I pictured myself being graded against some group under some experimental project.  In reflecting back, I think I over reacted, but back then, I didn’t have time to check it out.  Texas was out.

The letter from Stanford was the last to be received.  It told me that if I had received a “form graduate letter” to please disregard it.  It then said that because of the particular requirements of my situation, my request was “receiving special attention” and that I should hear something shortly from Dean Robinson.  The letter was definitely positive and I really wanted to go back to California.  While I was a Midwest boy, my tour prior to Germany had been in Monterey, California.  While I only spent six months at the Presidio of Monterey studying German, California was etched in my mind.  It would be easy to get hooked on California.  So, again, I waited.

When this drill began, I had 141 days (Feb 10 to June 30) to select a graduate law school (that would accept me), get approval from the Army and move my family and worldly possessions from Germany back to somewhere in the US and be enrolled in the law school.  Did I mention finding a place to live?  And, I waited to hear from Stanford.  Did I mention that I’m a Type A?

By Friday, March 7, I decided to call Dean Robinson.  I waited till 5:00 PM, which would be 9:00 AM in California.  Dean Robinson’s secretary told me he was on the East Coast and gave me the number.  I ended up talking to Dean Robinson at noontime in Cambridge, Massachusetts.  He apologized for not responding and told me I had been approved to come to Stanford.  They didn’t have a graduate criminal law program, but they would set me up with a criminal law professor and we could put a program together.  He assured me he would send a letter to me quickly.  I thanked him and hung up.  I looked at my wife, Carole, and said dejectedly, “Honey, we’re going to Northwestern.”  I really wanted to go to Stanford, but in the area of a graduate level criminal law program, Northwestern won hands down.  I would never become a California golden boy.

After reading through this blog, I realize the only thing whimsical was getting into the graduate program.  My selection of Northwestern was probably the right choice for me and I took the necessary steps to get there.  It gave me a chance to work with Professors Fred Inbau, Bill Martin and Jim Haddad.  Today, with the internet, I could have done all my research on line and made a much more informed decision in one-tenth of the time.  But in 1969, in Goeppingen,  Germany, with the clock running, we did what we had to do.  Auf Wiedersehen.


My Military Daze

Respect for Our Military

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Do you know what gives me a warm feeling right down to my toes?  It is the way the American people today treat our service men and women.  The American people may disagree on whether we should be in Iraq, but almost none blames the soldiers, marines, sailors or airmen who are serving there.

It wasn’t that way 40 years ago when we were bogged down in Vietnam.  For some reason, just seeing a military uniform set off a certain segment of our society.  Of course, this same segment did not trust anything called the Establishment.  I think the message was, “Don’t trust anyone over thirty.”

In the early years of the Vietnam War, I was protected from the impact of the dissent by being assigned in Germany (1966-69).  We had all we could handle with the drug and racial problems.  Our sources for information were Armed Forces Radio and the Stars and Stripes newspaper.  Not a lot of anti-war stuff was getting through to us.  We did know that President Johnson had decided not to run for re-election because of anti-war sentiment, but we truly were sheltered.

So in 1969, when I showed up at Northwestern University School of Law to obtain a masters degree in criminal law, I wasn’t prepared for the resentment to the military I encountered (was I really a baby killer?).  I wasn’t in uniform, but I couldn’t hide.  I was the only one on the downtown campus without a pony tail!

Having lived in a cocoon for three years, I wasn’t prepared for the intense anti-war, anti-military uproar that enveloped me in Chicago.  I softened the impact by getting my news from the conservative Chicago Tribune and their TV station, WGN.  In reflecting, I am satisfied that the Germans treated the US military better than our fellow country men.  I knew we were in trouble when our graduate group’s sweet 50 year-old secretary told me she would be late coming back from lunch because she was attending an anti-war rally.

It was during this period, with me on orders to Vietnam, that Carole decided that she and the kids would be more comfortable in a waiting wives community (see blog on Shilling Manor under My Military Daze) than living  among the demonstrators.  It turned out to be a spectacular choice.

In 1973, our country eliminated the draft and went to a volunteer Army (VOLAR).  Even though all JAG officers were volunteers, some of them may have volunteered rather than be drafted (“It was either the JAG Corps or Canada.”).  The JAG Corps was given a certain number of “VOLAR” dollars to go out and recruit young law students to join us.  I was teaching at the JAG School in Charlottesville, Virginia and was selected to visit 11 law schools in the Midwest.

My Commandant, Colonel John Jay Douglass, advised me that since it was already October, I needed to start my visits with North Dakota.  The longer I waited the less likely I was to get there.  Well, I put Grand Forks, ND at the top of my list and just barely got there.  The plane I was on started to land in Grand Forks, but pulled back up and we landed in Winnipeg, Canada.  They bussed us back to Grand Forks and promised our luggage would soon follow.

I set up my visit at Washington University School of Law in St. Louis with their placement office.  They provided me with an office for interviews, but did not notify the student body that I was coming.  The uniform was still a problem.  One reservist who saw me stopped by to say hello.

My alma mater, the University of Missouri treated me much better.  When my interviews were completed, I decided to step over to Jessie Hall and say hello to Dean Harris.  He had been a friend and advisor throughout my six years at MU.  He was my first counselor when I stepped onto campus.  It was he that I talked out of sending me to remedial English Class (five hours a week for three hours credit).  He also was instrumental in finding Carole a secretarial position in his office when I started to law school.

Dean Harris’ secretary told me he couldn’t be disturbed, because the entire afternoon was blocked out for interviews with medical school applicants.  I told her I wouldn’t mind waiting so that I could say hello in between interviews.  She said that was impossible.  Just then, he came out of his office, saw me and pulled me into his office.  I kept insisting that I didn’t want to get him off schedule.  As he shut the door to his office, he said,”Jack, I am so sick of hearing these applicants tell me they want to become a doctor so that they can work in the inner-city and help the poor!”

We probably talked for 20 minutes with me continually reminding him that I shouldn’t stay.  It was great seeing and chatting with an old friend.  When I left the office, the secretary was waiting for me.  She was furious.  She said, “Major, by being so inconsiderate and interrupting the interview schedule, you may have cost some young student the opportunity to become a doctor.”  I looked at her for a second and then said, “I think you are more upset about my uniform that your are with me.”  There was a long reflective pause and she said, “Well, you may be right.”

Her comment was very telling of the time.  Thank goodness things have changed.  Today, under the same scenario, she would probably try to get me on the interview list.  I love it!

Political Thoughts

Is Sarah Being “Borked”

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When Governor Sarah Palin was nominated to be John McCain’s running mate, I mentioned to a friend that she would have every aspect of her life flyspecked.  He said that she had already been Governor, so there wasn’t much not known about her.  I said, “Wait and see, they will try to “bork” her.

I am absolutely certain that I do not want my last name to become a verb.  Robert Bork had been Solicitor General, Attorney General and a judge for the US Court of Appeals for the DC Circuit.  But when President Reagan nominated Bork to be a justice of the Supreme Court, the attack dogs came out.  You would have thought that President Reagan had nominated a Klansman.  Bork’s opposition went over every opinion he had ever written.  They reviewed his speeches.  They even checked on every movie he had ever rented!  I guess they didn’t mind violating his individual rights in order to protect theirs.

Bork’s credentials were unimpeachable,  but there were strong objections to his conservative views.  He was not confirmed by the Senate and thus, the verb, to bork, came into existence.

There was a strong attempt to “bork” Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas.  He was accused of sexual harassment by a subordinate, Anita Hill.  In my opinion, neither his story, nor hers made a lot of sense.  He was in her apartment a number of times, but there was no allegation of wrongdoing on those occasions.  Plus, she followed him from one job to another, and even after she quit working for him, she still made personal calls to him.  Not the normal activity of someone who has been sexually harassed.  Thomas was confirmed by the Senate.

Now, it is Sarah’s turn.  In their effort to find something on Sarah, we’ve got “wardrobegate.”  Supposedly, $150,000 was spent on clothing for Sarah (really about a third of that amount).  Some staffer did it and went to stores she had been instructed not to go to, and now it is shame on Sarah.  It  all sounds kind of sexist to me, but I don’t expect the feminist movement to come out and support her.   But life’s not fair and I think Sarah already knows that.  She must have known they would try to “bork” her.

I got on the computer today to go to the Obama Tax Calculator.  This is supposed to tell me whether I will be better off under the Obama or McCain tax proposal (key word is proposal).  I found the page and put in all the financial information, but then they wanted my email address.  Why?  I thought the Democrats don’t believe people should have to show an ID to vote, so why do I have to give them my email address?  I saw in another place on the web page that if I gave them a donation I would receive a free gift.  It reminds me of the old joke, “Please write your name and address on the back of a twenty dollar bill and we will send you your free gift.”

I really didn’t need the tax calculator to know I would do better under the Obama proposal.  The politician who promised a chicken in every pot lost the election, because his opponent promised two chickens in every pot.  How do you think the chickens felt about all that?  Well, I feel like a chicken and I am hoping that next Tuesday, I don’t feel like I have been thrown into the pot.

Random Thoughts

The Former Springfield Mixing Bowl

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Every town should have something that they are proud of.  Back in the 1950’s, my home town had a large billboard as you entered town that said, “Welcome to East St. Louis.  World’s Largest Hog Market.”  I was impressed, but not surprised.  That’s because when the wind blew from the North, you knew something big was going on.

Springfield, Virginia is a bedroom community in the greater Washington DC area.  What it has been known for is nothing to be proud of.  It was known for its Springfield Mixing Bowl.  The Mixing Bowl was where I-95, I-495 and I-395 came together.  The reason it was called the Mixing Bowl is because local traffic and interstate traffic had to fight their way across each others lanes.  Long delays would build up in all directions.  In the early 90’s, in one year, there were 179 accidents.  That’s just about one every other day.  Delays were bad without accidents.  With accidents, bring your lunch.  No one changed the radio station or talked on the phone while negotiation the Mixing Bowl.

During the time I worked in the Pentagon, We had to fight the Mixing Bowl every day.  While driving home, South on I-95, we had to cross two lanes of interstate traffic to exit in Springfield.  My carpool had strict rules for the Mixing Bowl.  The driver concentrated on the traffic in front of him, never looking back.  The person riding shotgun would announce when the driver could move to the right.  He would announce, “one lane.”  The driver would immediately pull one lane to the right.  This was repeated until we were in the Springfield exit lane.  The only other command for the shotgun rider was “two lanes,” but crossing two lanes at one time was considered the same as winning the lottery and was cause for celebration.

Now, the Springfield Mixing Bowl is history.  Something to tell the grandchildren about.  “Kids, back in 78′, your Grandpa spent four and a half hours stuck in the Mixing Bowl.”  “Golly Grandpa, did they have cars back in 78′?”

Fixing the Mixing Bowl took eight years and $676 million.  It was a remarkable project.  In fact, I commuted to DC throughout the project and never was delayed because of construction.  Confused, but never delayed.  They did have to shut down major arteries about six times.  But, they always did it late at night on weekends.  These events, which usually involved placing huge chunks of concrete into flyovers, drew large crowds of onlookers.  No, not me.  I was tucked away.

Now that it is done, let me tell you my pet peeves on the project.  These only apply to those of us coming out of Springfield.  We are traveling East on Old Keene Mill Road heading for I-95.  The I-95 intersection has everything backwards.  If you want to go right (South to Richmond), you must get in the left lane.  If you want to go left (North to DC), you must get in the right lane.  This is just the opposite of every interstate entrance and exit you can think of.

You can say, “Well, as long as it’s clearly marked, it shouldn’t be a problem.”  But, it isn’t clearly marked.  In fact, it is deceptively marked!  The overhead sign pointing to the lane for I-95 South is pointing at the white line between the two lanes (one lane going North, one South).  That’s right, the arrow points down at the white line between the lanes.  I have seen hundreds of cars change lanes at the last second.  I suspect thousands have just gone in the wrong direction.

I have studied this overhead sign (I am sure the traffic engineers have too).  You can’t move the sign over where it belongs, because that space is occupied by a large reinforcement to the overhead structure.  I know they know of the problem, because they have painted all kinds of directional information on the roadway.  Have you ever tried to read directional information on a roadway when cars are bumper to bumper?  It’s tricky.  It may work on the interstate, but not on Old Keene Mill Road during rush hour.

I know how to fix the problem.  I have studied the sign every time I pass it.  All they need to do is tilt the sign.  Tilting the sign will move the arrow so it points to the correct lane!  It sounds easy, but I am sure there is some regulation against tilting directional signs.  Some state transportation attorney will mention the word, “liability,” and that will be the end of that.  I’ve thought about doing it myself.  It would probably guarantee me my 15 minutes of fame.  But, I am fearful that if I get up that high, my nose will bleed.

My Military Daze

Old Fuds and Memories

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Last Thursday, the Old Fuds met on the third floor of Tony Cheng’s Restaurant in DC’s Chinatown.  The Old Fuds consists of Retired Army JAGs who can still climb up to the third floor.  There were about 50 of us and we do this twice a year.  That is the sum and total of the physical training for a number of the Old Fuds.

We usually have a guest speaker and we buy him lunch, unless he speaks for over ten minutes.  Then, he is on his own.  This time, we had Royce Lamberth speak to us.  He is now the Chief Judge of the US District Court for the District of Columbia.  In earlier days, he was one of us.  In fact, back in the early Seventies, he defended me when I was accused of trial misconduct back in Germany.  I had to appear in the US District Court in Baltimore and Royce was a young JAG captain working in the Pentagon in the Litigation Division.

Back in 1969, I prosecuted a soldier named Alsop for sale and possession of hashish.  Alsop was sentenced to two years in Leavenworth and a dishonorable discharge.  The key witness against Alsop was a soldier named Jones, who had purchased hashish from Alsop.  When Alsop’s civilian appellate attorney reviewed the case, he observed that I had dismissed the possession charge against Jones.  If I had done that as part of an agreement with Jones to get him to testify, then that fact must be shared with the defense.  They insisted that there had been a secret agreement between Jones and me and consequently the conviction should be thrown out.

Alsop’s case had already gone through all of its military appellate appeals when they discovered my alleged misconduct.  Therefore, they filed for a writ of habeas corpus to overturn the case.  I guess it is kind of obvious, since I am telling the story, that there wasn’t any misconduct or secret agreement.

The whole episode happened in Germany.  Jones was stationed in Crailsheim and was suspected of using drugs.  A criminal investigation detachment (CID) agent went to Jones’ unit.  He was advised by the charge of quarters (CQ) that Jones was off post on a pass.  The CID agent told the CQ that when Jones came in, he should be escorted over to the CID office.  That is what happened and at the CID office Jones was searched.  He was clean.

Then, the CQ told the CID agent that a funny thing had happened as they were walking over to the CID office.  Jones had taken a Marlboro crush-proof pack out of his pocket and thrown it in a snow bank.  The CID Agent told the CQ to go back and retrieve the Marlboro pack out of the snow bank.  He did and surprise, surprise, it was packed full of bricks of hashish.  Jones then gave up Alsop and a search of Alsop’s wall locker found enough hashish to float his entire company.

Along with being the general courts-martial prosecutor, I was the Chief of Military Justice for the 4th Armored Division.  We decided to try Jones by summary court-martial.  A young major (not a JAG) was assigned to be the summary court officer and to decide whether Jones was guilty.  On the day of the trial, the major asked Jones how he wanted to plead.  Jones said he wanted to plead guilty.  The major told Jones he didn’t have to plead guilty, but could plead not guilty and require the Army to prove his guilt.  So Jones said, “OK, I plead not guilty.”  The summary court officer then handed Jones his confession and asked him if he signed it.  Jones said he had.  The summary court officer then said, “OK, I find you guilty.”

Unlike television, books and movies, in the real world you have to lay a foundation before you can accept a confession.  The summary court officer needed to hear the testimony of the CID agent as to the circumstances surrounding the taking of the confession and that Jones had received his Miranda warning.  He also needed to hear from the CQ to put the hashish in Jones’ hands.

I was the one who received the trial record on Jones’ conviction.  It was clear that we needed to retry Jones.  I can’t remember whether we were planning to use the major again or find a new summary court officer.  It turned out it didn’t matter.  There could be no second trial.  In the time it took for all this to play out, the CQ’s enlistment had expired and he had returned to the United States (the land of round door knobs) and was no longer in the Army.  We could not bring him back to Germany and the case against Jones was toast.

As I mentioned earlier, I was also the Chief of Military Justice and, in that capacity, I dismissed the charge against Jones.  Wanted to prosecute him.  We tried.  We just screwed up.  Jones was the most surprised when the charge was dismissed.  Clearly there was no secret agreement.

In Baltimore, Royce explained that there were valid procedural reasons the case should be dismissed and that I probably would not have to testify.  Then the judge came in and told us he had not had time to review the case and since I was present, he might as well hear from me.  So, I got my chance to tell the judge what I have just told you.  The opposing counsel was hearing what had happened three years before for the first time.  He was not equipped to challenge it.  The beauty of telling the truth is you don’t have to remember what you have previously said.

Since the trial in Germany, I had spent a year at Northwestern University getting a masters degree in criminal law, spent a year in Vietnam getting a different sort of degree and was now teaching at the JAG School in Charlottesville, Virginia.  Royce called me a week after my testimony and told me the judge had dismissed the case.  I was vindicated.  Hooray for the good guys!

Thirty-five years later, for the first time, I saw Royce at a Vietnam Reunion.  I mentioned to him that he had been my lawyer in Baltimore in 1972.  He smiled and nodded his head.  What does that mean?  I don’t blame him if he doesn’t remember.  I was the one on the hot seat.  He is still one of the good guys.

The Fox

My Bow Tie and The Prom

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A year ago, last October, I told you about the annual Arent Fox retreat (the Prom).  I mentioned we do it every year, so, hey, it’s October.  Even though I am retired from the firm, Carole and I are invited to the Prom.

It was in Baltimore down by the harbor and it was great.  Most of the people present see each other everyday.  But, they hadn’t seen me in many moons.  People were really happy to see me.  Isn’t it crazy?  When they saw me everyday, they didn’t give a rat.  Now, that I’m retired, it’s “Hey Jack, it’s great to see you.”  I got hugs from people who didn’t know my name!

About ten years ago, I thought it would be neat to tie my own bow tie.  I now own two tie-your-own bow ties and I hate them both.  I only go to two or three formal events a year, so I haven’t had a lot of practice.  I have to get out the instructions each time.  I can’t tie the tie with my glasses on and I can’t read the instructions without my glasses.  It takes me 30 to 40 minutes to tie a reasonably balanced, not too sloppy bow.

The last thing I said in last years blog was that this year I would be the proud owner of a clip-on.  Well, here it was the day before the Prom and I still hadn’t purchased my clip-on.  I played golf on that morning, so on the way home, I swung by the Springfield Mall.  I don’t like to go to the mall.  People get mugged in the parking lot and about a month ago, a woman got carjacked.  The bad guys took her along and there was a car crash.  She and one of the bad guys were killed.  So I spent 20 minutes driving around the damn place trying to find a spot that looked safe.  Parking in the garage was not an option.  I finally gave up and parked.

This is a big, big mall.  I think at one time, it was the biggest.  Now, quite a few shops are closed.  People don’t think mall shopping should involve serious risk.  This mall should have to put some type of a warning symbol in their parking lot.  “Caution! Parking here may be hazardous to your health.”  I thought I had parked close to Macy’s, but I hadn’t.  It probably took me ten minutes to find Macy’s.  As I entered the store, an overly effeminate guy came rushing up to me and tried to spray me with the latest fragrance.  I still have my quick speed, so I got away.  If it had come down to it, I think I could have taken him.

The men’s department was in the far end of the store.  When I got there, I found three salespersons chatting.  Business, business, what business?  I asked them where their bow ties were and I was advised they didn’t carry bow ties.  I inquired where I might purchase one and they, in unison, shrugged.  I could tell they were well practiced at that.  As I was walking out, avoiding the fragrance section, I remembered there was a tux rental place somewhere in the mall.  I found it and accomplished my quest.

Attending the Prom gave me a chance to catch up with what had been going on with the Fox.  When I retired, I shut down.  I do go on line once a week and delete all my messages.  It’s important to be tidy.  One message I had read was from our chairman, Marc Fleischaker, announcing that he planned to step down at the end of the year.  Well, at the Prom, he announced that he would be staying on as Chairman of the Executive Committee (if elected by the firm – duh!) for an additional year.  That is great news for the Fox.

Marc also mentioned that by opening the branch in Los Angeles, we now represent more dead celebrities that any other firm.  Hey, I’m serious.  I don’t think I can explain this, but if you want to use the Marx Brothers or Mae West in some commercial or TV show, you better come see us.  I found out we have just about tripled the number of attorneys in the LA office and we are in the process of building out again.  Even in these tough economic times.  Love the Fox.

I tried to avoid politics during the Prom.  Most of the firm is Democrat and I am not.  I’ll say this for the Democrats, even with their massive majority, they still treat we few Republicans well.  If the situation were reversed, I’m not sure we would even keep them.  They are excited about Obama being elected.  Then, they pause and say, “I sure hope he doesn’t turn out to be another Jimmy Carter.”

My Military Daze

The JAG Vietnam Reunion


Last night, we had our first full blown reunion of JAGs that served in Vietnam.  There have been other reunions, but this was the first that included everyone.  It was held at the Hilton Garden Hotel in Fairfax, Virginia.  JAGs showed up from every corner of this country.  The number from California was remarkable.  Chuck Spradling, Barry Steinberg and Bill Suter were principally responsible for making this reunion happen.

We had about 80 JAGs, plus their wives and friends.  It was not a riotous affair, but it was great.  Thank goodness, the organizers judiciously scrubbed the wet t-shirt contest.  I guess the younger JAGs in attendance were in their mid-sixties, but those in the seventies and eighties were well represented.  Energy dissipates, but not spirit.  Spirit sores.

We were seated, to a great extent, by the units we served with.  There were so many JAGs present who were with the 1st Air Cavalry Division that we took up two plus tables.  The 1st Air Cav could deploy most of the division through the air.  This lead to the motto, “Freed forever from the tyranny of terrain.”  This lead my boss, Lieutenant Colonel Ron Holdaway, back in 1970, to poke his head out of the office tent during one of our nastier monsoon storms and say, “Ah yes, freed forever from the tyranny of terrain.”

Our guest speaker was Fred Borch, the Army JAG historian.  He had been instructed not to speak over ten minutes  I think that’s a bit harsh to tell an historian not to speak over ten minutes.  I think we should have given him at least twelve minutes.

Fred did provide us with some remarkable information.  We had JAGs in country from 1959 to 1975.  Of course, in the early years, they were very few and they were part of a military advisory group.  And, toward the end, we had just a few closing doors and turning out the lights.  The vast majority were from 66-67 to 70-71.  Fred advised us that his research determined that 352 JAGs served in Vietnam.  John Hatcher, who was sitting next to me and served as one of my captains was quite impressed that he was part of such a small number.  I thought about that and decided that within a few years, we may be placed on the endangered species list.  I think what that means is that developers will not be permitted to encroach upon our habitat.  I am not sure that will solve our problems.

When we were in Vietnam, there were only two places you could be.  One was “in country,” which meant you were in Vietnam and the other was back in the “World,” which meant you were anyplace other than Vietnam.  The airplanes taking soldiers back to the World were called, “Freedom Birds.”  Toward the end of my tour, the 1st Air Cav headquarters moved from Phouc Vinh to Ben Hoa.  My second boss, Lieutenant Colonel Joe Conboy and I used to drive out by the airport and watch the Freedom Birds take off.  It was relaxing.  It was sort of like stretching out in your den with a brandy and listening to your favorite music.

It is now Sunday morning and there are no pills in my idiot pill container.  My idiot pill container handles two weeks for me.  It makes sure that I take the right pills on the right day.  No double dipping.  I need to get out my pill bottles and load up.  So enough of this JAG Vietnam nostalgia.  I’m back to the serious stuff.

BOO! I saw you smile!