Lessons From Bill

By Marina Ginn

A biographical account of the life of the late Bill May, a regionally famous hippie radical-turned-star prosecutor-turned-prestigious criminal defense attorney, as told to his young female protege, with non-stop adventure, humor, and spiritual themes relating to topics of popular interest today. Born in Dallas in 1950 to alcoholic parents, Bill excels in R.O.T.C. and is given an appointment to the academy, for a bright future in the military. The love of his life, Cassie, turns him on to drugs and the Anti-War Movement, and he abandons military school for fame as a hippie radical. Future Attorney General of Texas Jim Mattox and Reverend Bob, a gay preacher, influence him to become an attorney after the three experience much success with changing the marijuana laws, stopping police brutality of minorities, the end of the Vietnam War, and civil rights, through their comical and creative tactical operations. Female members of Bill and Bob's Free Church are an integral part of the success of the movement, and the book is interwoven with poignant lessons on life and love, with gunshots and imperfection, too. A godsend for lawyers, civil rights activists, and freedom fighters. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marina Ginn
• Release date: Aug 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781524220808

Book preview

Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter One- Spaghetti Trees

Chapter Two- Cassie

Chapter Three- The Free Church

Chapter Four- Law School

Chapter Five- The D.A.’s Office

Chapter Six- Private Practice

Chapter Seven- Midlife Crisis

Chapter Eight- The End

Afterword

Acknowledgements

Thank you to Suzi Brackin and Scott Woodward for all your contributions with editing, fact-checking, background information, jogging my memory, and moral support.  Thank you, Mom, for all that, and so much more.  Thank you to Thad Crouch and Bill Galvin of the Center on Conscience and War, for your help with military draft terminology.  Thank you, Mark Rich, for publishing support.

Thank you to my favorite English professor, Dr. Rob Jackson, for your support when I started this book.  Thank you to my beautiful daughters for inspiring me every day.  Thank you Bill, for your lessons.  And for giving me a friendship that could fill a book.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to William Edward May, Jr. ... a stalwart champion of Justice for all.

Introduction

Bill May is considered a legend to all who knew him.  I started writing about him when I met him, in college.  At the time of his death some fifteen years later, I am compelled to share his wisdom with those who did not have the opportunity for his tutelage.  He was my initiation with the Wise Elder.

The first time I saw Bill, I was wearing a see through mini-dress, thong, and stiletto heels.  I looked at him and saw shimmering light all around him.  He says when I looked at him, it was the first time in his life that he didn’t feel fat.  How fat he was at that first moment, I couldn’t see, because it was all the light around him that had caught my eye, and was pulling me towards him.  I still don’t know exactly how much he weighed.  His guesses, when asked (mainly by the DMV or curious friends), usually ranged from 400-600 pounds.  I know he gave the best hugs.

Chapter One

Spaghetti Trees

Few of us, as children, could have withstood the pressure of the Spaghetti Trees incident.  It was so formative for Bill, and illustrative of the character of his soul. 

Bill was a chubby, rosy-cheeked six-year-old boy with brown curly hair and hazel eyes.  He was the only child of two alcoholic parents.  They lived in the Dallas suburbs.  His father owned an insurance agency and his mother was a stay-at-home mom.  The year was 1956.  His parents were in the dining room, having their after-dinner drinks. 

He was in the living room, watching a pretend documentary on Children’s programming called Spaghetti Trees.  He watched the screen intently.  Bill was too young to understand that the show was make-believe.  His parents began arguing loudly in the kitchen, so he turned up the television set, but they were oblivious to the odd program about spaghetti trees.

Observe the spaghetti trees of Italy, the source of all pasta in the world.  This fettuccine tree is ready to be harvested.  Farmers use large shears to harvest the pasta.  It is then taken to a factory, to be processed, and then boxed to be sold....  the television blared.  The child could hardly believe it!  He had no idea spaghetti came from trees, and was fascinated by the long strands of angel hair pasta being stretched out and sheared by men on ladders.  The show ended and went to commercial.

He ran into the kitchen.  Mom! Dad! Guess what?  Spaghetti grows on trees!

Boy, quit making up stories! his dad yelled.

But Dad, it’s true, I know because I saw it on TV!

Son, you’re lying!  Spaghetti doesn’t grow on trees, so you couldn’t have seen it on TV. Tell the truth.

Dad, I promise, it’s true.  I really did see it on TV!

Slap! The backhand came from nowhere and hit Bill squarely on the cheek.  Tears began to form.  Boy, if you don’t tell me the truth right now, you’re really going to get it!

I can’t lie Dad, I saw it on TV.

His father leapt out of the chair and removed his belt with such speed, Bill didn’t have time to negotiate.  Whack! Whack! He whipped Bill with the belt until his arm got tired.  Okay, now tell me the truth!

B-b-b-but D-d-d-dad I am! Bill blubbered through his tears.  His father grabbed him by the hair and threw him in the bathroom.  You’ll stay in there until you can learn to tell the truth.

Bill laid on the cold tile floor.  His crying subsided and he fell asleep.  He soon awoke to a crashing noise as his father stumbled in, knocking toiletries off the sink as he entered the bathroom.  He reeked of whiskey and cigarettes.  Boy, you better not lie to your Dad again.  Tell me there’s no such thing as spaghetti trees or you’ll spend the night in here.

Dad, I’m telling the truth.

His father kicked him in his side and slammed the door.  Bill again cried himself to sleep. He didn’t wake until morning, this time to the sound of his father brushing his teeth.

Boy, get up.  Early to bed, early to rise.  Time for the Four S’s.  Shit, Shower, Shine, and Shave.

Bill got up and tried to walk out of the bathroom, but his dad stopped him.  It was the same routine every morning.  Time for the first S.

Bill sat on the toilet and began straining himself, trying to produce enough excrement to satisfy his father.  I don’t have to go, Bill wailed. 

You’re not getting off that toilet until you finish the first S. Don’t make me come after you again.

Bill grunted and groaned and once he had his father’s approval, he started the second S.  The warm shower made the welts on his buttocks sting, but was soothing nonetheless.  When he stepped out of the shower, his father was on the fourth S.  He wasn’t old enough to shave yet, so this one wasn’t required.  He went to his bedroom to dress for school.  His mother was rarely up that early.  Due to her hangovers, she usually slept late.

Bill was used to dramatic mornings.  His father dropped him off at school at 6 a.m. every morning on his way to work.  Bill was never sure why he couldn’t take the schoolbus like the other kids.  So at 5 a.m., his dad would yell, Up and at ‘em, and if Bill didn’t wake up right away, a pan of ice cold water would land on his face.  His dad had been a Naval Aviator, and preferred military-style routines and discipline.

About a month later, the spaghetti trees show reran.  Vindication at last.  Bill ran into the kitchen and convinced his parents to go to the television set, where they were able to see the show.  Uh, son, I’m sorry about that night, his dad muttered, and went back into the kitchen to pour himself another after-dinner drink. 

Lesson From Bill:  Don’t let anyone disconnect you from your truth.

Lesson From Bill:  Not everyone deserves the truth.

Even though Bill didn’t have any friends that first year of elementary school,  or even in his neighborhood, he didn’t have any enemies either, and other than the usual amount of teasing an overweight child receives at school, he got along okay.  He made friends early on with the only other people who arrived to the school as early as he did, the black cafeteria workers and janitors. The school year ended rather uneventfully, and he relished the long-colored summer days. 

What’s that burning smell? his dad asked, and his mom slowly turned towards the stove.  Oh no, dinner’s burning.  You see what happens when you distract me while I’m cooking, Bill?  she asked.

They sat down at the table.  His mom finished her before-dinner drink and his dad mixed their two dinner drinks.  They all choked down the burnt food.  Meals were always a nightmare at the May household.  His mom was not much of a cook;  most dinners consisted of quarter-inch steaks broiled until they were bone-dry and tasteless, accompanied by a side of carrots and peas straight from a can.  Bill was forced to clean his plate, his parents alluding to starving children around the world; the Manhattans made their dinner more palatable.

But nothing could dim Bill’s excitement.  All summer he would be allowed to sit up late at night playing poker with his parents, while they drank more Manhattans.  And then, a summer trip.  The family reunion.

That night, they put the tackle away after playing tackle. That was Bill’s expression for a process he would enjoy all his life: an hours long sorting of tackle the night before a fishing trip.  Then they loaded it with the poles in the car.  He was very excited about the annual family reunion and fishing trip to Lake Texoma.  At dawn, Bill slid into the backseat of the car and saw a Styrofoam cooler next to him.  It was full of beer, and Bill was in charge of the beer. 

His dad pulled out of the driveway in the white Oldsmobile, as his mom tied her lemon yellow scarf to her hair, to match her two piece skirt set.  She looked beautiful in the early morning sunlight, and his dad winked at her and smiled. 

Son, give me a beer, and one for your mom. 

Bill handed them each a beer, and his mom pulled out a cigarette, which his dad promptly lit for her.  His dad always seemed to have a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.  Sometimes Bill wondered if his dad slept with the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and woke up with it, since he seldom saw him without it.  And he wondered if he smoked it all night in his sleep, since he rarely saw his father light a cigarette yet there was always one going.  With his mom it was the opposite, the lighting of her cigarettes was a big production, and men appeared from nowhere to light them for her.

Son, the secret to drinking and driving is not to get drunk.  As long as I only have one beer every hour, I’ll be fine.  This is important, so you’d better listen.  You’ll need to know how to do this someday.

Bill’s mother downed her beer while his dad was talking, and stretched her hand back for another.  Bill placed one in her hand; his father popped the top for her and smiled.  Bill understood, and so it went without saying, that the one beer per hour rule didn’t apply to her, since she wasn’t driving.  His father crushed the empty beer can in his hand, and tossed it in the backseat.  He watched his wife as she tilted her head back, and finished up her second beer.

Son, how long has it been?

Forty-five minutes Dad.

Well, forty-five minutes is as good as an hour, give me another one.

Bill handed him another beer, he gulped it down, crushed the can, and tossed it back.  It bounced off Bill’s shoulder, but his dad didn’t seem to notice.

When his mother stretched her hand back for her third, Bill already had the cold one in his hand waiting for her.  He was good at being in charge of the cooler, and that made him feel important.

Thank you honey, you’re such a darlin’.

Bill smiled broadly, then his dad bellowed, Boy, how long has it been?

Almost half an hour, Dad.

Well, I’ll just be sipping this one, so I can have it early.  It’s okay to have one early if you’re just sipping.

His dad started off sipping but the sips turned to gulps and he and his mom finished simultaneously.  Bill ducked to avoid the flying crushed cans, but they had dropped them on their own floorboards.  Instead he was met by their outstretched hands. 

It’s been long enough, hasn’t it boy?

No, Dad, it’s only been fifteen minutes.

You probably aren’t keeping track of the time right.  Besides, fifteen minutes, that’s close enough to half an hour.

But Dad, you said one beer every hour, not every half an hour.

Well, I told you wrong, he snarled.  I should’ve said every half an hour, because I’m used to drinking.  Besides, I’m a good driver, and beer doesn’t do shit to me.

Bill handed him a beer and stopped tracking the time, nor was he asked.  His mom kept nodding out, and his dad sat way forward in the seat, like he was straining to see.  By the time they arrived, the back seat was filled with crushed beer cans. 

Bill was so excited to pull in front of the small cabins.  He could see the lake, but was more excited about the swimming pool in the back.  Mom, Dad, I’m going to go swimming now, he shrieked excitedly. 

Not until you clean up that mess, his dad said, pointing to the beer cans in the back and handing him a trash bag.

Bill hurriedly cleaned out the car, and ran into the cabin to change into his swim trunks.  The swim trunks were several sizes too small, and his flabby, stretch-marked stomach hung out over the waistband.  "Look how much weight you’ve gained