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.
