Defense Lawyers’ Friendship Is Tried and True

They were young lawyers whose friendship became a major part of their lives.

An inherent bond was the general public disdain for the jobs they performed as public defenders. But beyond that, they shared a passionate conviction: that there is human dignity in all of us--even in the lowliest criminals they sometimes had to defend.

It was 28 years ago that Carl Holmes joined the Orange County public defender’s office. Ron Butler was already a star among his peers.

Holmes said they liked each other immediately: “Ron was handling the most difficult cases in the office. All of us were interested in just about anything he had to say.”

Butler said Holmes stood out among the new lawyers: “I knew right away Carl was a tremendous talent.”

But Holmes joked: “He was winning cases and I wasn’t.”

They shared seminars, strategy sessions and courtrooms, watering holes and personal highs and lows. Both began to rise in management.

In 1982, Butler was elevated by the county supervisors to the top spot as public defender. Not long after that, he made Holmes his chief deputy.

Their work habits complemented each other. Holmes cared about detail, day-to-day office management. Butler’s interests were philosophical--high standards for his lawyers, and himself, to live by.

The heat came early on. Sheriff Brad Gates soon challenged Butler’s authority in a difficult death penalty case. Butler not only won a showdown with Gates following a blue-ribbon commission’s report, he gained even greater respect from his troops--he’d go to the trenches for them.

There were budget battles and the perennial problem of the office lawyers being overwhelmed with cases. It’s the kind of job, Butler said, where “the only kudos come from your associates.” Sometimes only Butler and Holmes could understand what the other was going through. Holmes said they developed a “hostage mentality, our lives intimately intertwined” as they faced crisis after crisis.

They grew so close, Holmes said he cannot remember a time that they had a disagreement.

Then, a few years ago, Butler’s health began to fail. First there was open-heart surgery. And then Butler’s throat cancer last year.

So one day they sat down and discussed the future of the office they both dearly loved. Neither had ever wanted to be anything but a public defender.

“I knew I had a difficult time ahead of me,” Butler, 63, said. “But I also felt good about leaving the office with Carl.”

So by mutual agreement, and with a nod from the county supervisors, they traded jobs. Holmes, 56, quietly became the public defender just over a year ago. Butler, on paper, became his chief deputy, though much of his time was spent recovering from cancer treatments.

One of Holmes’ tasks during all this was to correct what he saw as a past error by the county concerning Butler.

Most county department heads sign a waiver agreeing to serve at the pleasure of the Board of Supervisors. Butler has always refused, convinced it would be a conflict of interest. It cost him thousands in salary. Holmes helped get the current supervisors to make an adjustment to boost Butler’s salary to a more respectable level.

Holmes and others of the public defender’s staff also led a county employee drive to give up more than 500 hours of vacation time to Butler--to give him the time he needed to fight his cancer.

So officially, the public defender’s office changed leaders. But then again, it really hadn’t. Holmes didn’t move into his friend’s office. And he insisted that Butler be restored as public defender if the time came that his health would permit his return full-time.

This past weekend, however, the torch was finally passed.

More than 500 people, including 50 judges and three past and present county supervisors, attended the Ronald Y. Butler retirement dinner at the Disney Pacific Hotel on Saturday night. Amid the tributes and Butler’s own gracious remarks about his colleagues, this note from the guest of honor stood out: “Carl became the public defender, which is what I always wanted.”

One joke Butler told: “This is not really a retirement dinner. Carl just transferred me to juvenile [division].”

The laughter that filled the cavernous ballroom was uproarious and affectionate. You had to know the bond between Butler and Holmes to fully appreciate that joke. And the people in that room did.

Getting KOd: How appropriate that Presiding Superior Court Judge Kathleen E. O’Leary--”KO” to close friends--led the Butler tribute that night.

In an earlier career stint as a deputy public defender, O’Leary said, Butler was her supervisor--and her hero.

She quoted others. From former district attorney (and now a Superior Court judge) Cecil Hicks: “Ron is totally unflappable. In fact, I don’t think you can flap him.”

From Superior Court Judge Francisco P. Briseno: “Ron doesn’t just think about his cases; he feels his cases.”

From leading criminal attorney John D. Barnett: “Ron inspired a generation of lawyers to enjoy a jury trial--the uglier the better.”

And O’Leary herself: “Ron taught me that everybody deserves to be treated like a human being. . . . Ron, this night was more for us than for you. We needed it, to thank you.”

Wrap-Up: Holmes stayed out of his friend’s spotlight. But in brief remarks, he called Butler “the finest human being I have ever known.” I asked him on Monday morning what he was thinking during the standing ovation for Butler. Holmes said:

“Judge Dave Carter mentioned to me later that only the public defender’s office could put on such a love fest. And that’s what it was. When we were applauding Ron, I was thinking that not only were people showing respect for him, but for the role of the public defender.”

That’s how Butler saw it too. It’s a respect these two friends helped build together.

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