Kevorkian’s Lawyer Called a Bold, Brash Bully : Right to Die: Suicide doctor says he might be in jail without his forceful attorney. Geoffrey Fieger says he’s a sensitive soul despite his image, adding, ‘I like cats.’

A suicide machine sits like a trophy in Geoffrey Fieger’s office, along with a wall of photos of him and his star client, Dr. Jack Kevorkian.

The 42-year-old lawyer used to take the machine on speaking engagements to show how Kevorkian helped people die. Then he decided that was too sensational.

Too sensational?

For a guy who pinned a red clown nose on a picture of a Kevorkian prosecutor during a news conference?

For a guy who threatened to beat Operation Rescue “terrorists” with a baseball bat if they came near him?

“Sensational might be my style,” Fieger said in his cluttered Southfield office. “But I do well enough with my vocal chords.”

This irreverent, take-no-prisoners style has drawn criticism from some in the legal community and from anti-Kevorkian activists. They call him manipulative, overbearing, vulgar, a bully and a publicity-monger.

His admirers call him forceful, effective and articulate.

His most famous client calls him brilliant.

“I might very well have been in jail without his pugnacity, his (obstinacy),” said Kevorkian.

“If it’s not a forceful man fighting, they very well could bulldoze over you and put me in jail. You can’t bulldoze over Fieger, everyone knows that.”

Kevorkian first came to Fieger’s office in 1990, two months after helping a 54-year-old Portland, Ore., woman with Alzheimer’s disease take her life. She pressed a button on a machine that injected lethal drugs into her system.

Kevorkian had read about Fieger’s 1989 legal battle with William Beaumont Hospital in Royal Oak, Mich. The hospital owed a Fieger client $426,000, the balance of a malpractice award; Fieger showed up at the hospital’s administrative offices and started removing furniture until the hospital paid.

Now he is Kevorkian’s defender, crusader and mouthpiece. Charges were filed in three of the 15 Kevorkian-aided deaths, and Fieger won dismissals of all three.

When Kevorkian was arrested earlier this spring after witnessing a 16th suicide--his first since Michigan’s law against assisted suicide took effect--he was not charged, and was released into Fieger’s custody.

“There’s no way they can find any jury that will convict him. It’s not a crime to be present when someone commits suicide,” Fieger said.

“If the prosecutor wants to have a three-ring circus in Recorder’s Court while I kick their butts around the block, I’m ready.”

Days later, in response to a suit filed by the Michigan American Civil Liberties Union, a judge struck down the law.

Fieger won’t say whether Kevorkian is paying him. But he did say that “defending Kevorkian has cost me money. . . . The recompense I’m getting is having a meaningful impact on society on a very important issue.”

Besides, Fieger said, Kevorkian has “made me more famous. Everybody knows who I am.”

A specialist in personal injury and medical malpractice cases, Fieger said he has won 20 jury verdicts in excess of $1 million. His one-page biography says he has no hobbies “other than kicking the bejesus out of opponents in court.”

“He may look like he’s out of control but he’s not,” Kevorkian said. “I was like everybody at first, I didn’t see his full spectrum of behavior and his personal reactions and attitudes. As these unfolded, I learned never to second-guess him.”

Macomb County Prosecutor Carl Marlinga said he can’t help but like Fieger, despite his antics: “He’s bold. He’s brash. He gets right into the opponent’s face. I think he’s an effective lawyer.”

But Lynwood E. Noah, a Washtenaw County prosecutor, called Fieger a “pompous ass” and “the most zealous person I’ve ever encountered.”

He takes satisfaction from his successful prosecution of Fieger for drunken driving in 1987, and especially from “the booking picture of Geoffrey Nels Fieger when he was slobbering drunk.”

Fieger grew up the son of Harvard-educated parents who constantly challenged him to debate.

“They were the loudest family in the world. Everything was at maximum decibels,” said Roger Craig, a former law partner of Fieger’s father, Bernard Fieger.

Young Fieger went off to study drama at the University of Michigan and then on to law school. His little brother, Doug, was a member of The Knack (of “My Sharona” fame).

Doug Fieger remembers when he and his older brother played in a band called “The Flying Ernies.” The pre-teens played the guitar at junior high school functions and Geoffrey wailed his favorite, “Twist and Shout.”

“Geoffrey was very determined--always. Our family is very much achievers. We were given that ethic by our parents,” Doug Fieger said. “He was pretty sure of himself all the time, or at least he acted as if he was, and I think he was.”

“Geoffrey wanted to be a rock star, but his dad insisted he be a lawyer. So now he’s still performing--on a big stage,” said Bloomfield Hills lawyer Constance Cumbey, who considered Fieger’s late father a legal mentor. She now represents one of Kevorkian’s foes.

Fieger is a big man--6-foot-2, 225 pounds. He is married, with no children. He considers himself a soulful guy.

“I think I’m a nice person. I’m sensitive--I like cats,” said Fieger, his office cluttered with ceramic kittens, cats and lions.

But his sensitivity, critics say, is not apparent. They contend that the abrasiveness Fieger and Kevorkian have in common hurts their cause.

“Those so-called critics. I laugh,” Fieger retorted. “Some people, I think, are jealous. Others are just liars and they don’t support Kevorkian and are mad I can focus a spotlight on this issue.

“By the way, this is just me. If someone doesn’t like me, that’s just tough.”