CBA Record May-June 2022

35 TH ANN I VERSARY OF THE CBA RECORD

sober speakers. At first, I thought they were faking – that it was all a programmed hell week, a kind of initiation. But soon I learned that the sober “program” people were almost all genuine and happy folk. For a few years I even gave speeches (“leads”) at meetings. I regaled the audi ence with true drinking stories of the humorous sort but dished lies about my victory over alcohol and the wonderful home life I was enjoying since I had “put the plug in the jug.” About 15 years later, an “old timer” who heard me give one of these talks told me he never heard such “bullshit” before or after. Then, having convinced myself that I was now aware of all the dangers of alco holism, I quit going to meetings and began to drink again. I vowed that this time my drinking would be gentlemanly. By 1982 I had re-established my reputation as a hard drinker among my partners. One of them came to see me one morning to ask if I would chair an afternoon meeting of most all of the partners of Mayer, Brown & Platt who were not on the management committee: the first event of what turned into the “Governance Revolution of 1982.” When I said “yes,” he warned me not to have any martinis at lunch. I’m sure that I had at least one, but I did Chair the meeting and the Revolution got launched. My drinking became worse than ever. Days that did not include court appear ances, meeting with clients or other events at which alcohol ingestion or exhalation would be inappropriate started with several Bloody Mary “eye open ers” right after a fierce struggle to shut the alarm clock up. A few mid-morning and mid-afternoon “pops” kept me feel ing okay until lunch and dinner cocktail time. After dinner I retreated to the great leather reclining chair in my den to “read and relax.” After sliding shut the den’s one stout oaken door, fueling the music machine with lugubriously tragic German symphonies or breast heaving Italian opera duets and positioning a quart of Black Label Jack Daniels, a glass, a bucket of ice and a book, I settled down. Some

times I forgot the book. If I did some reading, more often than not, I could not remember most of it. It wasn’t long before I was unconscious. I called it a “nap.” The family and others called it “passed out.” Sometimes, when I arose from my chair, I was in a “blackout.” I walked and talked, and God only knows what else I did, but I had no memory of it whatsoever ever after. It was during this return to drinking that the Deb contacted LAP. She and our children had meetings with a trained LAP intervenor. A day was picked for me to be invited to a Judge’s Chambers to meet with him, other LAP intervenors, family members and colleagues. The subject – my drinking. When the LAP lawyer called me, I responded that I appreciated deeply the opportunity to discuss my drinking with people who loved me, but I was just too busy to be able to afford the time. The Deb and our children then planned an early morning at home inter vention. I was to be confronted in the living room. Debbie and our children prepared to tell me about specific drink ing behavior which they had observed and how it had affected them. Unfortu nately, when this event occurred, I was in a “black-out.” I was told much later that I appeared to be okay. I listened to each person’s horror story starring me as if in a reasonably normal state despite suffering the usual a.m. hangover. At the conclu sion of the families’ speeches, I am told I said, “I am going to the office and will take this matter under advisement.” At a regular physical exam in the Summer of 1984, my doctor was kneading my mid-section when he cried out, “Oh my God, Pat.” I replied calmly, shrieking “What, what, what is it?” He said, “Your liver is about one third larger than it ought to be!” and told me it was vital that I cease drinking immediately. Could I quit right now? I responded as I had back in 1944 when asked if I drank beer, “Is the Pope a Catholic?” I then told the Deb and others that I had seen the light and taken the pledge: no more booze.

A few days later I got a call from a long-time member of a sobriety-oriented program which met in members’ homes. Some called him, “The Pope.” He invited me to lunch. When I arrived, he noted my pale and sickly complexion and the tremors and quivers of my hands punctu ated by an occasional body tic. He asked me whether I thought I was one of the “one in a million” who can drop alcohol without any help. I said, “I think so, yes.” He significantly ogled my coffee cup rat tling and trembling in the saucer I held in a shaky death grip. He still remembers that I smoked cigarettes and cigars furi ously. The ashtrays were filled with ashes and cigarette butts. There were three half-smoked cigars in the mess. He sug gested that joining his home group might be helpful. I agreed. After about four months of abstinence, I went back to my doctor. He groped my liver and told me it was now normal. Hurrah! I thought. One more chance to show the world I can drink like a normal person! It did not work. I became a “secret” drinker of the unmistakably alcoholic kind. I kept stashes of bourbon and vodka in my office (for clients who might need a snort) in my bedroom dirty clothes hamper (if I could not sleep) and in my attaché case (for traveling emergencies). I began commuting to work by car – alone. The trip home provided privacy for pre-prandial boozing. My drinking was a smoothly trimmed coke can. The ice cubes came from the office. I sometimes genially toasted traffic police cars with my coke can of vodka. I always welcomed traffic jams. Persistent lying about my drinking pro duced continuous fear and guilt. Any day, any moment, could be the occasion of exposure and disgrace. Loss of wife, chil dren, job and profession seemed immi nent. In late May of 1985, I represented the defendant in a state court jury case. I was assisted by a mature associate. The client representative during the trial was

CBA RECORD 21