A Judge Under Siege

Public officials are natural targets of criticism, but few confront such threats and abuse as Judge Robert R. Merhige, who has been pressing the integration of Richmond schools. TIME Correspondent Arthur White visited the Merhige home last week and reported:

A FEW hours after announcing his school decision, Judge Merhige picked up the telephone. "You'll be a dead man by midnight," snarled a man's voice. The experience has become almost routine; there have been bomb threats too. At a restaurant recently, an unknown woman approached Merhige and his family and hissed, "You son of a bitch."

The judge's beautiful 13-room Georgian brick home on seven acres in Henrico County resembles a fortress. A federal marshal began living there in 1970, when Merhige ordered crosstown busing for Richmond; nine more marshals are now assigned to the family. The building, lawn and approaches are lit by flood lamps, and armed guards with walkie-talkies patrol constantly.

One of the marshals accompanies Mrs. Merhige when she goes shopping. Another accompanies Son Mark, 11, to and from his private school. Two more drive the judge to his office, staying with him at all times, in the courtroom, in chambers, even in the bathroom.

A year ago, a marshal taught the judge to place a small pebble on his car hood at night; if it had not been knocked off by morning, he could be reasonably certain that no bomb had been wired to the ignition. Merhige later abandoned the pebble routine (marshals now make a careful inspection), but he occasionally showed his sense of humor by placing pebbles or even large stones on the hood of his law clerk's auto.

Despite the death threats, the Merhiges remain defiant. "We have names for all the callers," says Shirl Merhige with a nervous smile. "The breathers, the tickers (to simulate a time bomb) and the mean ones." Says Merhige: "I refuse to take my number out of the phone book. I don't think judges should be intimidated in any way." Merhige carries a .38-cal. pistol in his car and has received target-shooting instructions from the FBI, but he minimizes the gun's importance: "An awful lot of judges carry them nowadays."

Born in Brooklyn and raised on Long Island, Merhige, now 52, was a scrappy 5 ft. 8 in. when he won a basketball scholarship to High Point (N.C.) College. He later worked his way through the University of Richmond Law School. After flying 34 missions on a B-17 during World War II, he returned to Richmond to earn a wide reputation as a skilled trial attorney. "This is a fine city," he says. "It's been good to me. I came here with less than $50 in my pocket. I'm a New Yorker by a set of geographical circumstances, but I'm a Virginian by choice. I love it." When nominated for a federal judgeship in 1967, Merhige was endorsed by liberals and conservatives alike. In Merhige's view, his controversial rulings were virtually dictated by the U.S. Constitution and the Supreme Court. "I don't invent anything. I just follow the law," he says.

As the floodlights gleamed outside the living room, and the dim figures of federal marshals could be seen patrolling in the pouring rain, the judge related how he had sent his wife and son to Europe last summer to avoid the turmoil. "We considered sending Mark to school in England this year but decided against it. We've got to live in our own country." Shirl Merhige added resignedly: "We live with fear all the time. But our country is changing, and this will pass."

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