Defense That Never Rested Sadly Does

My first voicemail message Friday was from Public Defender Carl Holmes. Ron Butler had died during the night, he said.

Suddenly all those things I was worried about getting done on Friday didn’t seem to matter. We’d just lost one of our giants.

Butler had been public defender during all my years covering criminal courts for this newspaper. Reporters need to get close to news sources for information, but not so close we can’t be objective in

writing about them. We court beat writers were in awe of him.

It was Butler who once had defiantly stood up to Sheriff Brad Gates in a major public showdown. It was Butler who, until he stepped down last year, refused the Board of Supervisors’ request that he serve at its pleasure, like other department heads. Butler called it a conflict of interest, and it cost him thousands in salary raises. Principle over money wasn’t something we saw too often.

I first met Butler the day he was appointed by the county supervisors to replace the late Frank Williams as public defender in 1981. Butler was one of Williams’ main deputies up for the job, but I learned later Butler was the popular choice among the lawyers in the office.

I was new to the county and unaware at the time that Butler had already gained legendary status among his peers. Four years earlier, he had won an acquittal by reason of insanity for Charles Allaway, who had gone berserk and killed seven people at Cal State Fullerton.

Not long after Butler became public defender, Gates’ deputies had chased down Charles Edwards, now on death row, to a Maryland address. Edwards had shot two 10-year-old girls in the Cleveland National Forest, killing one of them.

The public defender’s office had not been assigned to represent Edwards; no one had. But Butler, knowing his office would be getting the case, sent someone to Maryland to get Edwards to stop talking to law enforcement.

Gates, close to a confession from Edwards up to then, complained loudly to the supervisors. But a blue-ribbon panel the supervisors appointed to look into it praised Butler lavishly for his courage in doing his duty.

Butler’s most impressive quality was finding something good in every defendant, even the lowest scoundrel. In a rare case Butler handled himself after becoming an administrator, his client needed a new pair of shoes for his court appearance. An assistant grumbled that it wasn’t his job to take a defendant his shoes. Butler said, “I’ll take them,” and walked across the street to the courthouse with those shoes against his chest.

Last March, when Butler officially retired from the office, my wife and I had the chance to be among more than 500 people who attended a tribute to him at the Disneyland Hotel. Guests included defense lawyers, prosecutors, some 50 judges and two county supervisors. Former Butler colleagues scattered around the state had flown in for the event.

Butler, despite his debilitating struggle with cancer, was in rare form. He’d seen a handful of buses outside the hotel and noted for the audience that “for a minute I thought you had rounded up some of my former clients for the occasion.”

Butler’s cancer returned a few weeks later, and his last days were difficult. He died early Friday morning, far too young at 63.

There’s no doubt that something, somewhere within this county’s legal sphere, will some day be named the Ronald Y. Butler building or room or library. And years from now, Carl Holmes, Butler’s closest confidant, will still be telling new deputies, “You should have seen Ron Butler in the courtroom. He was the master.”

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Jerry Hicks’ column appears Monday, Thursday and Saturday. Readers may reach Hicks by calling (714) 966-7823 or by fax to (714) 966-7711, or e-mail to jerry.hicks@latimes.com

* OBITUARY: Even prosecutors lauded Butler. B4