Saturday, March 9, 2019

Percy Foreman Hands Off To Mike DeGeurin


 Among the most cherished benefits of my career in journalism has been the opportunity to meet some fascinating people. Here’s an article I wrote in July 1989 about several iconic Houston legal legends. It was published in that month’s editions of Houston Metropolitan Magazine.

When Mike DeGeurin inherited Percy Foreman's criminal law practice, he knew his toughest battle would be against his mentor's mythic reputation.

When the late Percy Foreman first arrived in Houston more than 60 years ago, he conducted a private poll of the city's big name law firms. He wanted to talk to the top lawyers here and learn about the practice of law. But every time he asked for the name on the door, the young Foreman drew the same curious response. He discovered many of the city's biggest name partners had actually died years before. Always one to learn from any experience, Foreman quickly determined that prominent attorneys develop their own brand of immortality. Their bodies lie in the grave, but their names stay on the shingle to provide a boost for younger partners who follow.

Foreman's immediate application of that lesson in 1927 has become an often repeated chapter of Harris County Courthouse lore. He laid claim to some of the most famous names in legal history, creating business cards with a long list of deceased partners to boost his credibility: “Moses, Justinian, Blackstone, Webster & Foreman.”

 In 1927, Foreman understood the magic of a deceased partner's name before his own. Today, a year after his death, Foreman still shares space on two business cards carried by 43-year-old Mike DeGeurin. One is a sample of the 1927 collector's item. Its primary value is as an object of cocktail conversation. On the second card, however, Foreman boasts a more ominous role, at least where DeGeurin is concerned. That one reads, “Foreman, DeGeurin & Nugent.” While the first is good for a laugh, the second carries with it a burden.

No one in 1927 expected the young Foreman to someday match reputations with the legal giants he symbolically placed on his first card. But a jury of his peers shortly before his death last August offered a verdict that he had come pretty close. The Harris County Criminal Lawyers Association presented him with a plaque that declared him simply “The World's Greatest Criminal Lawyer”—this from a profession in which ego is second nature. No one could challenge the claim.

Now, just as contemporaries in 1927 had no idea how Foreman might someday stack up against the legendary names beside his, observers of the Houston legal scene are wondering about the young protégé who inherited the practice of the acknowledged master. There's no disputing the differences in style between Foreman and DeGeurin. And the times have undoubtedly changed. True, DeGeurin has already handled some high-profile cases, and he answered one long-running media question in a technical sense. When his staff moved his belongings into Foreman's old office and he began working at Foreman's desk, he became the clear heir to Foreman's practice. But there's more to legendary status than the name of the living partner beside that of the deceased on a business card. Like it or not, folks will be watching DeGeurin closely in the years ahead to see exactly how he measures up.

“I can't fill Percy's shoes,” he snarls quickly when the subject is raised. “No one can do that. There's no way to pretend to be him. But I do have all the benefit of his 60 years of practice.”

To DeGeurin and many other Houston attorneys, such comparisons seem unfair. But the questions remain: Who is this youngster sitting in Foreman's office? Is he tough enough to maintain the tradition that's made Houston a landmark for flamboyant criminal defense efforts?

“I never saw Foreman in practice,” says State District Judge Michael McSpadden, who once offered to “duke it out” with DeGeurin when McSpadden was a prosecutor. Now that McSpadden's a judge, they've healed their differences and he offers a broader view. “The Foreman image is definitely not Mike. But flamboyancy doesn't count any more. Juries are too sophisticated. When people someday look back on Mike's career, he may certainly have the same reputation Foreman enjoyed when he died.”

From appearances, DeGeurin would stand little chance of carrying on in court the way Foreman did in his heyday. At 6-foot-4-inches and 250 pounds, Foreman intimidated with his mere presence. His voice thundered and sarcasm pounded home his points.

“This case was tried by Henry Wade and the Dallas District Attorney's office,”
Foreman once boomed in arguing a criminal appeal to a panel of judges. “In addition to that, I've found three more points of error.” The judges laughed and he quickly had them enthralled. Heads shorter at 5-foot-9 and without the booming voice of the bear, DeGeurin can't use the same kind of intimidation. But he has managed to get his own points across.

“I liked Mr. Foreman’s strength. When he walked into court, everyone trembled,” says Dr. Chris Malone. Her family hired Foreman to defend her brother on attempted murder charges a few years ago. He administered the case and dispatched DeGeurin to try it. “With Mike, they don't tremble, but they certainly looked up. My questions about him were gone quickly. Our problem became his problem.”

Former partner Lewis Dickson recalls how DeGeurin employs cunning and finesse where Foreman would have terrorized with bluster: “Mike decided to introduce some meaningless pictures into evidence once. He purposely stumbled around and fouled up his introductory questions so the prosecutor would object. It left the jury asking, ‘What's the state trying to hide?’ DeGeurin is clever, but he's not consumed by showing it.”

Foreman's methods and lifestyle generated enemies by the dozen. In contrast,  DeGeurin's enemies are harder to find, despite his presence in controversial cases. Some opponents have accused him of leaking information to reporters and others have described him as a mercenary who will do anything to win a case. His defenders dispatch the complaints as “sour grapes” born from the frustrations of being outsmarted by him.

It's outside the city that DeGeurin generates the strongest feelings. While battling Montgomery County in the sensational Clarence Lee Brandley case, DeGeurin had metal shavings poured in his gas tank. Someone also altered the cover of a back issue of Texas Monthly magazine, placing his picture above the headline “The Sleaziest Man in Texas” and posting it on a courthouse office wall. But police and prosecutors in Houston have nothing but compliments for him.

“He's a gentleman,” says Edd Blackwood, a local bondsman who has been around
the courthouse for 20 years in a number of capacities. “Mike can shift gears like
a fine sports car and you don't even notice it. He can be a good old boy one minute
and the next he can point his finger at you and say, ‘This is the way it's going to be.’ He's not too soft. He can take charge.”

He also has other important factors in his favor that can sometimes be taken for granted. He has been handling Foreman's trial work for some time, and no one begrudges him the opportunity to occupy Foreman's office.

“Everybody believes they've earned the link,” says Blackwood of DeGeurin and his older brother, Dick DeGuerin, who worked in Foreman's office, too. “Percy worked their butts off. They were down at the courthouse by 6 or 7 every morning and investigating cases every day of the week.”

Too often forgotten is the fact that DeGeurin was handpicked by Foreman to succeed him. Foreman once called him the only lawyer he would hire, and that  reference alone says plenty. But there's one other factor that overshadows all the
gushing accolades from DeGeurin's pals. He spent 11 years in Foreman's presence,
watching his every move and absorbing his wisdom like an intellectual sponge. DeGeurin summarized the significance matter-of-factly when he began a speech recently at a seminar for defense attorneys: “There are a few things I learned
from Percy Foreman,” he began, immediately capturing everyone's attention.

But anyone watching the situation a decade ago might be surprised at what's taken place today. Back then, DeGeurin was new to the headlines. He was Dick's kid brother. He joined Foreman's practice in 1977, well after Dick had staked his own claim to the title of heir-apparent. Differences in their styles and outlook seemed as distinctive as the difference in their last names. Dick changed the spelling of his to reflect the original French from la guerre, or war. Mike decided to retain the spelling of recent generations.

“Now the police are able to use that against our clients,” DeGeurin quips. “They'll videotape DWI suspects using the phone to call one of us. If the suspect calls my brother and asks for me, they'll say, ‘See, he was so drunk he couldn't even call his lawyer.’”

Dick admits Mike is a “nicer guy,” and the older brother has been one to thrive more in the spotlight. The weekly newspaper Texas Lawyer recently published a  series of articles identifying its selections for the “new Racehorses”—those attorneys most likely to succeed Richard “Racehorse” Haynes and Foreman at the top of the state's defense bar. Dick DeGuerin joined Mike Ramsey as Houston's candidates, with Mike DeGeurin relegated to a mention in the article about his brother.

By the late 1970s Dick had established himself as a flashy, effective and hard-hitting defender who played as seriously as he worked. Mike hit town with a background as a family man, proud of high school elections naming him most popular and class president.


A native of Austin and the son of an attorney, DeGeurin graduated from the
University of Texas and then attended law school at Texas Tech in Lubbock because of the higher salaries there for teachers. Married to his high school sweetheart, he needed her teaching income to complete his education. A fierce loyalty to her and their three children plays as important a role in his life as the law.

“I’m amazed with his schedule that he's been able to coach little league,” says  Blackwood, recalling how DeGeurin recruited him one year to handle an inner city youth baseball team. “He honestly does spend time with his kids.”

He actually came to Houston in 1973, spending two years as a clerk for Justice Wendell Odom on the state Court of Criminal Appeals and later for U.S. District Judge John Singleton. Unlike his brother, DeGeurin rejected the notion of learning  about trial work as an assistant district attorney and instead became one of the first to join the newly established public defender's office of the federal courts in 1975. He's still remembered there as a compassionate defender, who took clients' problems to heart.

DeGeurin found celebrity status thrust upon him immediately after joining Foreman. One of the firm's biggest cases of all time stemmed from the death of Dr.
John Hill. Litigation from that notorious event—immortalized in the best seller Blood and Money—engaged the firm on two fronts. While Dick earned headlines
and praise in the criminal courts for his spirited but unsuccessful defense of a woman accused of setting up the murder, Mike handled the civil defense of a wrongful death action filed by Hill's survivors against the late oil millionaire Ash Robinson. Convincing a jury that the survivors had no cause for action, the younger DeGeurin quickly made local reporters aware there would be two ways to spell DeGeurin and that they'd better learn how to get both of them right.

Differences in the brothers are also revealed in their relationships with Foreman. Both revered the man like a father, but Dick's confrontations with the master over strategy have become the stuff of courthouse legend. While Foreman would bark at Dick—who always barked back—he'd handle Mike differently, making him feel guilty when something had gone wrong. DeGeurin recalls how Foreman would use the competitive nature of the siblings to tease them forward: “He’d say, ‘Dick, yes, but you, Mike? Not you!’ when I'd done something dumb.”

Dick departed in 1982 with Lewis Dickson to launch a separate firm. Mike remained with Foreman, to be joined later by Paul Nugent.

“He’d always been known as my little brother, and I think he was glad to get away from that and become his own person," recalls Dick. Even though he accuses Mike of misspelling their family name and being shorter, the older brother remains fiercely loyal and says he hopes they can practice together again someday. He says, “If Mike has enemies, they’d better not talk to me about it.”

Until Foreman's death the practice followed a standard pattern. Foreman supervised everything, but he spent more time interviewing prospective clients to determine if the firm would handle their cases. That left the energetic youngsters to grapple with opponents in the courtrooms. Since Foreman's death, DeGeurin has had to fill both roles, and that keeps him busy well into the night. Despite the firm's well-publicized reputation for stiff fees, many people in trouble still think first of Percy Foreman and contact the firm. With his recent entry into the national spotlight via 60 Minutes, DeGeurin appears poised to continue that tradition. In the past two years, 60 Minutes has broadcast stories on two DeGeurin cases that promise to keep DeGeurin's name before the public in the months to come.

The influential program first spotted him when it launched an expose of the capital  murder conviction of Clarence Lee Brandley, sentenced to die for the 1980 murder of a 16-year-old girl at Conroe High School. True to his bulldog reputation, DeGeurin has battled for a new trial using every weapon available. The case rested with the Court of Criminal Appeals at press time after a well-publicized path through special evidentiary hearings that culminated in 1987 with a judge's recommendation for a new trial. Along the way, Montgomery County and its justice system attracted allegations of racial prejudice and corruption, making
DeGeurin the target for that community's rage.

60 Minutes also stumbled across another DeGeurin case, the defense of Kelly Jo Koch against murder charges lodged in 1985. Last summer a judge slammed police tactics in obtaining her confession and denied prosecutors its use. The videotaped confession had been aired on 60 Minutes in November, 1987, giving another black eye to Texas law enforcement. DeGeurin produced a psychiatrist to testify that Koch had suffered a nervous breakdown in the questioning process.

Weaving anecdotes from Foreman's career with examples from his own experiences, DeGeurin easily surfaces as the closest link the legal community
will have to the legendary trial master. It's a role he both understands and welcomes: “When I’m 70, the fact I say something might have meaning. But Percy used to say something was true, then he’d add, ‘And I didn't learn it from a book. It was 65 years of distilled experiences.’ I can't say that yet; I'm only 43. The way you leap past people your own age is by finding someone who has already been through these experiences and is willing to tell you the truth as he knows it.”

No one will ever replace Percy Foreman; his times are gone for good. Houston is
too big for just one colorful lawyer to claim all the attention and handle all the high-profile cases. But of the handful of young lawyers who can claim the master as their mentor, DeGeurin emerges in an enviable position.

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