Judgement Days

It all started so innocently.

Oh don’t judge. You will probably start the story of your own judgement day with a very similar declaration.

I was 15 and on my white—wish it had been red, but JC Penney didn’t offer any color but white for its $64.95—10-speed bike that I bought with my parents’ help. That gorgeous North Dakota summer day I had pedaled to the North side of Fargo to visit my friend Lisa at her home on Meadowlark Lane.

We hung out for a while before parting ways when she and her sister Becky climbed into their Gremlin to drive to Shanley High School for some reason. Unbeknownst to the sisters, since Shanley was sort of on my way home to South Fargo, I plotted to surprise them by arriving at the school before them.

That’s how it came to be that on that fateful day in 1974, I was pedaling faster than a jingling Joy Boy Ice Cream Man on his way to get off work for the weekend. I was keen to keep up with and pass Lisa’s Gremlin to impress her, her sister, and anyone else watching me. As I pedaled furiously, I imagined many pairs of eyes were upon me, admiring and envying my skill, speed, and endurance. Along with my ultra-supportive imaginary audience, I wondered if, just with a little bit more effort, I could be the next Olympian cyclist—okay, perhaps the only Olympian ever—from Fargo.

As a teenager, didn’t you too think people were always admiring or in equal parts scorning you?

About a mile into the one-sided contest, I could see the sisters ahead of me, turning left on Broadway at 19th Avenue North. I stayed on 19th, figuring I would find a shortcut to get to 8th Street. Instead, within a few blocks I had to slam on the brakes when I ran into a dead end.

As I turned around, I spotted two police officers on bikes, approaching and motioning for me to stay put. Surprised and alarmed, I did as they indicated. One of the officers huffed in a slightly rapid breath, “Did you know you ran two stops signs in the past couple of blocks?”

“Ah, yes I did,” I answered honestly, retracing the race in my mind. Truth be more fully told, I ran a heck of a lot more than just two stop signs since I had begun racing with my friend’s Gremlin. But he hadn’t asked that question and I didn’t tell.

Just then a patrol car drove up and the officer inside the car looked over at us and grinned.

I’m not sure if the third officer thought it was funny that I was rattled from being pulled over or that I had just put his buddies through an impromptu, futuristic spin class by chasing me. The third possibility, and the one that I shared over the years as I retold the story, was that he was a part of the posse that captured me. “It took three cops—two on bikes and one in a squad car—to catch me…”

I’d say you be the judge based on my description of the scene, but the real judge comes later. About a week later.

The squad car officer gave a breezy half salute to his colleagues and drove away from the scene. The remaining pair wrote me a ticket on the spot and told me to appear in court the following week to pay the fine.

After tucking the ticket deep in my shorts pocket, like a humbled, freshly tagged endangered animal, I rode away from them at first slowly but then quickly shifted into high gear. As luck would have it however, there was a stop sign at the end of the block. Imagining that the police pedal pushers were still tailing me, I came to a full stop dropping both feet solidly to the ground. I muttered as I looked both ways, “A ticket for not stopping at a stop sign! Appear in court!”

I hopped back on my JC Penny special and pedaled toward home with two non-intersecting series of thoughts running through my mind. The first was—“Oh boy. What will Mom and Dad say? Will my record be a knock against me when I begin driving lessons next year?” And the second series of thoughts was—“Oh boy. I can’t wait to tell my friends about this! They’ll think I’m cool being the first among us to earn a traffic ticket!”

Less than a week later, my dad drove me to court. I do not remember him parking our car. I do not remember walking into the courthouse; I was probably scared and lost in my thoughts. I do remember however, that once inside, the Fargo court room looked different than I had anticipated. I thought I’d walk into a large New York cement building with a heavy wood-paneled room with high, high ceilings and big, big windows at the top to let the harsh light of justice shine down on me and the other wretched lawbreakers. You know—"Perry Mason” or “Miracle on 34th Street” court room kind of stuff.

Although I hazily recall a non-descript room, some details are even more murky.

For instance, did I wear a dress? Jeans? Shorts? I do not recall.

Did Dad wear his trademark plaid cotton shirt? Did he don a sports jacket or wear a windbreaker? I do not recall.

Did we stand when the judge entered the room or was he already working at his desk when we entered the room? I do not recall.

I distinctly recall however fighting my urge to fidget as I sat with Dad while we waited to have my crime reviewed. And my moments in front of the judge remain clear even after these 46 years.

When my case came up, Dad stood close to me on my left. My heart pounded. My hands sweated. I looked at the person before me who held my future in his hands. Fargo Municipal Court Judge Thomas A. Davies smiled at us. He had nice eyes, dare I say mischievous eyes, twinkled in harmony with his smile. It was as if he knew us.

And I had seen this man before. Okay sure. I remember seeing this judge and his family, as well as his father Ronald—a U.S. Federal Judge appointed by U.S. President Dwight D. Eisenhower—and his wife attend services in Nativity’s gymnasium that doubled as a church on Sundays. But this Judge Davies was also in photographs in my parent’s wedding album. Holy crap! In 1953, he was known as Tommy Davies and was an acolyte at my parents’ wedding.

Why was Tommy Davies—Judge Thomas Davies—in my parents’ wedding? Well, before Judge Davies was a judge, he was a kid whose family lived across the street from my mom’s family when she was growing up in Grand Forks, ND.

Notably, Tommy Davies’ father, Federal Judge Ronald Davies gained a national and historic spotlight in 1957. Three years before, the U.S. Supreme Court handed down a decision in Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka, ruling that it was unconstitutional to segregate public schools. Some Southern leaders, such as Arkansas Governor Orval Faubus, defied the law.

According to History.com, Daisy Bates decided to right that wrong. Bates had already shown her leadership chops as the only woman pilot in the Arkansas Civil Air Patrol during WWII, and later as an NAACP leader. In the summer of 1957, Bates organized nine courageous African American kids to enroll in the all-white Little Rock Central High School. On the first day of classes at Central High, Faubus called in the Arkansas National Guard to block the nine students from entering the school. While Eisenhower tried to persuade Faubus to let the “Little Rock Nine” enter, Davies began legal proceedings against Faubus. When Faubus didn’t back down, Davies ordered the Guard to stand down, and on September 23, the Little Rock Police Department escorted the students into the school through an angry mob of protesters. Because of the unrest, the kids didn’t stay. The next day, Eisenhower sent in the U.S. Army’s 101st Airborne Division, and put them in charge of the National Guard. Escorted by troops, the nine kids attended their first full day of classes.

With his landmark ruling on racial integration, Judge Ronald Davies will forever be a significant figure in helping our nation’s progress toward equality. My mom however, held fond personal memories of him as a man, husband, and father. In the early 1950s, Federal Judge Ronald Davies was my mom’s 5’1” tall neighbor in Grand Forks. Mom remembers him standing on his porch while his wife who was a few inches taller, stood on a lower step to give each other a kiss good-bye before he left for work. Mom’s memories included that the Davies kids were smart, fast, and amiable. She said, her own father, Bernerd Quigley, called Jeannie, the youngest Davies, “Short-cut Davies” because she often ran in through the front door and out the back door of the Quigley house as part of her track to the neighborhood grocery store near Riverside Park. On her run through the home, “Short-cut” paused only to say, “Hi Mr. Quigley” or to look at a comic book lying on the floor in her path.

But in 1974, I abruptly snapped out of my reverie when Municipal Court Judge Thomas A. Davies asked me a question in his courtroom.

“How do you plead to the June 17 charge for not halting on your bicycle at a stop sign before proceeding through an intersection?” he asked me.

I gulped and looked at my Dad. Dad smiled, raised his eyebrows about his black plastic-rimmed glasses, and motioned his head in the direction of the judge, as if to say, “Go on, you better tell the truth.”

“Guilty,” I squeaked, looking at the judge.

Judge Davies nodded and then began talking about the importance of adhering to road signs for my safety and the safety of others. I nodded solemnly.

He continued talking to me, sharing his philosophy and commitment to focus sentencing options on educating and helping citizens as well as the city itself.

“I’ve instituted a program to create options to settle citation fines,” he said. “This summer as part of the program, people may choose to work for a day for the City of Fargo in lieu of paying the fine for their violation.”

“Which do you choose?” Judge Davies asked. “Will you pay the $20 or will you work off your fine?”

Suddenly dry mouthed, again I looked to my Dad for an answer.

“Well I don’t have $20, do you?” Dad asked me.

I stared at my dad as only a 15-year-old can. Of course, I did not have 20 bucks, but I figured he did! It was clear by Dad’s smile—no let’s call it as I saw it—Pop’s smirk—that he didn’t plan on bailing out his eldest criminal daughter.

Like a person stretching one leg into a non-oared dinghy and using the other leg to push off from a sinking ship, I shot off one last glare to my dad, before turning my head to look back to the judge. Of course, in that momentary transition from Dad to judge, I softened my stare from steely to big, blinking, blue-eyed contrition.

“I’ll work for the city,” I squeaked.

“Good,” the judge said, partially revealing a smirk suspiciously similar to my father’s.

“You will help enhance the beauty of our great town,” Judge Davies continued. “I sentence you to one day of community service where you will spend 8 hours laying sod for the City of Fargo. My assistant will help you with the details of when and how you will fulfill your sentence. Next case.”

I was in a state of semi remorse and deep thoughts as my dad led me away from the judge’s bench:

Is this the beginning of my life as a chain ganger?

What does one wear to lay sod for a day?

Which friend do I call first?

Move over Sidney Poitier and Tony Curtis. There’s a new Defiant One in town!”

###

Before publishing, I sent my blog to Judge Tom Davies to ensure he was okay with my story. I used his feedback to improve the “Little Rock Nine” portion of the story.

Here is what he wrote to me:

…I really enjoyed it, but I’d clear up one part. Dad was in fact a U.S. Federal Judge appointed by Dwight D. Eisenhower.

The U.S. Supreme Court had ordered the integration of Little Rock Central High ‘forthwith’ and Dad was to interpret what the hell ‘forthwith’ meant, and in his own way he did—he said it meant ‘right now.’

Arkansas Governor Faubus didn’t like that and sent in the National Guard to, in effect, block the kids from entering the school. Eisenhower declared ‘bull shit” (my term not his) and nationalized the Guard, meaning they took their orders from Eisenhower, not Governor Faubus.

At that point, Eisenhower reinforced Dad’s order to integrate with the power of the now Federalized Arkansas National Guard—that must have made Faubus weep…”

…”And God bless your mom and dad. No one told me in advance you were coming to Court. I shed a little sweat cause you were the daughter of my first crush and her good-looking (and extremely muscle bound) husband.”

Oh Judge.

Learn more about:

· Judge Ronald N. Davies

· Judge Thomas A. Davies

And did I lay sod that day? Oh youbetchya...

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