The Legal Aid Lawyer

By Mel Eichelbaum

This book entails Mel Eichelbaum's memoir detailing the motivational forces and influences that steered him into the legal profession, his journey to becoming a Legal Aid lawyer, and primarily covering the significant civil rights and poverty law reform cases in which he was involved.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543975543

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Copyright © 2019 by Mel Eichelbaum

All rights reserved

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, Mel Eichelbaum, or his duly designated agent or representative, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing, 2019

Print ISBN: 978-1-54397-553-6

eBook ISBN: 978-1-54397-554-3

Published by: BookBaby, 7905 N. Crescent Blvd., Pennsauken, NJ 08110

DISCLAIMER:

Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

I have tried to recreate events, locales and conversations from my memories of them. In order to protect anonymity, I may have changed some identifying characteristics and details such as physical properties, occupations and places of residence.

CREDITS:

Many individuals have helped me in writing this book, and I owe a great deal of gratitude to all of them. I have attempted to name many of the individuals who have contributed and helped, and references to these individuals are contained in the Acknowledgements and Sources of Information at the end of this book.

For inquires or information, the author may be contacted at:

[e-mail]

ENDORSEMENT:

As a former probate consultant to county judges and a retired Constitutional elected District Clerk, I have personal knowledge of the real stories written in this book. Mel writes from his personal experiences having been a Legal Aid lawyer being deeply involved in poverty law, as well as a prominent trial attorney. Mel is what I refer and call a legal crusader. A Don Quixote no, Mel is a real hero with a passion for the law. His approach to legal issues was dynamic when addressing the concerns of persons in financial despair and those who were disadvantaged. This book produces a powerful tool for those seeking the strength and inspiration to fight for justice.

David J. Garcia

FORWARD

This book was written by my father. I am incredibly proud of him for deciding to share with you this story, and I am happy that you are taking the opportunity to read about his experiences. There are several stories my father could have chosen to write. He could have shared his insight on being a father and that, by itself, would have been an insightful journey. When I was a young boy, my mother became gravely ill with double kidney failure and was given a terminal prognosis. My father managed to comfort and support my mom, while at the same time caring for myself and my younger brother, maintaining our home environment, and practicing law as a partner of one of the largest firms in San Antonio at that time. To this day I am not sure how he managed. I suspect there were moments of difficulty and doubt, challenging his strong ethical core and faith in God. Through nothing less than a medical miracle, my mother regained function in her kidneys, and eventually recovered.

As a father of two children, I have tried to emulate my Dad and serve in many roles at a time. I have learned that even though a person can have several titles and responsibilities, we each elect what level of participation and responsibility we accept. My father took each challenge with incredible energy and gusto. Early on, he was my Cub Scout leader, religious school teacher, and basketball coach. He was the artist that decorated my bedroom with pictures of sesame street characters and then later super heroes. He was a mediator between me and my brother and was also the authoritarian, when necessary. Later, he would drive me to camps and to play practices. He was there in middle school when I secured my first acting job as a puppeteer for the city public transportation system. He congratulated me, and I will always remember that moment. I will also always remember the moment just a few months later when I felt my first relationship heart break, and he was there with wisdom and then silence when I needed it. He was my tutor, editor, and spellchecker. He was my idea man and manager.

As I entered my teen years, he was an advisor. My dad would give advice, much of which I did not appreciate at the time it was given. Moreover, I was not hesitant to tell my father that I did not need his advice or that his opinion was not relevant or correct. However, he was still present and active in sharing his opinions. So many years later, I would tell him that he was right more often than not and that I would have had some easier times had I listened to his advice more often. Along the way, he too advised me that he was not perfect and that there were times that his advice was wrong and that he had made mistakes. Humility is probably one of my father’s greatest gifts.

There is a defining moment where I can recall the transition from an adult and child relationship with my father to that of two adult men. This relationship is different. However, my admiration and respect for my father is the same. In fact, it may have become deeper with this second act in our combined lives. I chose to go to law school and then to work with my father at his firm. These decisions were independent of his direction, but certainly made with his astute insight and influence. Here is just one more life lesson shared by my father. It is easy to give advice, but it is much more challenging to be supportive. I am a deeply religious person and just as I thank God for the recovery of my mother mentioned above; I believe there was Divine intervention that directed my selection of law, which provided me the opportunity to work daily with my father for over a decade before his retirement. It was through the perspective of a law student and then a practicing attorney that I was reintroduced to my father. I had always known him only in the roles discussed above and perceived him through the tainted glasses of my dad. However, sitting in a Family Law class and reading cases which I had heard discussed informally at my living room table gave me a new and very different understanding of my father. As a young child, I had gone to work with my father on numerous occasions. I carried his briefcase in court and shook hands politely with several Judges, Attorneys, and people of influence. I sat underneath the Municipal Court bench during trials and drew pictures in my father’s office. At the time, I was not old enough to comprehend the work being done by my father and the influence he was having on our legal system. This wisdom came afterwards, as client upon client would walk into our office and share their appreciation for the work completed by my father. My father has changed the lives of so many individuals.

My father was a very hard worker and, as mentioned before, was very humble about his accomplishments. I recall a number of awards my father received throughout his legal career. He displayed two very prominently. The first was a school bell award given to him for an outstanding newspaper editorial supporting teachers in the state of Texas. The second was the inaugural award for Pro Bono services granted by the Bankruptcy section of the State Bar of Texas. From a practice comparison, the awards were very different. However, both awards acknowledged the need for community service and commitment to change the world in a way that not all people are willing to do. My father proudly, and often, put himself out on the line, took an unpopular position, and then worked hard to help others.

After my Father’s retirement, he has continued to serve as an example and model to me in new and unexpected ways. He is an excellent grandfather. He has altered his physical life, quitting smoking and becoming a lifetime member of Weight Watchers. He has discovered new ways to fill his time and enjoy life and appreciate each day. He still gives great advice, and as I sit here revising this Foreword, I am already thinking about the introduction I will provide him when he comes to speak at my Family Law class at St. Mary’s University School of Law next week.

There are still so many things I would like to say about my father and that I would like you to know as you begin this book. They don’t fit neatly into any other portion of this introduction, so I will mention them here. My father likes movies and novels. He is a historian. He enjoys trivia and can identify over 100 Scottish plaids. He does not like to travel but puts up with it because it makes my mom happy. He gets frustrated when he gets interrupted but doesn’t mind interrupting others when he has something he wants to say. This used to bother me greatly, but I have learned that he has so much he wants to share and to tell people, and the fact of the matter is that he is really good at it.

With everything that I have to say about my father and all of the roles he has played in my life, it is hard to deliver a summary statement, but I am going to try. The reason I love and respect my father so much and the reason you will enjoy this book is because my father is an amazing storyteller.

Being a good storyteller is not a simple task. Many people dedicate their entire lives to perfecting presentations and editing articles in order to attempt to share their lessons and experiences. Some people are blessed with good material to work with. Just like an athlete is born with natural ability, certain strength, or height, a good storyteller will have the natural advantage of pulling from many adventures to fill their narratives. However, an athlete is unable to reach success based solely on physical traits. They must work diligently on perfecting his or her sport, pouring tireless hours into making the difficult look ordinary. Similarly, a storyteller may have interesting experiences or sage advice, but it will not be entertaining if the storyteller does not deliver the information the correct way. A storyteller uses narration to bring the audience into the story and creates a deep and full environment for the story. With well-fleshed characters, both heroes and villains, a storyteller creates syntax, establishes the environment, and hopefully, provides entertainment with the precise combination of wit, irony, and suspense.

As a child my father would spend hours creating narratives, sometimes with the help of my action figures and other toys, and sometimes through his detailed imagery of characters and plots. My Father’s stories were always entertaining. They also most often followed a formula that established an important lesson. The main characters would always find themselves with an opportunity for adventure. Early in the story, my father would often ask if the heroes should pursue these quests. I remember one time suggesting that the hero of a particular story should not accept the challenge and not go on an adventure. That was the shortest story my father ever told me, and I learned very early that declining a challenge was an option, but one that led to a short, predictable (and boring) conclusion.

The second part of my Father’s stories always involved explanation as to why the hero would select a quest. Oftentimes his stories had people (or mystical animals) who were suffering hardships and difficulties. The story felt familiar, and I recall trying to guess where my Father was borrowing this storyline from. Could it be his interpretation of a science fiction movie where the Rebellion was in need of assistance, or was it him retelling the narrative of children passing through a closet to rescue a strange land enchanted with darkness and despair? Perhaps this was my Father sharing his favorite Holiday story; that of the rescue of the Israelites by a former Egyptian Prince. Much later I realized that these were all good guesses, but that in actuality, my Father’s ongoing lesson of fighting for others came directly from his day to day experiences as a lawyer and from the stories you are about to read. My Father worked hard to help others. He selected to go on the adventure and to fight for the benefit of others. Sometimes, these challenges only impacted an individual or a single family; other times, his expedition would impact thousands now and in the future.

His goal is two-part. First, to show his audience that there is great benefit which comes from choosing the more difficult path and fighting for what is right on behalf of others. Of course, there are sacrifices that come from these challenges. My father spent many long hours working on cases that did not go his way. However, as you can see from this story you are about to read, his pride and his accomplishment is derived only through choosing to engage in these challenges. The second goal of this book is to serve as a role model and to lead by example. The heroes in the childhood stories told by my father found success by helping others, and, similarly, so did my father in his practice.

It is my hope that you enjoy this book and you get to see a glimpse of the inspiring man who is my father and hero. Additionally, I hope you, as a reader, learn from my father’s stories and experiences. With this insight, I challenge you to take on the next task and decide to volunteer and help others in your community. Most importantly, I hope you share that experience with someone else and then lead them by your example to assist even more people, the same way my father has done for most of his life. It is by not only working hard, but by sharing the inspiration with others that there is meaningful improvement to our neighborhoods and cities.

Rob Eichelbaum

TABLE OF CONTENT

A Time of Tragedy and a Time of Hope

Our Journey South and Traveling the Texas Trail

The Alamo City

The Politics and the Peregrinus

What Were the Odds?

My Fort Dix Adventure

My Dream Job Begins

The Texas Welfare Wars

A Drive to the Top

Ten and a Half Months to Home

You’re in the Book

So Why Can’t Girls Wear Pants?

The Amicus Curiae

A Grandparent’s Dilemma

Who Will Speak for the Disabled

Sometimes a Loss Becomes a Win

We’re Going to New Orleans

Food for Thought

A Child’s a Child, No Matter How Born

Transitions

My Last Hurrah

Acknowledgements and Sources of Information

Chapter 1

A Time of Tragedy and

a Time of Hope

November, 1963

It was a typical, mild mid-November Thursday, as I sat at the dining table in my parent’s apartment on Club Drive. Thanksgiving was just right around the corner, but before then I had a lot of work to do. Books and papers were strewn all over, as I nervously fidgeted with a pencil, trying to solve one of Brother John Malinchak’s sample problems that I was pretty sure would be on the mid-term exam scheduled for tomorrow. It was the first semester of my senior year in college at St. Mary’s University. I was majoring in accounting, with a double minor in business administration and economics. Brother Malinchak had a well-deserved reputation of being a really hard teacher, and the mid-term exam would count as a significant part of my final grade. So the pressure was on. I had no other choice but to study and study hard, if I was going to even have a chance at making it. I was in a rather glum mood, feeling a bit sorry for myself, as my mind temporarily drifted to the phone call that I received last night.

Hey Mel, this is Henry. Oh, hi Henry, what’s up? I replied. Well you know President Kennedy will be landing in San Antonio tomorrow, and I thought we would get a small delegation of St. Mary’s Young Democrats to be on hand to meet and greet him. Me, Tom and a couple of others are going, and we wanted you to be included, if you can make it. I paused, and boy was I tempted, but practicality got the better of me, as I responded. Man I would really like to, but I got this tough accounting exam on Friday, and I’m afraid that I will be studying my ass off all day tomorrow, so I better pass. Okay Mel, I understand. Good luck on your exam buddy, and we’ll see you some other time, said Henry, as our phone conversation ended.

I first met Henry while I was attending San Antonio College (SAC), a junior college, during my freshman year (1960--1961). Professor John D. Brantley, our English Literary teacher had asked me to help tutor him, which I did. As Gonzalez is a rather common sur-name in San Antonio, I had no idea who he was. It wasn’t until then that I discovered that this Henry, Jr. was the son of the Henry B. Gonzalez, then a Texas state Senator, serving at the Capitol in Austin. During that time, my Sociology professor emphasized that good grades, although most important, would not be enough. Major universities would be looking for well-rounded students when considering transfers from junior colleges like SAC. So he recommended that we consider joining at least one or two clubs or organizations and make an effort to engage in some extra-curricular college activity. At that time, Henry, Jr. was forming the SAC chapter of the Young Democrats, and he asked me to join. I agreed because I felt it would look good on my transcript. Henry ended up becoming the president, and somehow I managed to get elected as vice president. We worked well together and ended up building a fairly good organization.

In 1961, there was a vacancy for the 20th congressional district in San Antonio for the U.S. House of Representatives. Although no one of Mexican-American ancestry had ever been elected before in the state of Texas to a federal office, Henry B. decided he would try. After some discussion, he designated Henry, Jr., Tom Harrell, and me to head up the youth support organization for his campaign. We visited all of the colleges in San Antonio and met with various youth leaders in quite a few of the high schools, as well. We put together a rather enthusiastic group of volunteers, who helped pass out bumper stickers and campaign literature, and on Election Day, helped man the phones, worked the poles, and served as messengers, scurrying from headquarters to varying polling places and back. The vote count ended up being the highest ever recorded for that district up to that time. Despite a strong Republican opponent (John Gould) and being outspent, Henry B. won and made history, being the very first Mexican-American to be elected to national office from the state of Texas. Afterwards, Henry B. gratefully thanked us and stated what a fine job we had done in organizing the youth campaign for him. He said some day he would like for us to come to Washington D.C. for a visit. I congratulated him, thanked him for the kind invite, and then dismissed it out of hand, without any further thought.

By the end of May, 1962, I completed my first two years of college at SAC. That Fall I had transferred to St. Mary’s to complete my undergraduate degree. While there, although I remained a member of the Young Democrats, I became less active. I was carrying a full academic load, and the courses had become harder and more time consuming. In addition, at times I was working as many as three jobs. My parents were not wealthy, and they were kind enough to let me continue to live at home, furnishing me with board and room. However, it was understood that the cost of college was my responsibility and solely on me. Working was no option. I had to work in order to earn enough to pay for tuition, books and fees, as well as to cover expenses so as to have at least some social life. After all, dating did cost money too. So two or three afternoons a week I worked as a staff accountant for the Fox Photofinishing Co. at their headquarters on Broadway. Then on Saturdays and also on special sale days, I worked as a ladies’ shoe salesman at Bakers shoe store at Wonderland Mall. On occasion, I was also hired as a tutor to help students who were having trouble with some of the more difficult classes, like Professor George Costus’ Statistics class, which was known as a killer course.

My mind continued to drift, as I thought back to the early part of 1963, when I received a phone call from Henry. Hey Mel, Henry here, how the hell are you? It had been a while since I had heard from him, so I replied I’m doing okay. It’s been a while man, and so what’s going on with you? Henry’s voice seemed to be getting excited as he said, You know spring break is coming up pretty soon, and I’ve got a surprise for you buddy. You’re going to Washington D.C. What the hell… I exclaimed, as Henry continued, Yep, it’s all been arranged. Dad wants me to drive his car up to D.C. for him, and he wants you and Tom Harrell to join me on the trip. Henry then proceeded to explain that we would use that first weekend to make the some 1400 mile drive up, spending the Monday through Friday of spring break week in D.C. We would then fly back the following Saturday, giving us Sunday to rest up and prepare for resuming classes on Monday. It sounded great, but then I got practical. This was the second semester of the school year, and my reserves were getting close, where I had to kind of watch every penny, until the summer hit. Then I could work full time in order to build up funds again that would be adequate for beginning the fall semester of the next school year. It sounds great Henry, but you know figuring the cost of hotels, food, and airfare back, I just can’t afford all of that right now. Henry went on to explain that there really wouldn’t be any hotel cost as we would be staying in his Dad’s apartment in D.C. As far as food expenses, he anticipated that there would be some minimum cost going up, but that once in D.C., if he knew his Dad, he figured most of the meals would be on him. Oh and by the way, he continued, Dad has decided that he will be paying for the flight back for all of us, out of his own pocket. Oh come on. You’ve got to be kidding, I said in disbelief. Nope, Henry stated, Mel, you know Dad well enough that once he makes up his mind there is no arguing with him, and this is something he really wants to do. You’re coming along buddy. Besides, I need you to help do the driving. Tom doesn’t drive, you know. I graciously accepted and thanked him and told him to thank his Dad for me. Before our conversation ended, he reminded me to bring a coat and tie because we were scheduled to meet with President Kennedy and of course there would be pictures taken. I was excited, to say the least, as I explained all of this to my parents, and began to think of what to pack.

It never snows in San Antonio, well that March it did. So much that snow had actually stuck to the ground, and icy remnants were piled up along the sides of the roads. In fact snow flurries had been prevalent throughout the entire south, up to and including D.C. Undaunted, we stashed our luggage in the trunk and piled into the white Chevy to begin our journey. Henry and I shared the chore of driving, with each one of us doing several hours’ worth, while the other one of us rested or slept in the back seat. Tom sat shotgun and played navigator, keeping whoever was driving company and furnishing coffee and chit-chat, as we proceeded along. We continued this way, stopping only for gas, meals, and bathroom breaks. Henry was anxious to get through the south—what he called Klan country, and he voiced being a bit concerned about a Mexican, a Jew, and a Yankee Irishman being pulled over and stopped. With all that had been happening regarding the civil rights movement and vicious racist and reactionary responses to it, none of us thought his concerns were completely off the wall. However, our trip was without incident, except for the frightening experience of cautiously maneuvering through Lookout Mountain, Tennessee, in the dark and during what seemed like a mini blizzard. Somehow we made it, and the following morning, we were peaceably passing through the beautiful Shenandoah Valley in Virginia, where we stopped for a well-deserved, good old fashion southern breakfast. We finally arrived in Washington D.C. that afternoon, and after getting settled and grabbing a quick bite to eat, we crashed, sleeping through until late the following morning.

When we finally did wake up, we got dressed, ate a quick breakfast, and headed over to Henry B.’s congressional office. It was much smaller than what I had originally imagined it would be. We sat down in visitor chairs in front of a rather ordinary mahogany-colored office desk, behind which sat Henry B. He took the time to officially welcome us and tell us how happy he was that we came. He gave us a rough outline of our itinerary, and told us that his staff would furnish us with the details. Behind him were massive bookshelves, covering nearly the entire wall, just crammed full of books, some of which I recognized as literary works that we covered in Professor Brantley’s English lit class at SAC. Tom asked Henry B. if he had actually read all of them. Henry B. just looked at Tom, and with a smile said, As a matter of fact, I have, and most of them more than once. I could just sense that he really had, and I felt a strong feeling of admiration for him. We then met with his secretary, Gail Chapel, and his legislative assistant, Steve Newman, who I previously had met through his younger sister, Susan. She and I had been fellow members of the San Antonio Federation of Temple Youth (SAFTY) at Temple Beth-El. Both of our families belonged to that congregation. Gail and Steve detailed our schedule, which was chucked full of activities and interesting things to see. Needless to say, we were all excited with anticipation of all the neat things that we were going to get to do. That afternoon we saw the Declaration of Independence and the United States Constitution. Although I had seen replicas and pictures of them many times before, there was still that sense of patriotic pride in actually seeing the originals. That night Henry B. took us to see the movie, Billy Budd, which was adapted from a stage play version of Herman Melville’s short novel by the same name. Terrance Stamp played the tragic role of the child-like natured seaman Billy, while Robert Ryan portrayed the abusive and cruel Master of Arms Claggart. Both gave outstanding performances, along with Peter Ustinov, who played the troubled Captain Vere, torn about what to do when Billy ended up unintendedly killing Claggart. Afterwards we went to a restaurant and ate Chinese food, while we discussed the moral dilemmas presented by the film. The following days we were up at the crack of dawn, so as to get a quick start in order to complete our busy daily schedule. But no matter how early we arose, Henry B. had already left for work. That week in D.C. taught me that he was a dedicated, well-educated, and very hard-working Congressman, but of course I already suspected that. San Antonio was indeed fortunate to have him, and I wondered if the people back home really knew just how lucky they were.

I think we saw every single Washington D.C. monument there was to see, and of course, we saw the changing of the guard at the tomb of the Unknown Soldier at the Arlington Cemetery. We saw a whole host of different museums, spending nearly an entire day at the Smithsonian. Naturally, we visited Congress, and while at the Senate, we saw Senator Strom Thurman actually giving a speech, while wearing a vest, depicting the confederate stars and bars, under his unbuttoned suit jacket. We also got to see the U.S. House of Representatives in session, and afterwards, we had a chance to eat lunch with Henry B., and several other Congressmen at the congressional cafeteria. We visited the U.S. Supreme Court, and little did I realize then that there would come a day when I would actually have some cases before that august body. When we visited the White House, we had a special appointment to meet with President Kennedy; however, at the last minute, something important came up for him, so that our meeting with him had to be cancelled. As a consolation prize, I suppose, we were scheduled to meet with Vice President, Lyndon B. Johnson, instead. When we met with him, he was extremely friendly and gracious. He actually took time to talk to us, and he appeared to be genuinely interested in hearing our views on a whole range of political issues. Afterwards, I was thankful that I had the opportunity to meet and spend some time with him. One of the highlights was when we accompanied Henry B. to the TV studio, where he filmed his weekly Washington D.C. news show, and we were going to be on it with him. It was aired on local television on Sunday mornings, so that the folks back home could be informed as to what was happening at the Capitol. Never having been on TV before, I was rather excited, as we briefly went over what we were going to discuss. Then lights, camera, action, and it happened. It was over before I knew it. I was intrigued by the fact that my parents and I would get to see the interview and discussion on TV together on Sunday, after I got home. All in all, it was truly a fabulous trip.

Suddenly, my mind snapped back to reality. Enough already with the daydreaming and reminiscing, I thought. Okay, so I missed meeting President Kennedy once, and now this was twice. Que sera, sera I told myself, and it was time to get back to business. I stared intently at the paper in front of me, as I tried concentrating further on Brother Malinchak’s problem, which I found to be more than difficult.

Finally, it was Friday, November 22, 1963. The date of the dreaded mid-term exam was upon me. A cold front must have come in the previous night, because temperatures had dipped below freezing. I found myself struggling to scrape the ice off the windows of my VW Beetle before driving to St. Mary’s. As if that wasn’t enough of a bad omen, on the way I got a speeding ticket, my very first one, while doing 33 miles per hour. I guess I was just oblivious to the school zone sign, which in truth was half covered by tree branches. No excuse, I thought, I had driven past there a hundred times, and I knew better. It was clearly my fault. By the time I got to St. Mary’s I was a nervous wreck. I grabbed a quick cup of coffee, which curiously had the effect of calming me down. I reported to Brother Malinchak’s class, took my seat, and settled down for the inevitable. Brother Malinchak arrived right on time. He passed out the exams, told us to get started, and took a seat at his desk in the front to monitor the test, as he always did. I started, and as I progressed, I wasn’t feeling so bad about it. In fact, I felt I was doing reasonably well. Perhaps all of my studying had done some good after all. I think I was over half way through, when I heard a loud commotion outside. Suddenly the door of our classroom flew wide open, and a student excitedly yelled They shot Kennedy. Everyone froze in shock, and someone muttered that’s nothing to kid around about. The student at the door emphatically repeated Really, no fooling, they just shot the President. Brother Malinchak immediately took control. He was as white as a ghost, and I had never seen him so shaken. I vaguely recall him saying something like for those of you who want to continue, you can do so. For those of you who would rather not, you’re excused, and there will be a makeup scheduled at a later date. Not a sole remained, as everyone quickly left and headed over to the student center. There we all stared at the news on TV, until Walter Cronkite, wiping a tear from his eye, announced that President Kennedy was dead. You could literally feel the amount of despondence and melancholy in the room. It was a miserable drive back home, as I contended with feelings that were a strange mixture of anger and sadness. For the next couple of days, like most Americans, I found myself transfixed to the TV watching, half way in disbelief, and mesmerized by the events unfolding.

During the next few days, several places of worship, including Temple Beth-El, opened their doors to the public so that people would have a place to go in order to seek solace, pray, or just to contemplate. In the midst of my depression, I found myself being drawn to Temple Beth-El. As I entered the sanctuary, I walked down the center aisle, toward the ark where the Torah scrolls are kept. When I reached about the seventh row, I spotted a prayer book that had been left in the pew. I took a seat there and started to restlessly thumb through the prayer book. I finally found the Mourner’s Kaddish, a special prayer that is recited by the congregation in honor of those who have died. I wasn’t even sure if it was appropriate for me to say it alone, because traditionally one needs a minion of ten people to recite the prayer. Regardless, I felt compelled, and I struggled through the Hebrew and said the prayer for President Kennedy anyhow. I then mumbled some prayers for Jackie, Caroline and John-John and hoped that God would grant them some comfort and peace. After that, I didn’t know what else to do, so I just began staring at the eternal light, the ark, and the words carved above it: Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. Like in a hypnotic state those words and the words of our traditional Yom Kippur Haftarah reading (Isaiah 58; 1-14): Is not this the fast I look for: to unlock the shackles of injustice, to undo the fetters of bondage…and to break every cruel chain? kept swimming around in my head. These words went on to challenge us Jews to help the hungry, the homeless, and the poor. In my mind that then connected with the words of President Kennedy: …ask not what your country can do for you, but rather what you can do for your country.

I don’t know how long I sat there, but it seemed like forever. Finally, an idea began to formulate in my head. I would go to law school and become a lawyer, with the goal of helping the poor and oppressed. Almost in a dream-like state, my mind began to wander and my thoughts flew back to my days at Horace Mann Junior High School. I recalled how Mr. Brantley, who taught English Literature there, had covered the Devil and Daniel Webster, and how I was entranced with the concept of a lawyer. In fact, that is where I experienced my very first case. In Civics class a fellow student, Ann Eisenstein, was charged by our class Sergeant of Arms with talking out of turn. Our teacher thought it would be a good experience to have a class trial. A student was selected as Judge, and twelve classmates were picked to serve on the jury. Somehow, I got chosen to serve as her defense counsel, while Charles Woods, a much smarter kid than me, was selected as the prosecutor. I did my best Perry Mason job in questioning and cross-examining witnesses, but evidently it wasn’t good enough. I lost, and Ann was found guilty. However, she was given a rather light punishment, not because anything I had done, but because she was a very likeable and popular girl at school. After the trial, she thanked me, and gave me a kiss. It was the very first time ever that I had been kissed by a girl, who wasn’t a family member or related to me.

During my high school years at Thomas Jefferson, my friend Louis Paletz, who always wanted to be a lawyer, lent me a book about the life story of Clarence Darrow. He was a famous attorney in the 1920s & 30s, who often represented the disadvantaged, underprivileged, downtrodden, and politically unpopular. Often he would represent labor folks against rich and powerful interests. I was especially inspired by the story of how in 1925 he partnered with the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) in representing John Thomas Scopes, a teacher, in Tennessee v. Scopes, commonly referred to as the Scopes monkey trial. The case challenged the state’s Butler Act, which banned the teaching of evolution in the public schools. It was probably one of the most significant cases of the 20th century. Although at trial the case was technically lost, the ultimate result was far reaching. The Butler Act was never again enforced, and similar laws prohibiting the teaching of evolution were defeated in 22 other states. The ACLU gained a national reputation as a stalwart defender of civil liberties. This ended up being the basis of one of my English class reports, on which I made an A. Later on the case became the theme for the famous movie Inherit the Wind, starring Spencer Tracey, a movie whose message would still be relevant today. So why didn’t I think of becoming a lawyer before. Perhaps it was because I didn’t have the confidence that I could do it, or maybe it was the fact that it would be another three and a half years of higher education and the additional costs that would involve, or both. But now I felt a compulsion that I needed to at least try. Yes indeed, I really wanted to become a lawyer, who could make a difference, and I was more resolved than ever to do so. Could it be that the tragedy of President Kennedy’s death ended up in aiding to shape me by instilling hope in my heart and a firm commitment in my mind that I could actually accomplish this?

As I drove home, I began to think of how I was going to break the news to my parents about going to law school and explain to them about my new career goal. I just knew that I would be getting a ton of questions about why am I changing plans all of a sudden? And how in the world did I plan to handle all the extra expenses? And what makes me think that I could even get into law school, in the first place. This is not going to be easy I thought. When I arrived home, I told my father that we needed to have a talk. We sat on the steps at the back door, which was adjacent to the kitchen, each sipping a cup of coffee. I took a deep breath and then calmly explained how I wanted to go to law school to become a lawyer, and why. When I had finished, I anxiously awaited for his response. Dad looked me straight in the eyes, and said Mel, I think you should go for it. Evidently, he clearly approved and that was all I needed to hear. To satisfy Mom, I did promise her that I would go ahead and finish up my accounting degree and graduate first, before starting law school. She was concerned about what if I couldn’t get into law school or couldn’t make it through. Don’t you think you need something to fall back on, just in case? she asked. Sure, I said You’re right of course. But even when I said that, I felt a confident resolve that there would be no stopping me.

Chapter 2

Our Journey South and Traveling the Texas Trail

1942 – 1954

I was born in New York City, approximately nine months after Pearl Harbor and the U.S. entry into World War II. We lived in the Bronx borough in a small flat on the third floor of a brownstone apartment building, located near the intersection of Tremont and Vise Avenue. It was near a subway entrance and three blocks from the Bronx zoo. Although my father, Milton, had very little formal education, never having gone to high school; nevertheless, he seemed to possess a reservoir of wisdom, picked up through the school of hard knocks of the city streets and truly