Richard Racehorse Haynes

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Tuesday, June 6th, 2017
Richard Racehorse Haynes

How Hard Can This Be?
Dan Cogdell

It was the Spring of 1979. Despite my shockingly impressive 2.67 GPA from the University of Texas, I had not been offered a job aside from the possibility of working for Proctor and Gamble peddling soap in the local HEB. Corporate America had clearly failed to recognize my greatness, and I was pondering just what in the heck my future would hold while languishing around the Frat House at the University. It was then that I stumbled across Texas v. Davis—an exceedingly well-written book by Mike Cochran about the T. Cullen Davis trials and the man who would later become my friend and mentor, Richard “Racehorse” Haynes. I had known Haynes while I was in high school in Houston—albeit distantly—through the off-road motorcycle racing community. Haynes was racing in the “old guy” (over 40) class, competing on a Husqvarna motorcycle. (Side note: One of the counter clerks at the local Husqvarna dealership in Houston was a young Lyle Lovett.) As I read through Cochran’s book about Haynes’ feats, I stupidly thought “How hard can that be if the ‘old guy’ from the Motocross track can do it?” Little did I know…

“I Want to Work for Racehorse Haynes”

That Spring, I began to read everything I could get my hands on about Haynes, F. Lee Bailey, Percy Foreman, and any “real lawyer” I could. Arguably, the most time I ever spent in the library at UT was in my final semester doing just that. I tardily and hastily applied to several law schools and was accepted into just two—Texas Tech and South Texas College of Law. After flying into Lubbock on a Friday night and discovering a (then) desolate social scene, I decided to take my chances at South Texas and began in the Fall of 1979. Let me be clear: The sole reason I enrolled at law school was to work for Haynes. My focus was borderline obsessive about that goal, and I studied harder than I’d ever studied in my life to make certain I’d graduate at the top of my class (or at least as close thereto as I could). I took every criminal law–related course I could—dangerously spotting a least half a dozen State Bar–related courses in the process. I clerked for a small criminal defense firm in Houston and would watch Haynes as often as my schedule allowed while I was in law school. In my third year at South Texas, I nervously applied for a law clerk slot at the firm of Haynes and Fullenweider but was not offered that position. Retrospectively, that was probably a good thing, as I quickly thereafter applied at the Court of Criminal Appeals, and Presiding Judge John F. Onion Jr. was foolish enough to offer me a clerkship with him upon my graduation. If Judge Onion were honest, he’d likely tell you I was (at best) an inept law clerk for him, but if you’ve met the P. J., you know he’s too much of a gentleman to admit that.

Getting the “Dream Job”

I’d be a bit remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the chicanery I used in my interview for the Associate gig at Haynes and Fullenweider. Being so obsessed about being able to work for Haynes, I had scoured the planet for anyone who had gone through that process to learn as much as I could. Brian Wice (who had preceded me the year before at the Court of Criminal Appeals as law clerk) had schooled me on the process. I was certain I knew more than the other applicants (of which there were many) and was aware that after you interviewed with Haynes, two things would happen. The first was, at the end of the interview, Haynes would always ask something like “Do you have any questions of me?” I decided well in advance to avoid any solicitous comments like “What is your greatest victory?” Instead, I wanted to be singular and memorable, so when that time came I said, “So, Mr. Haynes, at Chappel Hill [a local motocross track], following the big downhill, why did you always take the slower line through the curve at the bottom?”

His pipe went sideways and his brow furrowed, and he said, “What?”

I repeated my question and he said, “How the hell did you know that?” I explained I had seen him do it in many races and even diagrammed it on paper for him.

The second thing that I had learned about the interview process was that you’d be asked to deliver a “Final Argument” at the end of your interview. Knowing I had broken through the barrier with him, I ratcheted up the stakes even higher and said: “OK, Mr. Haynes. I understand that now I am supposed to go down the hall and do a ‘surprise’ Final Argument while being videotaped. Frankly, I think that’s not the best use of our time. Look, you are going to make the decision to hire me—or not hire me—based in large part upon whether we get along. You can hire anybody you want, in terms of credentials. So, rather than having me ‘argue,’ I’d suggest we go across the street and get a drink.”

It was about 7:00pm at this point, and I knew Haynes was no stranger to alcohol. “You’ll find out more about whether you can stand me after a couple of drinks, compatibility wise, than you will by watching me give a Final Argument,” I said. “Let’s face it. I am here to learn how to be a lawyer from you. No kid out of law school knows much—if anything—about how to argue a case to a jury.”

My ploy worked like a charm, and we drank for several hours. By the fourth or fifth drink, I knew I was going to get my dream job. No question.

“It’s the Bailiffs You Need to Worry About, Not the Judges”

One of my first memories working for Richard was going with him on a routine visit to the Harris County Criminal Courthouse. Of course, Haynes was (literally) a living legend in those days, so everyone in the courthouse took notice when he showed up. In each courtroom, Haynes immediately began chatting with the court staff—primarily the bailiffs. He’d all but ignore the judges and instead was asking about the bailiff’s children, their softball teams, whether they’d caught any fish lately, etc., etc. When we left, I asked him (stupidly), “Why do you spend so much time with the bailiffs and so little time with the judges?”

Haynes went on (rather directly, for the record) and explained to me that it was the bailiffs who spent way more time with the jury (behind closed doors bringing lunch, walking them to their cars, etc.) than the judges ever did. “Don’t ever piss off a bailiff, son. Bad idea. Bad idea. Sometimes you must piss off a Judge, but you should never piss off a bailiff. They can talk you down in a second to the jury and you’ll ever even know it.” Lesson Number One learned that day. To this day, every time I am in a courtroom, I always speak to the bailiffs.

Getting to Know the Aryan Brotherhood

My first significant trial with Haynes was a murder trial that arose out of an inmate killing in Folsom Prison in California. Our client, Danny Christiansen, was charged with killing another inmate “because he was Hispanic.” The State’s theory was that our client participated in the murder as an “initiation killing” to get into the Aryan Brotherhood. To that end, we quickly met one of the “Original Founders” of the Aryan Brotherhood, a man named Wendell “Blue” Norris. Norris was about six foot six and had the physique of enraged body builder. Doing several “Life Withouts” (California had abolished the death penalty in that period of time), Norris was, by all accounts, the most feared man in Folsom. When we first met Norris, Haynes was far from his usual charming and witty self. Instead, he treated Norris with indifference and even bordered on being disrespectful to him during our conversations with him.

Because it was so unlike Haynes to act like that, I asked him about it. “Don’t ever show a guy like that too much respect, Skateboard [his nickname for me]. They’ll think you weak and solicitous and turn on you like a pit viper.”

Whatever, I thought. Norris wasn’t going to jack with us . . . After all, we were there to help one of “his crew.” A few weeks later, I was at Folsom in a steel room alone with Norris preparing him to testify, and he began letting me know that he knew I had applied for a mortgage back in Houston. He knew the address of the home, my (then) wife’s name, where she worked, and her salary. Now, keep in mind, this was 1984—long before “Al Gore invented the internet.” After my blood pressure dropped back down to somewhere in the range of the living, I realized that Haynes was exactly right: My courtesy and professionalism with Norris was but a weakness to him, and he was preparing to use it against me. Luckily, we ended up getting the case dismissed, but it was another lesson taught to me. Sometimes you can be too nice to people!

The “Texas Slave Ranch” Case

Of course, one of the more celebrated cases that I tried with Haynes (as well as Mike Ramsey and Ray Bass III) was the so-called Slave Ranch Trial in Kerrville, Texas, in the mid 1980s. In that case, the Ellebracht family (Walter Wesley Ellebracht Sr., Walter Wesley Ellebracht Jr., and Joyce Ellebracht) were charged with Engaging in Organized Criminal Activity, with the predicate offenses being Kidnapping, Aggravated Assault, and Murder. The State’s theory was that our family had falsely induced transients to work at their “keychain factory” in Mountain Home, Texas. They did so by luring the transients to their remote “factory” with promises of “free room and board.” When the transients would later try to leave, they were (at least according to the State’s theory) then manacled and restrained. Worse yet, the Ellebrachts adopted a sort of a “Frat House Hell Week Gone Wild” culture and began torturing (at least) one with a cattle prod. Naturally, they tape-recorded the torture sessions. After a particularly lengthy (tape-recorded) torture session, one poor soul died. His body was then burned in a cedar fire.

Shortly after his demise, another transient managed to escape and tell his account to law enforcement. Within a week or two of the death, the Texas Rangers executed a search warrant, where they recovered (of course) the tape recordings, the cattle prod, and human bone fragments. While the Ellebrachts were cash poor, they owned a couple of thousand acres of Hill Country property, which turned out to be more than enough to hire the most famous criminal lawyer in the state of Texas, if not the United States. You just can’t make this stuff up.

The Cab Driver Chooses Venue

As we wound closer to the start of the trial, there were several troubling issues. The first question was whether we would seek to change the venue due to the negative publicity (and there was a ton of it). Haynes assured me (as we were flying into Kerrville on a chartered flight), “I will let you know when we get there, Skate.”

I was befuddled by Haynes’ retort, as we’d done no telephone polling, no jury surveys, and no focus groups. What the hell was he going to base his decision on? When we landed, Haynes called (the only) cab driver in town to come and pick us up and told the Cab Company to “ask for Cogdell” when he got to the airport. The cab driver picked us up and Haynes (who the cab driver did not recognize) asked, “What do you think about those Ellebracht folks?”

The cab driver stated something to the effect that “they weren’t that bad and really had just burned some trash.” Haynes looked at me and said, “Does that answer your venue question, Skate?” Only Haynes would have ever thought of that—and it worked!

“Make Them Play the Worst Evidence Every Day”

“The tapes, Haynes, the tapes. What are we going to do about the tapes?” Even to this day, some 30 years later, I have never had to confront worse evidence. There were literally dozens of hours of ear-splitting tape-recorded torture sessions. They were horrific. There was just no way of not acknowledging how awful the tapes were.

“That’s easy. We are going to make the State play them every single day as many times as we can make them play them,” Haynes said.

I truly thought the old bird (at least to me at that time in my life I thought he was old) had flown the coop. Haynes then explained to me: “They are just like a lot of things—at first they are overpowering, but the more constant they are, they less important they become.”

The State was all too eager to play them every chance they got, mistakenly believing that each time they were played the outrage would increase. Quite the opposite effect happened. After listening to them being played repeatedly after weeks in trial, the jury was little moved by them when they ultimately deliberated. A smarter prosecutor would have played them twice—once in opening (or as soon thereafter as possible, evidence wise) and once in closing. Haynes knew that, and his plan to desensitize the jury by repeatedly playing them worked brilliantly. In the end, our client received probation. That “victory” was made even more sweet by the State having given a 15-year prison sentence to its primary cooperator, who was far less culpable than our client.

Haynes and the Cattle Prod

In almost every article written after Richard’s passing, there were comments about “Haynes’ shocking himself with a cattle prod in front of a Texas jury.” Which is almost true. I say “almost” because Haynes did shock himself as we were preparing for trial. He just didn’t do it in front of a jury. Truth is, we were preparing to cross-examine the State’s Medical Examiner, who we knew was going to testify (by looking at a piece of charred human bone) that the cause of death of the deceased was a heart attack brought about by electrical shock. Which was, of course, complete horse hockey.

Having gone through Hell Week at the Sigma Chi house a few years before, I had significant personal experience with cattle prods. It would hurt but it wouldn’t kill a person. Haynes and I were talking one night in his office (as I recall Messrs. Beam and Daniels were also present) and I was explaining my belief that they hurt like hell but wouldn’t kill you. Haynes, a former Golden Gloves boxer, Marine, and Paratrooper, scoffed at the idea that it would “really hurt” and began to shock himself in his hand with the damned thing. THAT resulted in Haynes’ throwing his arm out of socket and a quick trip to the ER. To be fair, Haynes did have a bit of a “trick shoulder,” as he’d injured it decades before when that arm had been caught up in a parachute. We quickly decided that the task of “cattle prodding lawyer when the jury is present” would be left to me.

For the next several weeks, I literally stayed up at night “familiarizing myself” with the sensation of it until I could do it without flinching. Watching the eyes of the jury as I shocked myself while cross-examining the Medical Examiner is, as they say, “one memory they can’t ever take away from me.” My “bravery and audacity” in volunteering myself to do something so outrageous was not without precedent in the lineage of Haynes’ lawyers. Indeed, some 15 or so years before our Kerrville trial, Haynes and Mike Ramsey were defending some Bandito types in Florida charged with aggravated kidnapping and rape. In that trial, the poor victim had her hands nailed, crucifixion like, to a cross. The images of the hands being so nailed was thought to be impossible to overcome, so Haynes proposed to have Mike Ramsey’s hands (with proper anesthesia, of course) nailed to the jury rail. As I understand it, Ramsey even went so far to have gone to a local doctor the morning of final argument to numb his hands, but it was to no avail—the Judge wisely put a stop to that madness. Are you getting the picture yet of how inspiring Haynes was to work for?

The Legacy of Haynes

I am often asked, what was his greatest strength? Preparation? Cross-examination? Final argument? Not really. Instead, I think Haynes’ greatest strengths were his absolute commitment to the Constitution and his faith in our jury system. I know that sounds trite, but it isn’t. Here is a man who (at 17) fought at Iwo Jima. He later re-enlisted to fight in Korea. He fought for the Constitution because he believed in it. I never, ever saw him back down from any fight, anywhere if he felt he was in the right. He was neither crude nor boastful, but wonderfully confident. While it is true he liked the trappings of his success (his boats, his Porsche, or his Rolls-Royces), he could have made infinitely more money trying personal injury cases but chose to remain true to his craft. Haynes truly believed in helping his fellow man and helping young lawyers. Never once did I hear him reject another lawyers’ request for help or advice. Never once did I see him be rude, arrogant, or condescending. Haynes truly believed that “lawyers should leave the profession in better shape than it was in when they entered it.” Any of us who worked for him or around him were better lawyers (and people, frankly) for it. I have often said “If I am at all tall it is only because I was able to stand on the shoulders of a 5’7” giant.” There is a predictable pattern of “over-glorifying” folks when they pass on. That simply isn’t the case with Haynes. He was, in his time, the best damned criminal lawyer in the country. Period. Richard, my friend and mentor, may you Rest in Peace. You sure as hell have earned it, Hoss. Godspeed.

 

Richard Haynes: Warrior, Defender, Dear Friend
Christopher L. Tritico

I knew this day was coming for months. Richard had been on a slow decline for three years. The last two times I saw him, he was alert but unable to speak. I could tell he knew who I was, and we communicated like only two old friends of 38 years can; we did not need words.

In 1979, I was a senior in high school, and my dad, Lenny Tritico, had grown up with Richard. They met up at a high school reunion. He told Richard that I wanted to go to law school. Richard said, “Send him by I’ll give him a job”. Richard owed my dad and certainly me nothing. But at the end of the day, Richard Haynes gave me everything.

Haynes & Fullenweider was the most unique place to work. We worked hard and played harder. It was not only a fun place to work; it was the best place in the country to learn how to be a lawyer. You were exposed to the biggest cases in the country, the best and brightest lawyers. Your work had meaning. Your ideas were respected and employed. You were entrusted with the most important of task from the beginning of your career. Between 1979 and 1993 I was an office helper, messenger, private investigator, law clerk, and associate.

The day after I passed the bar, Richard called me into his office. He said, “So you want to be a criminal lawyer?”

I said, “Yes sir, I do.”

He gave me a file and said: “Here is your first case. There is a hearing tomorrow morning.”

Excited, I took the file to my office. What could it be? A trespass? A DWI? I could not wait to jump into my very first case. I opened the file and found that my new client was charged with two murders, two aggravated assaults, and impersonating a peace officer. My confidence waned just a little. I felt like perhaps he forgot that I had been a lawyer literally 24 hours! That was Richard Haynes; that was the culture at Haynes and Fullenweider. He put you into the fire immediately and let you go to work. I had no earthly idea what to do, but of course, I couldn’t tell him that.

Richard had a wonderful sense of humor. In college at the University of Houston, Richard, my Dad, and a few others created a week-long musical and comedy review. The Frontier Fiesta still goes on today. My dad told me that during the shows Richard would walk out on the stage and interrupt the program. He would holler, “Script,” and from the rafters someone would lower a roll of toilet paper. Richard would tear off a few squares and start into some of the funniest standup comedy he had ever heard. They must have created something special, as Look magazine wrote up the Frontier Fiesta as the “best college week in the country,” and 60 years later it is still going on at the University of Houston.

I was in his office one day when his assistant brought in a lady who was in fear that the government was monitoring her from the top of the buildings around her apartment. The only thing that could fight the government was for Richard Haynes and Donn Fullenweider to represent her together. I sat there trying not to laugh as Richard baited this lady along. Eventually, with a big smile on his face, he said: “I think you’re right. Let’s go see Donn.”

We got up and walked across the hall; Richard was about to leave this lady in Donn Fullenwider’s office. Fortunately for Donn he was out of town that day.

A few years later, another lady brought in her clock radio that she was convinced the government was sending her messages through and controlling her mind. She asked Richard to take care of it for her. Richard told her he would be happy to help. He instructed her to leave the clock radio with him and to come back the following day. As soon as she left he took out a post-it note and wrote “de-bugged” on it and stuck the note to the front of clock radio. The next day when she came back, Richard gave her the clock radio and told her it had been de-bugged. She said, “Thank you, thank you… You saved me.” She left, consoled and happy.

By far the best story I have is one Richard told me himself. Richard, Mike Ramsey, David Berg, and a bunch of friends were out celebrating one night. David had to leave early and gave them his American Express card and told them they could charge until midnight. After David left, they charged a bunch on the card and got tanked up, drove to the airport, and were in the process of chartering a plane to Las Vegas. American Express had the good sense to call David before they approved the charge. Richard and Mike Ramsey were ready to head out on that one.

I said earlier that Richard gave me everything. He gave me a place to learn how to be a lawyer. He showed me how to cross-examine a witness. He showed every day how zealous representation can be practiced with integrity and professionalism.

Richard Haynes recommended me as one of the trial lawyers on the Oklahoma City (OKC) bombing. He gave me my career. Our friendship lasted 38 years. One of the greatest honors of my life is that he and Naomi asked me to assist them in their final years with their affairs, after Richard fell and broke his hip about four years ago. He needed to retire, and requested that I help with closing his firm. It allowed me to spend more time with my friends Naomi and Richard. More importantly, it gave me a chance to repay them for over three decades of friendship, mentorship, and for all the things they have done for me. It was a labor of love.

Richard Haynes’ life can best be boiled down to a simple phrase: a life of service. Richard twice suited up for his country, he twice defended the principles of freedom. During the height of WWII, at 17, he joined the Marines and fought at Iwo Jima. During the Korean War, he went back in and trained paratroopers. His life of service continued as a criminal lawyer. He spent the next 50 years committed to protecting the principals of freedom. He spent his life looking the government in the eye and saying prove it. Representing the criminally accused, those that the public believes are the worst society has to offer, is a daunting task. Richard believed as do I—if the Constitution cannot work for the worst we have, it will not work for anyone. Richard stood up for the core values of our country and believed that standing up for the freedoms embodied in our Bill of Rights is an absolute necessity. His life was a life dedicated to service to the public, service to our Constitution.

There was only one thing that Richard put above service to the constitution: his family. His lovely wife Naomi, to whom he was married for over 60 years, and his children. Richard had four kids: Tracey, who passed away in 2015, Ricki, Blake, and Slade, eight grandkids, and seven great-grandkids.

I remember, we had been in a murder trial for about eight weeks. My wife was due with our second child, and one night we were talking. I was complaining that I had not seen my family in weeks. Richard told me his greatest regret was that he had spent so much time away from his family when his kids were growing up. It was a rare moment of vulnerability. It was truth, it was honesty. It was a complete and deep expression of love for his family.

People say, and it is true, that Richard Haynes is the greatest trial lawyer this country has ever seen. To me, however, he is my simply dear friend.

 

Remembering Racehorse
Randy Schaffer

Richard “Racehorse” Haynes was the last of the old school criminal defense lawyers. The tools of his trade were a Montblanc pen, a legal pad, and a steel trap for a brain. He did not need computers, electronic gadgets, or gimmickry to convey his message to juries. All he needed was words.

What made Racehorse run? Was it that he grew up poor on the wrong side of the tracks? Was it that he felt that the powers-that-be did not accept him, so he needed to call attention to himself in any way possible? We will never know the answer. What we do know is that three generations of clients benefited from his burning desire to prove that he was the best lawyer in America.

Richard understood what makes a criminal defense lawyer great. He stood his ground and did not back down. He believed that it is better to die on your feet than to live on your knees. He was willing to march into hell for a heavenly cause. And he did all of it fearlessly, without regret.

I heard about what Richard could do long before I saw it myself. I did not have to be sold on him. His legend had sold itself. That was the way it was once, when word of mouth was gospel. That was the source of the joy I will always feel, the joy that I had the gift of practicing law with Richard when he was in his prime.

The last time I saw Richard at the courthouse, he was walking at a 45 degree angle to the ground, his briefcase dragging behind him and almost toppling him over. I thought that he had stayed too long, that he did not know when to quit. I failed to appreciate that for Richard, continuing to work when he could barely stand was his statement that he would not go gently into that good night, that he would rage, rage against the dying of the light.

So Richard leaves us, and an era goes with him. I choose to remember him not as he was at the end, but when he was healthy and stood proudly before juries, the most dangerous person in the courtroom—the way criminal defense lawyers used to be. And I will always remember that even when Richard Haynes was young, he was the best kind of old.

 

Clerking for Racehorse
Brian K. Walker

 I have to confess that when I started law school at the University of Houston in 2001, I had never heard of Richard “Racehorse” Haynes. However, Mr. Haynes spoke at my law school orientation, and I was immediately impressed by the charismatic 74-year-old lawyer. I was also amused when he stated, “When it is said that the law is a jealous mistress, that isn’t totally correct.” He paused, grinned, and then said, “The law is a nymphomaniac!”

Later that day, I spoke with my mom on the phone and told her about my first day in law school. When I told her that a lawyer named Racehorse Haynes had spoken to us during orientation, she told me about the Cullen Davis trials, how renowned Racehorse Haynes was, and what a great lawyer he was known to be.

A few months later, on a whim, I drove to Mr. Haynes’ office, and when told that he was not in the office yet, I asked his receptionist to tell him that “I wanted him to know that I wanted to work for him.” I left my cell phone number and was surprised when he personally called me back within the hour. A few days later, I sat in his office for a very informal interview, and Racehorse told me that if I decided to practice criminal defense law that I didn’t need to become “one of those lead ’em and plead ’em lawyers,” but instead, “someone who was willing to try a case if a case needed to be tried.”

While working for Racehorse, a lot of things impressed me about him. One—even though it was not uncommon for prospective clients to offer enormous fees for his services, or for outlandish things to happen, like one prominent attorney showing up in a mint-condition, all-original 1970s Corvette Stingray the attorney wanted to give Race as a token of his appreciation because he had helped him on a pro bono basis after the attorney had been charged with DWI—Racehorse was very humble. Beyond that, Race was frugal, practical, somewhat old-fashioned at times, and, yet, very gracious. He did not use a computer, he frequently smoked a pipe in his office, and he had photos, certificates, letters of admiration, and awards on the walls, from floor to ceiling. One photo that stands out in my mind, probably because I later became a JAG, is a headshot of the actor Jack Nicholson dressed up as Colonel Nathan Jessup in the 1992 classic “A Few Good Men.” There was a handwritten note from him, which said something along the lines of: “To Race, thank you for helping me with witness preparation. Jack.” I was impressed that Racehorse had helped Nicholson prepare for one of the most memorable scenes of his acting career, and yet, I never heard Racehorse say anything about it.

Also, I was impressed by Racehorse’s creativity and his desire to be friendly with everyone he encountered. For example, one of my duties was to seal his handwritten notes and mail them to prosecutors he had recently faced in trial, letting them know what a fine job they had done representing the State of Texas or, in federal cases, the U.S. government.

During my tenure as his law clerk, Race came into the area where I worked one day and said, “Doesn’t your Pappy live somewhere around Central Texas?”

After I explained that Dad lived in North Texas, not far from some areas of Central Texas, Race asked me if I thought Dad would want to drive to Waco and sit second chair in a jury trial with him. I told him I would ask Dad and felt that Dad would, almost certainly, welcome the opportunity to do so. Within a few weeks, my father, Scott Walker (who is now a sitting judge on the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals), drove to Waco and spent a week helping the legend do his thing. For many years after that, any time I would see Race, he would ask me how my “Pappy” was doing. I bet it would have tickled him to know that my “Pappy” is now a judge on the supreme criminal court in Texas. Unfortunately, I hadn’t spoken with Race for a while before he passed away, and I am not sure whether he was aware of Dad’s position on the Court.

I remember Race’s interesting stories, as well as his ability to stay committed to things he believed to be important. He was very health-conscious, for example. I remember eating lunch with him, Jack Rains, and a retired federal judge, and although the rest of us ordered cheeseburgers and fries, Race ate only fruit and a salad. This was very typical for Haynes, and I have to believe that it contributed to him living a very full 90 years.

I feel so privileged to have worked for a legend like Racehorse Haynes, and I doubt that there will ever be another attorney like him. After hearing him speak for the first time at my law school orientation, working for him during my 2L and 3L years—somehow, serendipitously—I got to hear Race when he was asked to be the keynote speaker for my law school graduation as well. My law school career began with Race and ended with Race . . . and I have to admit that one of my prized possessions is the photo of me in my graduation robe, standing in front of a smiling Racehorse, also in a black robe, after he unexpectedly stepped down from the platform at graduation, asked the Dean for permission, and then personally hooded me after I received my Juris Doctor. It was an honor I will never forget.