and without waiting for a response slipped off into the dark camp.
PART II
Chapter 4.
STEWART: MY FATHER'S LAWYER
A c c ording to the Record of Proceedings of my father's court-martial, a high-ranking JAG epartment lawyer from Eisenhower's headquarters, Barrington Leach, had been Dad's attorney. His name rang a bell, and a search online reminded me why. In 1950, Leach took a leave from the prominent Hartford law firm in which he was a partner to become Chief Counsel to Senator Estes Kefauver in his investigation of organized crime. The televised Kefauver Hearings introduced many Americans to the Mafia and, not coincidentally, to the privilege against self-incrimination. From then on "taking the Fifth" inevitably brought to mind the line of dark gentlemen in expensive suits who answered every question by reciting their rights fro m i ndex cards adhering to their palms. It was Leach, most often, who was up there making them sweat.
After returning to Connecticut, Leach in time became a judge, eventually rising to the Connecticut Supreme Court. His name actually turns up in a few news accounts in the Johnson era as a potential candidate for the U . S . Supreme Court.
I had started researching Leach during the months I was stalemated by the government in my efforts to pry loose the court-martial file. (I finally got it in June 2004, but only because I could demonstrate by then that I knew virtually all the information contained there.) I had assumed that Leach, an experienced trial lawyer in 1945 and thus quite a bit older than Dad, had to be dead, and I only hoped that his family had kept his papers. In late October 2003, I called the Connecticut Supreme Court to locate Leach's next of kin.
"Did he die?" the clerk asked me. He turned from the phone, inquiring of a colleague with alarm, "Did Justice Leach die?" I could hear the question pingponging across the room, until the clerk came back on the line. "No, sir. Happy to say Justice Leach is still with us." He declined to provide an address or phone, but promised to forward any mail. Within a week, I had received a response, with a return address at the Northumberland Manor Assisted-Care Facility in West Hartford, written in a craggy hand that brough t t o mind that enduring children's toy, the Etch A Sketch.
I surely recall representing your father. David Dubin's court-martial remains one of the most perplexing matters of my life as a lawyer, and I am willing to discuss it with you. In answer to your inquiry, I have retained some materials relating to the case that you would probably wish to have. As you can see, writing letters is a particular burden at this stage of my life. We could converse by telephone, if need be, but, if I may be s o b old, I suggest that, if possible, you pay me a visit.
While I am happy to provide you with my recollections and these papers, doing so is a bit sticky legally, inasmuch as your father was my client. You would set an old man's mind at ease if, when you came, you brought a letter from all your father's legal heirs--your mother, if she remains alive, and any siblings you have--stating that each of yo u r elinquishes any objections related to what I share. I'd suggest you contact the lawyer who is handling the estate to help you. I will be happy to speak with him, if he likes.
Without being alarmist, I call you r a ttention to the fact that I am ninety-six years old and that I no longer purchase green bananas. I look forward to meeting you soon.
With all good wishes , Barrington V . S . Leach
Watching me dash around the country, passing hours in dank library basements and talking about opposition from the CIA, the members of my family were convinced that my elevator had stopped between floors. Nona regarded it as conclusive proof that she'd gotten out at the right time, while my daughters offered a succinct explanation to anyone who asked: "Dad's on crack."
My mother said the least, but might have been the most unhappy. Mom
PART II
Chapter 4.
STEWART: MY FATHER'S LAWYER
A c c ording to the Record of Proceedings of my father's court-martial, a high-ranking JAG epartment lawyer from Eisenhower's headquarters, Barrington Leach, had been Dad's attorney. His name rang a bell, and a search online reminded me why. In 1950, Leach took a leave from the prominent Hartford law firm in which he was a partner to become Chief Counsel to Senator Estes Kefauver in his investigation of organized crime. The televised Kefauver Hearings introduced many Americans to the Mafia and, not coincidentally, to the privilege against self-incrimination. From then on "taking the Fifth" inevitably brought to mind the line of dark gentlemen in expensive suits who answered every question by reciting their rights fro m i ndex cards adhering to their palms. It was Leach, most often, who was up there making them sweat.
After returning to Connecticut, Leach in time became a judge, eventually rising to the Connecticut Supreme Court. His name actually turns up in a few news accounts in the Johnson era as a potential candidate for the U . S . Supreme Court.
I had started researching Leach during the months I was stalemated by the government in my efforts to pry loose the court-martial file. (I finally got it in June 2004, but only because I could demonstrate by then that I knew virtually all the information contained there.) I had assumed that Leach, an experienced trial lawyer in 1945 and thus quite a bit older than Dad, had to be dead, and I only hoped that his family had kept his papers. In late October 2003, I called the Connecticut Supreme Court to locate Leach's next of kin.
"Did he die?" the clerk asked me. He turned from the phone, inquiring of a colleague with alarm, "Did Justice Leach die?" I could hear the question pingponging across the room, until the clerk came back on the line. "No, sir. Happy to say Justice Leach is still with us." He declined to provide an address or phone, but promised to forward any mail. Within a week, I had received a response, with a return address at the Northumberland Manor Assisted-Care Facility in West Hartford, written in a craggy hand that brough t t o mind that enduring children's toy, the Etch A Sketch.
I surely recall representing your father. David Dubin's court-martial remains one of the most perplexing matters of my life as a lawyer, and I am willing to discuss it with you. In answer to your inquiry, I have retained some materials relating to the case that you would probably wish to have. As you can see, writing letters is a particular burden at this stage of my life. We could converse by telephone, if need be, but, if I may be s o b old, I suggest that, if possible, you pay me a visit.
While I am happy to provide you with my recollections and these papers, doing so is a bit sticky legally, inasmuch as your father was my client. You would set an old man's mind at ease if, when you came, you brought a letter from all your father's legal heirs--your mother, if she remains alive, and any siblings you have--stating that each of yo u r elinquishes any objections related to what I share. I'd suggest you contact the lawyer who is handling the estate to help you. I will be happy to speak with him, if he likes.
Without being alarmist, I call you r a ttention to the fact that I am ninety-six years old and that I no longer purchase green bananas. I look forward to meeting you soon.
With all good wishes , Barrington V . S . Leach
Watching me dash around the country, passing hours in dank library basements and talking about opposition from the CIA, the members of my family were convinced that my elevator had stopped between floors. Nona regarded it as conclusive proof that she'd gotten out at the right time, while my daughters offered a succinct explanation to anyone who asked: "Dad's on crack."
My mother said the least, but might have been the most unhappy. Mom
Similar Books
