For Dave who Disappeared

There is a saying originated by blogger Mik Everett in 2011, “If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.” I do not claim such extraordinary powers, literally or even figuratively. But I do know that I can summon memory to shed light, however briefly, on a person who deserves another look.

Earlier in my law practice, I knew an attorney who took on oddball cases that the local bar eschewed, small stuff like apartment evictions, small claims disputes, public defender matters, drug possession, shoplifting, small business debt collection, divorces with no assets. It was no way to make a living. But anyone in town knew that he was there to take on your case, no matter how unusual the circumstances. You had a fighting chance to get out of your legal troubles.

Dave always looked just this side of scruffy when appearing in court, in his tweed suit jacket that did not quite fit over his slightly pudgy frame, a shoelace untied, glasses smudged. He took more time than seemed reasonable in open court to pull paperwork out of his boxy attaché case and put it in order on the table as his clients waited nervously beside him.

Dave was an Ivy League law school grad, smart, confident, articulate. He zealously researched and pursued the legal rights of his clients. It wasn’t you he so much cared for, it was your right to stay in your apartment, your right to a vigorous defense to keep your record clean even from a minor offense, your right to live free from harassment by your vengeful neighbor or from unreasonable search and seizure.

You were entitled to the full arsenal of legal ammunition available to a citizen, same as if you were privileged to hire the finest, most prestigious Boston law firm.

We both entered the law profession during the liberal expansion of civil liberties under the Warren Court in the 1960s, such as right of indigents to counsel if accused of a crime and Miranda warnings (you have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law . . . .). It was an exciting time for young lawyers—we shared the experience of an infusion of justice into the legal system.

I saw flashes of brilliance that seemed too intense for the municipal courtroom handling everyday squabbles or the nightly police blotter. He cited cases with ease, elevating the level of discourse in the lower courts, keeping judges and adversaries on edge. He won my respect.

We never had a case together but conducted an amiable professional relationship. I enjoyed our random exchanges over the years, spiced with his satirical but never mean sense of humor. There was something offbeat but noble and true about this guy and I tuned into it. He had a kindness to him. I could have surely learned something from him if we had been adversaries in the courtroom.

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Then, the dramatic news spread around the legal community that he had died, no reason given for sudden death in his mid-forties, maybe closer to fifty.

I cleared my calendar to attend the funeral service in a small chapel. But I was juggling family and career at the time, and not perfectly. I had two young children at home and something or other needed my attention before I could leave the house that day. And then, I encountered every red light along the way.

I arrived thirty minutes late. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but by then the building was empty, doors still open but the short service already concluded and everyone dispersed. If to a cemetery or a reception, there was no sign in sight or anyone on the premises to direct me.

Typical of Dave, I thought…..no fuss, no frills, do your job, move on to the next case come what may, don’t wait around to take credit.

Then, gone baby, really gone.

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Dave was single. He didn’t employ a secretary to field calls or a paralegal to organize documents. I didn’t know a thing about his family ties, if any. Rumors abounded as to why he led a slightly strange and solitary life.

I had so wanted to pay my respects in some concrete way but missed the opportunity. I mused, as I stood alone on the church steps, at how Dave was a maverick, so fearless, so unapologetically himself. And that—even being on the periphery of his life and whatever made him tick—I would truly miss him.

My eyes filled with tears, not of grief, but of frustration that I could not manage to get to the funeral service on time, my only chance to pay tribute in concert with others. I was distressed at the absence of what we now call “closure.” Life seemed unnecessarily complicated, full of little pitfalls and traps, missed connections, lingering regrets both large and small.

I walked down the chapel steps with a feeling of sadness that Dave was deprived of some sort of completion, while I could move on from this day with my life and my legal career. But I didn’t really know his struggles or how he had envisioned his future. I hope someone in his life did.

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While driving recently through a historic part of town in the process of gentrification, I recognized the three-sided wooden building that had housed the office he rented on the first floor. He may have disappeared from the local and legal scene ages ago, but I took this as a signal to bring my own memory of him full circle. I had retired after years of providing service to clients, a milestone that he could not enjoy.

I researched online for his obituary but found nothing at this late date. I did find a 1988 decision on a case that he had filed with the Appeals Court. I located an inactive entry on lawyer.com with no information whatsoever, other than that he was admitted to the Massachusetts bar in 1962. No one had bothered to take down the listing, a memorial site in his name suspended in perpetuity, never to be claimed.

Other than local legend vaguely recalled by a few peers or grateful clients, Dave did not seem to leave a trace. The bar admission date indicates that he would have been seven years older than me. There is nothing else to report.

His time came and went. I noticed him then. I remember him now, from the time and place in my life that intersected with his until his untimely passing. I offer this belated appreciation for Dave three decades later, for whatever it is worth, sending a small ping out to the cosmos that welcomed him.