I have never been considered a
hopeless romantic. I am anchored firmly
to this Earth by logic and a healthy-sized dose of cynicism. However, there are
a few special people, places and events from my life that are too hallowed to
dwell here in the real world. And so, a long time ago, I placed them on a
pedestal high above the realities of day to day life. Over the years, when
overwhelmed by my own sensibility, I would retreat to my secret place, slip on
rose-colored glasses and bask in the glow of optimism until I again felt safe
enough to face the world.
My
late father Huel, provided the foundation of my sanctuary. He began the practice
of law in 1949 and in over fifty years of practice never once wavered in his
career choice. He once told me that even as a small child he knew his destiny.
At that time, lawyers were some of the most respected members of the community
and my father always intended to join their ranks. Having grown up watching “Lawyer
Love,” as most of the residents in our small town called him, I adopted a
somewhat idealized view of being a lawyer and it did not take long for me to
decide that I wanted to be just like him.
On the morning of
February 16, 2004, my father, then eighty-two years old, shuffled down to the
Talladega County Courthouse just as he had on thousands of occasions prior. He tried
and won the two cases he had set on that day’s docket. Afterward, he went home
for lunch and passed away.
Harper Lee’s novel,
To Kill A Mockingbird, joins my
father as one of my sacred totems. Most
of us remember reading Mockingbird in
our middle school English class and afterward being forced to summarize its
“impact” to a less than enthused group of peers, via book report or cardboard
diorama. For others, the story was heard for the first time when Hollywood, via
the great screen writer Horton Foote and actor Gregory Peck, brought the novel
and Atticus Finch to life.
In a strange
manner of coincidence, the very day my father passed I was participating in a
matinee performance of To Kill A
Mockingbird with Theatre Tuscaloosa. To my knowledge he had never read the
novel. Likewise, he had never seen the play but had been excited to reserve
seats to see me perform the following weekend. I still have his unused tickets.
Perhaps my
lifelong attraction to Mockingbird is
that, like many others, I felt that I knew Atticus Finch. I saw him every day
that my father practiced law. Men like my father and Ms. Lee’s father, for whom
many speculated Atticus was modeled, represented a generation of lawyer that
loved his profession. Their careers were not motivated by salary, but a desire
to serve the community.
Like Atticus Finch
my father was often paid in non-conventional manners. Old rusted trucks and the
occasional muscle car were common currency. I remember summer meals that
featured snap peas, corn on the cob and fried okra that various clients had
submitted in payment and thanks. Baskets of scuppernongs, figs and homemade
Crabapple jelly often appeared on our porch
without a copy of the invoice to which they should be applied.
On more than one
hot summer evening I rocked on our front porch and watched as he walked to the
far end of the yard to conference privately with a client who, due to long work
hours or just comfort, preferred to meet outside of the office. As those
clients lay their burdens on our lawn, my father never needed to take notes. He
just stood with his hands in his pockets, a chew of Red Man in his jaw and
listened. Through my eight year old eyes the fireflies that twinkled around his
head gave him a halo.
Although
segregation, at least by title, had come and gone before my birth, my father
had never recognized it in the first place. According to my Mother, he refused
to follow the common practice of having both a “white” and a “colored” waiting
room. He was not trying to make any sort of political statement; he simply felt
that the practice was a silly waste of money. He saw no difference in the
people he represented and remarked that if any of his clients had a problem
sitting by any of his other clients they could find themselves another lawyer.
Established in a criminal defense practice so successful he was nicknamed
“Little Jesus,” Huel defended both black and white and never lost a client due
to his non-segregated waiting room.
The legal
profession in which I exist is a far cry from that romanticized in Mockingbird or even by my own childhood
memories. My generation of lawyers is considered so vile that the state bar runs
television commercials reminding our client/victims that they can and should
lodge bar complaints. We must take a yearly refresher class to remind us how to
be “ethical.” Somewhere between the daily, all-consuming struggle of trying to
avoid malpractice claims, bar complaints and public reprimands lies the most
important duty: that of protecting a client’s interest to the best of our
ability. I must admit that, all things considered, I often find myself
wondering if the best of my ability is in fact good enough. Sadly, in recent
days I have found myself asking that question more and more often.
My husband once
correctly remarked that if he returns home at the end of the day and hears To Kill A Mockingbird playing in our
bedroom he knows that I need time to myself. No longer able to reach my father
for encouragement, Atticus Finch has become my touchstone. Atticus reminds me
that this profession was and still can be noble. Atticus Finch gives me hope.
I have practiced
law for sixteen years now and long ago accepted the fact that my father’s halo
was nothing more than fireflies. However, reviews of Go Set A Watchman paint a picture of a bigoted Atticus Finch that I
don’t have the strength to witness first hand. Isaiah 21:6 says, For thus hath the Lord said unto me, Go set a
watchman, let him declare what he seeth. With the utmost respect to Ms.
Lee, an author I have adored since that middle school English class so long
ago, if my Atticus is gone, then there is nothing in Watchman that I need to see. Because just as my father protected
his clients, and I have protected my clients, and despite the fact that my
logical, legal mind tells me that the story is nothing more than fiction, there
is still that last fragile piece of my heart, the one that requires the
occasional rose coloring that deserves my protection as well.
