Obits

My Uncle Adolph Westheimer (far left, with his siblings, circa 1930) died two weeks ago at the age of 94. I will miss him very much. He was a really great uncle, and was practically a second father to me when I was young.

Like his younger brothers Sam and Junior, who died before him, and like his little brother Siggy, who lives on, Uncle Adolph was a modest man. Along with so many others of the greatest generation, who lived through the depression and served in World War II, he did his duty proudly and came home to raise a family and become a solid citizen. Uncle Adolph was a veteran of Iowa Jima and a volunteer in Korea, but you would never know that from hanging around him. He did not boast, brag, or even speak about such things.

According to family legend, the doctor attending the birth told my grandmother that Adolph was too sickly to live. My grandmother ignored the doctor and nursed her first-born back to health. When Adolph was a toddler, he thought that his name was Adog, so he called himself Abow-wow for awhile. The name Adolph wasn’t very popular in America during World War II.  Adolph became Joe during that struggle and the name stuck all through his professional career at Southern Pacific. Two of his favorites songs were “The World Is Mine Tonight” and “I’m A Ding-Dong Daddy From Dumas.”

It is impossible to distill all of the great memories I have of Uncle Adolph in the space of a few minutes or even a few hours. Two things stand out that I want to talk about.

First–the driving. I spent literally hundreds of hours in the back seat of his car when I was young. Uncle Adolph’s running commentary on the shortcomings of other drivers became part of the very essence of my automotive being. Even to this day, I channel his denunciations effortlessly. When I tell my passengers that the driver ahead of me is “making a career out of a left turn” it is my Uncle Adolph speaking through me.

Second–a conversation. It is sometime around 1998. Both of my parents are dead. After a career as a federal prosecutor, I have gone to Washington to work for Ken Starr on the Whitewater Investigation. I become one of Judge Starr’s deputies and participate in the grand jury questioning of the President of the United States. In the quiet of an evening phone call Uncle Adolph softly reminds me of how proud my parents would be. A simple gesture on his part. Coming straight from the heart. Moving me deeply.

And now he is gone. We are saddened, but feel fortunate to have had him around for so long. Our hearts go out to Aunt Cookie and to my cousins, Paulette, Linda, and Vaughn.

  Thirty-eight years ago today my Dad, Alvin Wisenberg, died. He was a great Dad who left his children many memories to cherish throughout the years. One of the greatest memories for me was attending “The Game Of The Century” in the Astrodome on January 20, 1968, between UCLA and the University of Houston. Each team was undefeated at the time. UCLA, featuring Lew Alcindor (later Kareem Abdul-Jabbar), was ranked Number One in the nation. The University of Houston, featuring Elvin “The Big E” Hayes, was ranked Number Two. UCLA had a 47 game winning streak going into the game.

One of my father’s clients gave him four mid-court tickets to the contest. The game was already being hyped as “The Game Of The Century.” I’ll never forget walking into the Dome with my Dad. He stopped me while we were still outside, put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Son, you may not want to get too excited about this. Most of these things that are billed as ‘The Game Of The Century’ turn out to be pretty one-sided.” Then we went into the Dome and watched the most exciting live sporting event I have ever witnessed. The mighty Houston Cougars beat the UCLA Bruins 71-69. It was the second biggest crowd in basketball history and the first nationally televised college basketball game. I remember quite a few things about that game. Halftime entertainment was provided by Jay & The Techniques, singing their hit “Apples, Peaches, Pumpkin Pie” and their follow-up “Keep The Ball Rolling.”

Two other adults attended the game with us; my Uncle Avrohm Wisenberg and his best friend Harold Raizes. I don’t think I had met Harold Raizes before, but he instantly struck me as kind and distinguished.

I would come to know Harold Raizes fairly well over the ensuing years. I became friends with his daughter Francine and would visit her home on Valkeith Drive. At that house I was invariably given a warm welcome by Harold and his wife Sonia, and had many pleasant conversations with both of them. Harold and I often talked about politics, and these sessions typically ended with Harold patiently and genially explaining to me why I didn’t know what I was talking about.

As I grew older I also learned that Harold Raizes had an impeccable reputation in Houston as a successfull and honorable businessman. And it wasn’t hard to see why. If memory serves me correctly, he owned President’s First Lady Health Spas and MacGregor Bowling Lanes, among other enterprises. He treated friends, customers, business associates, and strangers with respect and fair dealing. He was an object lesson in what it means to be an ethical businessman. As Francine’s husband, Daniel Karchem, once said: “My father-in-law Harold Raizes is my hero for being an honorable man. Dad is representative of the many decent people who show up every day and do a good job and the right thing, because they care.”

Over the years I would see him less and less. On those rare occasions when we did see each other we would usually get around to discussing the magnificent game of the century. Word reached me last week of Harold Raizes’s death, which was unfortunately preceded by a long illness. My Uncle Avrohm died almost 20 years ago, and, as noted, my father died 38 years ago today. Now all of the men, the adults, who witnessed that memorable game with me are gone. The memories they made and the legacies passed on to their children remain. Our hearts go out to Harold’s wife Sonia, to his daughters Carolyn, Sherry, and Francine, and to all of the son-in-laws and grandchildren.

The Houston Chronicle obituary can be found here. As Harold’s wife Sonia told the Chronicle: “Kindness permeated his entire being.”

He didn’t have a lot of rules for his law clerks. “I’d like you to be here when I arrive and when I leave.” That meant 8 to 5. And he didn’t want the phones tied up with many personal calls. After all, we only had two lines. And, of course, we were always expected to scrupulously honor the confidentiality of court communications.  Other than that we were on our own.

He understood instinctively what it meant to be a judge–to be truly impartial and fair to both sides. And he had no interest in grand theories. Sitting on the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals, Texas’ court of last resort for all criminal appeals, he strove to preserve the rule of law and to ensure that every defendant received a fair trial. He had no use for idle gossip or Machiavellian coalition building. He just called them as he saw them. His clerks were told to examine the facts in the light of the law and never to concern themselves with the press or public opinion.

I never saw him be cruel or mean to anyone. He was the most modest, unassuming, ingenuous man I ever met. He did not go around town referring to himself as “Judge Tom Davis.” Merchants with whom he had traded for years had no clue of his title or position. Whenever I hear the term “Christian gentleman” his visage instantly comes to mind.

He adored his wife Jeannine, and loved his children, Leslie, Mark, and Tommy. His kids’ cars seemed to be constantly breaking down, and he often went to pick them up and loan them his own.

We were a happy little chambers family. Kay Tawater was the secretary, I was the senior clerk, and every year we had a new briefing attorney right out of law school–Larry Kurth, Carol Ann Wood, Mike Hutson, and Doug Wise. New appeals were stored in the judge’s office in redwells that we called “shucks.” Whenever you went to work on a new case, you grabbed a “shuck” from the judge’s office.

I have been blessed with many mentors and benefactors throughout my legal career. I owe more to Tom Davis than to any of them. He plucked me out of total obscurity to be his law clerk. He taught me, through his actions, what it means to be a professional. I clerked for him a little over three years, then left to go to a political job in Washington. Whenever I would call to check in on him, he’d start the conversation by saying: “Hello Sol. Are you calling from Air Force One?”

His accomplishments, although impressive, cannot account for the effect he had on those who knew him. He was, quite simply, an object lesson. Men and women admired him, just for who he was.

Now he goes to join Jeannine, who died last year. Our hearts go out to to his children and grandchildren. Here is the obituary from the Austin American-Statesman.

Conservative icon and former AFL great Jack Kemp is dead of cancer at 73. Philly.com has the AP obituary here.

Here is a fine tribute to Bob Sussman from Houston lawyer Murray Newman. Bob clearly touched many lives, professionally and personally.

Word has just reached me of the death of native Houstonian Bob Sussman, a friend and one of the country’s truly outstanding white collar defense attorneys. Bob practiced for many years at Hinton Sussman & Bailey and, more recently, at Locke Lord Bissell and Liddell. He was a skilled negotiator and trial lawyer with a marvelous sense of humor. It is hard to believe that members of the bar will no longer encounter Bob, gregariously working the halls at the ABA’s Annual White Collar Crime Seminar. We first met on opposite sides of a savings and loan fraud case that I was prosecuting. Later, Bob was very gracious and helpful to me when I transitioned from the Office of Independent Counsel into private practice. He did it because he was a nice guy.

The Houston Chronicle obituary is here. According to the Chronicle, Bob “was a mediocre golfer, but played quickly.” The Chronicle also reports that Bob recently “fulfilled a lifelong dream” and attended the Masters. “This past Monday while traveling overseas in Jordan, he once again exhibited in an e-mail to a friend his signature great humor: ‘This place reminds me of Augusta, but less azaleas, less dogwoods, less grass, more bunkers. And the course marshalls have automatic weapons. Need to catch up. Much to report.’” Our sympathies go out to Bob’s wife, son, and brother and to all of his many friends. Houston has lost one of its great ones.

Judge Griffin Bell died of pancreatic cancer yesterday, at 90. Undoubtedly one of the finest Attorney Generals in U.S. History, Bell was fiercely independent and a legendary supporter of individual privacy rights while in office and afterwords. Patrick Lyons’ N.Y. Times Obituary, buried here on A18, is excellent, but fails to mentione Bell’s successful stand against Labor Secretary Ray Marshall’s plan to implement a uniform nationwide identity card.

LetterOfApology mourns the late October passing of John Russell, ace newspaperman and former Justice Department Criminal Division spokesman. John Russell was a consummate professional and a gentleman of the old school. His kindness was legendary and I will never forget various offers of assistance he made to me over the years. Our sympathies go out to his wife Neille, and his daughters, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. The Cincinatti Enquirer has an obituary here.

“Few could run with him, and none were better.” — Dan Rather, who hired Stone at KHOU in 1961. The Houston Chronicle has the obituary here.

Reuters has the obituary here.

Word reached me last week, by way of the Texas Bar Journal, that Bob Huttash died in November of last year. Bob will be remembered by generations of Texas judges, prosecutors and defense attorneys as an able and gifted State Prosecuting Attorney, a position he held with great distinction from 1979 to 1996. Texas has a split criminal and civil jurisdiction. The Texas Supreme Court hears no criminal cases. That job falls to the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals, the court of last resort in Texas for all criminal matters. The State Prosecuting Attorney is similar to the U.S. Solicitor General, at least for criminal cases coming before the Court of Criminal Appeals. When district attorney’s offices are unable to brief or argue appeals in front of the Court of Criminal Appeals, the State Prosecuting Attorney steps in and fills that function. 

I first met Bob Huttash while I was clerking for Judge Tom G. Davis on the Court of Criminal Appeals. Although he was many years my senior, and already quite accomplished, Bob was unfailingly generous with his time in discussing the arcane world of Texas criminal law, particularly fundamental errors in charging instruments, with me. Every young lawyer needs a mentor and Bob Huttash was that and more for me. He was a true friend and a consummate professional. He had me over to his house on several occasions where he grilled a mean steak and played Justin Wilson records. His legal hero was Justice Hugo Black, who revered the plain words of the Constitution.

I remember all of these things about Bob Huttash, although I moved away from Austin in 1985 and, much to my regret, gradually lost touch with him. But what I remember most is Bob Huttash playing ping-pong. Back then, there was a ping-pong table in the basement of the Texas Supreme Court Building. Every day, after a lunch of Texas Barbecue, Mexican Food, or Chicken Fried Steak,  you would find a group of us down in that basement, sweating up a storm at the ping-pong table. You needed excellent skills, and a very thick skin, to play at that table. I would not characterize it as a politically correct place. Judge Mike (”The Short Judge”) McCormick, Chief Clerk Tommy (”The Stud Duck”) Lowe, Judge Chuck Campbell, Sol “Menachem” Wisenberg, Michael Hutson, Bill Delmore, Jeff Jones, Joe Porto, and a host of briefing attorneys passed through that room. Huttash towered above them all. He didn’t have a nickname. He was just Huttash–the best ping-ponger I ever played against. He used a red Harvard paddle–retail value, $45.00. One time I went to Houston and purchased custom made paddles for Mike Huston and me, in an effort to knock Bob off his perch. It didn’t work.

We had great fun at that table. I can still see Huttash standing at one of its corners–sweat dripping down his shirt, or under-shirt, a cigarette dangling from his mouth–calmly returning the ball, slam for slam. He’d get tired occasionally. (He was never in great shape.) If he had to work real hard to get a point, he’d look out and say, to no one in particular, “You’re gonna send me to King-Tears.” 

RIP: Barry Morse 1918-2008. The New York Times obituary is here.