Patrick Hardy: -- For The Defense

IN AUBURN, AN AFRICAN-AMERICAN PUBLIC DEFENDER DEFENDS A WHITE SEPARATIST. THE CASE RAISES QUESTIONS: IS THE LAWYER APPEALING FOR EQUAL JUSTICE, OR MISPLACING HIS PRINCIPLES? IS THIS ENLIGHTENED THINKING, OR A BAD JOKE? -----------------------------------------------------------------

As a public defender in the city of Auburn, Patrick Hardy fights for the rights of prowlers, drunks and brawlers - no matter their views. Like everyone else, they deserve justice, too.

When the affable lawyer chose to defend George Kelley Jr. on a misdemeanor earlier this month, media coverage portrayed an odd pairing: an African-American lawyer representing a white nationalist, who was charged in a skirmish outside of a Ku Klux Klan induction ceremony this summer when he clashed with protesters.

Those who know Hardy were not surprised to hear he had accepted the case - without blinking. "Why did I defend him? I've asked myself that same question," said Hardy, one of the city's two public defenders, as he sat in his burgundy leather office chair, the scales of justice balanced on his bookcase.

"I just decided there's a Constitution, and we're all Americans, our rights are protected. If George Kelley can't get his rights protected, then I may not get mine protected, either. We have freedom of beliefs, and ideas in this country. That's part of being an American. It would be hypocritical of me not to represent him because he has different beliefs than I do."

Such decisions illustrate the complex role of race when upholding the rights of a fringe ideology against mainstream beliefs. Defense lawyers represent clients whose crimes often violate their own virtues, but rarely do they advocate for those who object to their own existence in society. Belief in a "blind justice wearing a colorless robe" compelled the 37-year-old Hardy to battle for a man tied to a group that discriminates against him.

"I hope he understands there are more than enough white attorneys who would have taken up the case," said U. Lawrence Boze, president of the 17,000-member National Bar Association, a predominantly black group of lawyers. "They'll use him as an example. `Here's an African American representing a separatist.' " He wished Hardy had reconsidered his involvement. "There are too many people alleging the country is colorblind, but we're not at that point. Race still matters in this country."

Which raises the questions: Was Hardy appealing for equal justice, or misplacing his principles? Can a person separate his job from his beliefs, or do those beliefs define how a person does his job? Was Hardy's move one of genuine concern, or a ploy for publicity? Is this enlightened thinking, or a bad joke?

`Had best of both worlds'

Patrick Charles Hardy never dreamed of becoming a lawyer. Growing up in Steilacoom, near Fort Lewis, he was close to his French mother and African-American father, who instilled in him a strong sense of values and tolerance for others. Race was not much of an issue. "I had the best of both worlds," Hardy said.

Gradie Hardy shielded his own memories of poverty and segregation from his only son. Young Patrick wanted to emulate his father, who retired after 29 years as a military police staff sergeant. Straight out of high school, Patrick served two stints in the U.S. Air Force's security unit - as a staff sergeant just like Dad - and learned to speak fluent French, Portuguese and Italian.

His belief in the U.S. legal system was honed overseas, and refined as a law-school student. "One of the strongest principles I believe in and support is the concept of `innocent until proven guilty.' In many countries that's not the circumstance. Our system has its problems, but over the years I've come to ultimately respect it, with all of its faults, and I keep trying to do what I can to make it work."

Graduating from Central Washington University in 1989 with a degree in criminal justice, Hardy entered what is now known as Seattle University's Law School, believing another credential would expand his career options. Instead, he discovered what has become obvious to others: his "gift" is practicing law.

Standing 6 feet 3 inches and weighing about 360 pounds, Hardy would be the National Football League's biggest man. His sheer size can intimidate clients or jurors. Convincing people, then, that he is a gentle Goliath has become no small measure of his success.

Persistent, without being forceful, the soft-spoken baritone is sometimes asked by court justices to raise his voice. He is the opposite of the coifed, image-conscious barrister set. Looking people in the eye, getting his point across with everyday words, even slang, Hardy comes across as "genuine" to working-class jurors. With his necktie loosened and a brow that needs frequent mopping, he's disheveled but earthy.

Once, before a judge walked into the courtroom, Hardy saw a female lawyer leave her black leather gloves on the table. Picking one up, he struggled to squeeze his hand inside. "It doesn't fit! It doesn't fit!" he yelled, mimicking O.J.'s glee, to the courtroom's delight.

Hardy juggles about 15 cases each week, 60 a month, 700 a year. In dealing with so many lives on the fringe, overlooking someone would be easy. Would anybody notice? Would anybody care, for that matter? But that's not Hardy's style. He handles court cases the way his parents taught him to deal with people: as individuals.

"He looked at every person who came in, not as a file to be disposed of, but as an individual entitled to the best legal defense," said Duncan Bonjorni, a former judge who served in Auburn from 1993 to 1996 and who now is in private practice. "From a judge's standpoint, you want to feel people in court are properly represented, and with someone like Patrick, there was never a doubt. They got as good representation as anyone in the courtroom, and better than some who were paying good money for independent counsel."

Extra efforts

Not long ago, one of Hardy's clients slept on the floor in an overcrowded jail. Mentally ill, the client couldn't care for himself. He didn't smell good, he didn't look good. He had a long list of misdemeanors. Hardy could have settled and the guy would have been back on the streets.

Instead, Hardy found the man a long-term alcohol treatment program, arranged for clothing and transportation, even gave the guy a few bucks so he wouldn't be broke.

Said Hardy, "I see what I do as working with people. Part of my job is representing people, and part of my job is counseling. I try to help any way I can, though some things are beyond my ability. I'd be less of an attorney, and less of a person, if I didn't seize that opportunity to help people outside the legal system when it comes up. Nothing is more rewarding than helping someone get back on track. The majority of what we call crimes are mistakes, bad decisions. Most do it once, and they are not in trouble again. Some don't get the message, and come back four or five times. But the majority get the message."

That approach impresses those with whom he works.

"I think about the ideal lawyers of the world, this is the person he is," said Darrell Phillipson, a judge in Auburn and Kent for 14 years, who decided the Kelley case. "He's a great advocate for clients, avoids conflict and confrontation, but won't budge on what he believes is right. It doesn't matter if they are black, white, purple or orange. It's not an issue for him.

"I like having Patrick in the courtroom because many defendants are people of color, and here in Auburn they tend to be at the lower end of the socioeconomic scale," Phillipson added. "I believe Patrick gives them a sense that because you're black, you don't have to be on the bottom, that people can achieve and be good at what they do. He's one of the first people they've dealt with who's a real success."

Along came the Klan

On June 15, at American Legion Post No. 78 in Auburn, a secret meeting of the Ku Klux Klan was planned. George Kelley Jr., a 29-year-old construction worker in Kent, drove there, one of about 15 young men, some draped in confederate flags and believing in white supremacy, coming to hear an "imperial wizard" of the American Klan Knights from California.

The meeting was not as quiet as organizers thought, however. Guerry Hoddersen, who heads United Front Against Fascism, a Seattle-based coalition of anti-harassment groups, showed up with 30 protesters of her own. Tempers flared.

When Mary Ann Curtis, a freelance photographer, snapped Kelley's picture, he ripped the Minolta Freedom Zoom 105 camera out of her hand and bashed it against a wall. She pressed charges, and demanded Kelley enroll in a race-relations course. "He smashed a camera," Curtis said, "but next time he could smash someone's head."

By the following Monday morning, Hardy already had watched televised reports on the incident. So had Darcy Donovan, Auburn's other public defender. Usually, the two lawyers randomly split the workload as cases are filed. But several weeks later when the Kelley file landed on her desk, Donovan refused.

"I was really upset," said Donovan, a white female, who graduated two years ago from law school. She approached Timothy Jenkins, head of the firm where she and Hardy work.

"I said, `I don't want this case. I have problems with what the Klan stands for.' It challenged me further as an attorney than I could go at this point. It would have conflicted with my own moral convictions. It never occurred to me to give it to Patrick, because, obviously, Patrick is black, and so I thought Kelley would need a white attorney, no doubt in my mind."

Jenkins knew Hardy as well as anyone. As the former prosecutor of Federal Way, he hired Hardy as an intern, liking the student's disposition, maturity and desire not to browbeat others. When Jenkins applied for a leave of absence, he recommended his prized recruit assume part of the duties.

After Hardy moved on to the Pierce County prosecutor's staff, Jenkins kept in touch, and upon opening his practice in 1993, knew where to find his first hire. The pair clicked, and roomed together for several months so Jenkins could avoid a two-hour commute home to Burlington, Skagit County.

So, after Donovan had turned down the case, and Hardy and Jenkins huddled in his office, Jenkins believed the man to whom he had offered a partnership would accept this client. He was right. "Patrick said without hesitation, `No problem, I'll do this. It's like any other case.' "

Hardy felt he could make a statement. That he could uphold the highest principles of justice, that everyone should be considered equal under law, and that beliefs and race are irrelevant to legal representation.

"I can't deny I'm a black person, nor do I want to. For me, to have race as an issue, there needs to be a relevant reason for that to come up. With George Kelley, I was a lawyer, he was a defendant. The fact that I'm black, he's white, so what? The fact that he believes in separatism and I don't. . . there was no relevance whatsoever.

"Michael Jackson said in one of his songs, `I won't live my life being a color.' That has relevance for me. I don't think it means you have to not recognize racism as a fact of life. It's there.

"But why do I have to be looked at as a black attorney? Why not as an American, an attorney and then as a black man? You can't know who a person is unless you get to know that person. Underneath all those labels is Patrick Hardy, and he's all of those things."

In Kelley's mind, the cops and the city were out to get him, ready to make a scapegoat of him for his beliefs. The charges were a conspiracy, he believed, and he was frightened of the power others had.

When his case was assigned to Jenkins' law firm, Kelley felt he could accept a black attorney only if that attorney shared his belief that a better alternative to integration is to have the races living in separate societies. Kelley admired Marcus Garvey, an African American who advocated a "Back to Africa" movement, and Nation of Islam leader Louis Farrakhan, because he said those leaders want a homeland for their people, as he does for whites. No blacks, whom he regarded with contempt if they accepted "race mixing" and diminishing racial purity, could defend his rights properly unless they shared that view.

Hardy expected Kelley's phone call. "He voiced his concerns to me," Hardy said, "and I told him I didn't have a problem representing him."

Kelley skipped their first appointment. A few days later, explaining he felt uneasy with Hardy's politics and with the attorney's ability to defend him, Kelley said he was hiring another counselor. Hardy maintained he could sever his personal beliefs from professional ones. Twenty minutes later, Kelley changed his mind. Hardy would be his lawyer.

In early September, they met at the courthouse for the first time. They shook hands. Ducking into an empty jury room, Hardy reassured Kelley his views were not a barrier to him. Minutes later as the hearing began, Hardy, realizing he had soothed his client's fears and won some measure of trust, asked Judge Phillipson for more time on the case. Reluctantly, the judge agreed.

His trial was moved to Oct. 1.

Kelley trusted his instinctive feeling that he could depend on Hardy. "I like Patrick, even though he's black. I felt he answered me honestly. But I think it was more intuition, 75 percent, than what he said, 25 percent. After meeting Patrick, my feelings were more positive. I showed Patrick respect."

Hardy said, "He (Kelley) came to his views based on life experiences, reading history and observations. He understood why he believed what he believed. I didn't attack him, or try to change his mind. I told him I was there to represent him as an American. I wasn't there to change him, and he said, `That's fine with me.' "

Hardy's decision was a surprise to Darrell Edmonds, Hardy's current roommate and former law school classmate.

"I thought, `Oh wow, what's he doing?"

Edmonds believes few people of color would consider handling a case such as Kelley's. And, in years past, he may have faulted someone black for defending such rights - but not now. "If in your heart and mind you think a person needs representation, but you don't agree with them philosophically, that doesn't have to be a conflict. Those are two separate things. When you think about it, this is what he's supposed to be doing."

The trial

Wearing a black T-shirt and black jeans strapped by black suspenders, Kelley marched into Auburn Municipal Court on his trial date with Hardy, his defender, beside him.

When the victim, Curtis, told Judge Phillipson that Kelley ripped the camera out of her hands and smashed it, Hardy countered that his client reacted out of self-defense. Kelley said he was afraid of how his photo would be used. The judge didn't buy it. On Hardy's advice, Kelley used an Alford plea, meaning he did not admit guilt, but conceded prosecutors likely had enough evidence to convict him in a trial.

The judge ordered Kelley to pay a $200 fine and reimburse Curtis $317 for her camera. Although Curtis wanted Kelley enrolled in a race-relations course, Hardy, in effect, persuaded the court his client didn't need it. "He's relating with me," Hardy said. "I don't feel it's necessary. It won't resolve anything."

Later, Curtis said her message was heard: that Kelley's actions were not above the law, and hoped it would curb his behavior. While everyone has a right to a lawyer, "I never like to see people bend over backwards to help someone with a fascist ideology," she said of Hardy. "I advocate freedom of speech, and the right to demonstrate, but I wouldn't go out of my way for George Kelley to have his rights. It doesn't help anyone in the community to espouse hatred of immigrants, women or people of color."

Kelley smirked as he walked out of the courtroom and into the parking lot. "Hell, I'd do it again, man," he said.

Opening the door to his black Ford pickup, he complained that no one from the Klan, or other separatists, backed him.

"Not one word of support," he said as he drove away, feeling deserted, but showing no sign of abandoning the cause. Shortly before his case was settled, however, Kelley said he'd seen a "real difference with (Hardy)," and said he would attempt to persuade others to stop hating people of color so passionately. But, "I will continue to be a white nationalist."

Hardy, standing in the doorway, watched his client leave the courtroom. "I don't know if George feels there's a lesson to be learned from this. He feels he's right, and there were wrongs done to him." Does Hardy feel his effort was a waste of time? "I'll never regret taking the case," he said later, "no matter what."

Hardy insists he never believed Kelley's views might be altered by their relationship. "His problem was with a broken camera, and he needed legal help. He didn't come to me because he was confused about his beliefs and views. I knew where George was at, and I knew where I was at. I was not about to change his mind.

"Do I wish he'd understand that separatism is not the answer, is not what the law says and is not my personal belief for solving the problems of the world?" He shrugged his shoulders. "Who says I'm right?"

Wading through the standing-room crowd in the courtroom, Hardy faced several more people waiting for his counsel. He was determined to give them the best effort he had, even though he may have found their behavior, and quite possibly their views, contradictory to his own.

"I think we all understand when it's a personal choice. It's not one I would make, but I understand someone who believes in the system," said Marcella Fleming, a Boeing lawyer and president of the Loren Miller Bar Association, the local affiliate of an international association of black lawyers.

"It's not a situation where I hear him referred to as an Uncle Tom. In fact, no one has mentioned it. This is simply a guy who believes in the system, and more power to him. You tend to have respect for a person who does that."