met eight years earlier in an online dating success story.
Paul, thirty-seven, was an intense former actor turned personal trainer who grew up in San Francisco. Jeff, a year younger, was a stocky self-described Jersey boy and Dallas Cowboys fan who hadn’t quite managed to lose the accent in his years out west. He had worked his way up from a ticket taker at a Los Angeles movie theater to its general manager.
Friends had urged them to get married when the window in California opened. A few years earlier, Jeff had gotten down on his knee and proposed, and the two had even exchanged rings. But with opponents of gay marriage already gearing up to put Proposition 8 on the ballot, they were reluctant to put themselves and their family through the emotion of a wedding that could later be invalidated at the polls. Instead, they had decided to wait to see what California’s voters did.
During the Proposition 8 campaign, they had stayed on the sidelines while their neighbors put up YES ON PROP 8 lawn signs; one had even quoted the Bible to them and declared their relationship sinful. But a television ad urging voters to pass the initiative so infuriated the couple that they decided they had to do something. Over images of dark, ominous skies, the ad suggested that gay marriage was a threat to freedom, faith, and children. “There’s a storm gathering,” one person featured in the ad states. “The clouds are dark and the winds are strong,” says another. “And I am afraid,” says a third.
“This is literally making me nauseous,” Paul told Jeff.
Drawing on Paul’s skill at making exercise videos, they gathered some friends and shot a homemade public service announcement. “We will weather this storm,” the video said, but opponents of same-sex marriage were “using fear to cloud the truth.”
One of the people in the video happened to be Chad and Kristina’s realtor. Knowing only that they were interested in finding couples for a public service campaign, he made the introduction. Kristina and Chad met with the couple multiple times. Paul and Jeff were shocked by how much the two consultantsknew about them; Chad even asked about Paul’s previous roles in a few small art-house movies. After reassuring themselves that the films contained no nudity or other potentially embarrassing scenes, they finally filled the couple in on their plan to file a lawsuit.
Afterward, at the diner, the couple talked it over with Jeff’s parents, who were visiting from New Jersey. They had been married for forty-one years, and they knew what it would mean to their son. “Just as long as you are safe,” Jeff’s mother said, grabbing their hands.
The consensus of the legal team was that the case would likely be decided fairly quickly; while no federal case like this one had ever been filed, all but one of the cases that had come before state courts had been decided based on legal motions alone, with no need for a trial. Chad and Kristina told the plaintiffs they would likely never have to testify.
By lunch’s end, the two men had made up their minds. They weren’t cops or bookstore owners. And they, like Sandy and Kris, were white. But they were willing.
The movie version of the story of how Olson decided upon his choice of Democratic co-counsel goes like this: Early on, in a flash of genius, he tells Rob Reiner he has the perfect candidate in mind—David Boies, a genial but ruthless trial lawyer and, in the
Bush v. Gore
election dispute, the man who represented Gore.
And indeed, that is the way the two men tell it. But in fact, Boies wasn’t Olson’s first, or even second, choice. Initially, Olson had wanted a Supreme Court specialist like himself, preferably someone the gay community knew and trusted.
The first person Olson approached was Paul Smith, an openly gay, savvy Supreme Court advocate, and the man who won
Lawrence v. Texas
. He was at his desk when Olson phoned, saying he wanted to talk to him in strict
Paul, thirty-seven, was an intense former actor turned personal trainer who grew up in San Francisco. Jeff, a year younger, was a stocky self-described Jersey boy and Dallas Cowboys fan who hadn’t quite managed to lose the accent in his years out west. He had worked his way up from a ticket taker at a Los Angeles movie theater to its general manager.
Friends had urged them to get married when the window in California opened. A few years earlier, Jeff had gotten down on his knee and proposed, and the two had even exchanged rings. But with opponents of gay marriage already gearing up to put Proposition 8 on the ballot, they were reluctant to put themselves and their family through the emotion of a wedding that could later be invalidated at the polls. Instead, they had decided to wait to see what California’s voters did.
During the Proposition 8 campaign, they had stayed on the sidelines while their neighbors put up YES ON PROP 8 lawn signs; one had even quoted the Bible to them and declared their relationship sinful. But a television ad urging voters to pass the initiative so infuriated the couple that they decided they had to do something. Over images of dark, ominous skies, the ad suggested that gay marriage was a threat to freedom, faith, and children. “There’s a storm gathering,” one person featured in the ad states. “The clouds are dark and the winds are strong,” says another. “And I am afraid,” says a third.
“This is literally making me nauseous,” Paul told Jeff.
Drawing on Paul’s skill at making exercise videos, they gathered some friends and shot a homemade public service announcement. “We will weather this storm,” the video said, but opponents of same-sex marriage were “using fear to cloud the truth.”
One of the people in the video happened to be Chad and Kristina’s realtor. Knowing only that they were interested in finding couples for a public service campaign, he made the introduction. Kristina and Chad met with the couple multiple times. Paul and Jeff were shocked by how much the two consultantsknew about them; Chad even asked about Paul’s previous roles in a few small art-house movies. After reassuring themselves that the films contained no nudity or other potentially embarrassing scenes, they finally filled the couple in on their plan to file a lawsuit.
Afterward, at the diner, the couple talked it over with Jeff’s parents, who were visiting from New Jersey. They had been married for forty-one years, and they knew what it would mean to their son. “Just as long as you are safe,” Jeff’s mother said, grabbing their hands.
The consensus of the legal team was that the case would likely be decided fairly quickly; while no federal case like this one had ever been filed, all but one of the cases that had come before state courts had been decided based on legal motions alone, with no need for a trial. Chad and Kristina told the plaintiffs they would likely never have to testify.
By lunch’s end, the two men had made up their minds. They weren’t cops or bookstore owners. And they, like Sandy and Kris, were white. But they were willing.
The movie version of the story of how Olson decided upon his choice of Democratic co-counsel goes like this: Early on, in a flash of genius, he tells Rob Reiner he has the perfect candidate in mind—David Boies, a genial but ruthless trial lawyer and, in the
Bush v. Gore
election dispute, the man who represented Gore.
And indeed, that is the way the two men tell it. But in fact, Boies wasn’t Olson’s first, or even second, choice. Initially, Olson had wanted a Supreme Court specialist like himself, preferably someone the gay community knew and trusted.
The first person Olson approached was Paul Smith, an openly gay, savvy Supreme Court advocate, and the man who won
Lawrence v. Texas
. He was at his desk when Olson phoned, saying he wanted to talk to him in strict
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