Monday, Sep. 21, 1981
Before the Bench Behind Bars
By Bennett H. Beach
An Indiana convict has become a top jailhouse lawyer
As a youngster, Richard Lee Owen II loved to curl up with the discarded lawbooks he obtained when his grandfather took him along on a visit to the county courthouse. By the time he was 13, however, Owen was on the wrong side of the law, serving time at an Indiana reform school for stealing from purses during a church choir rehearsal. That was the start of a life of crime, including a bank robbery and an attempted murder, that has kept him in prison for 19 of his 35 years. But now Owen has rediscovered an old friend--the lawbook--and has become one of the nation's most accomplished self-taught lawyers behind bars.
Lined with books and cans of Campbell's soup, Owen's narrow cell in the maximum security prison in Michigan City, Ind., is the nerve center of a remarkable legal operation that runs almost nonstop. On a typical weekday, Owen rises at 7:30 and skips breakfast in order to prepare for the morning law courses he teaches to 48 prisoners. After lunch, he does research until 3, when he is available in his cell for consultation with inmate clients. Long evenings are devoted to more research and legal reading, aided by a Rolodex that lists 22,000 criminal cases.
Owen's single-minded devotion pays real dividends: $9,000 in annual income from attorneys who use him to do research. (He invests the money primarily in his personal 3,000-volume library.) Charging $7.50 an hour, Owen easily undercuts the $22 to $25 fees asked by law students and young lawyers, who are often hired for such chores. Yet Owen's output is anything but cut-rate. Indianapolis Lawyer J. Richard Kiefer calls the convict's research "incredibly good.'' Once Kiefer gave the same project to Owen and several law students; Owen was the first to uncover the three precedents that Kiefer needed. Says John Gubbins, senior staff attorney for the Seventh Circuit U.S. Court of Appeals in Chicago: "In the area of habeas corpus and prisoners' civil rights, he is probably as good as any lawyer practicing."
Owen occasionally has been allowed, at the judges' discretion, to appear in court on behalf of his prisoner clients. He usually shows up wearing handcuffs and a yellow leisure suit, his papers in a briefcase made by a fellow convict. In 1978, he won freedom for Elisar Yzaguirre, who was serving a life sentence for kidnaping, when he persuaded the judge to downgrade his client's offense to unlawful confinement. Such victories have helped Owen compile a record that many an appellate attorney would envy: in 25% of his cases, the clients have won at least some relief.
Although he can still appear in federal courts, Owen is no longer allowed to take part in state proceedings. A year ago, Indiana's chief justice concluded that since Owen is not a member of the bar (he has only a junior college degree, earned in prison), he could not represent others. Nevertheless, he is free to write briefs for fellow prisoners, which can be polished and signed by full-fledged lawyers. Last March Owen helped win a reversal of a murder conviction for Isadore Serrano. He argued that the case had posed a conflict of interest because Serrano's trial lawyer was also the attorney for a prosecution witness.
Owen claims that public defenders, who often represented his clients originally, have so many cases that none gets the attention it needs. Says he: "I have the time, and I take pride in what I do.
And I have more interest in prisoners' cases because I am on the other side of the system."
Owen has another outlet for his talents: a criminal law review, which he puts out six times a year. It has included, in addition to his own articles, contributions from the likes of Notre Dame Law Professor Eric Smithburn, an expert on criminal procedure, and flamboyant Attorney Melvin Belli. Some 200 subscribers pay $12.50 a year for the publication.
Owen's operation symbolizes the startling evolution of the status of jailhouse lawyers. As recently as 15 years ago, many penitentiaries did not even permit convicts to help other inmates draft documents questioning the legality of their confinement. Lawbooks and copies of the U.S. Constitution were often confiscated.
Then in 1969, the Supreme Court decision in Johnson vs. Avery gave jailhouse lawyers a right in certain cases to help inmates who lacked attorneys. Since then, courts have been whittling away restrictions imposed by wardens. Most states now provide prison law libraries and have adopted a new theory: convicts' efforts to win freedom by court petition, either for themselves or for others, serve as valuable outlets for frustration and anger.
As a result, the familiar stereotype of the fast-talking jailhouse lawyer is being replaced by cool quasi-professionals. Eddie Neal, now in a Maryland jail awaiting trial for attempted murder, is considered one of the nation's best because of his skilled handling of divorce, paternity and bankruptcy cases during earlier stints in New York facilities. James Potts, 34, a prisoner in Arlington, Va., specializes in inmates' rights and is the author of a popular handbook, The Prisoners' Self-Help Litigation Manual.
As for Owen, his main goal is to win the freedom of his most important client: himself. A federal court has ordered a hearing on his claim that his attempted murder conviction, stemming from the shooting of a policeman who had stopped him after suspicious behavior at a Ponderosa Steakhouse, is reversible because of jury misconduct. If that bid fails, Owen hopes to win clemency in 1982 or parole in 1983.
Owen has a violent past to live down, and some who know him well wonder if he can adjust to the world outside prison. But if he does get free, Owen intends to go to law school, and he may set up a research firm that could work on the cases of the men he left behind and whom he understands so well.--By Bennett H. Beach. Reported by Patricia Delany/South Bend, Ind.
With reporting by Patricia Delaney/South Bend, Ind.
This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so viewer discretion is required.