HOUSE_OVERSIGHT_017136.jpg

4.2.12 WC: 191694 David Ben Gurion.” The next day they were on a plane to Israel, and that afternoon Kronheim was standing on the balcony of the Prime Minister’s house being photographed. “Ok, here’s the final challenge: maybe among Jews and Americans, you’re famous, but you'll never get a picture with the Pope.” Next day, they’re off to Rome, and by afternoon, Kronheim is standing on the balcony of St. Peters next to the Holy Father. A nun standing in the crowd turns to the skeptical friend and asks, “Who’s that guy standing next to Kronheim?” Presidents and Prime Ministers come and go. So do Popes. But not Milton Kronheim, who was a fixture of Washington life for more than 60 years. I was privileged to participate in many of their lunches—mostly as a quiet observer—during my clerkship. (When I became a professor, Judge Bazelon invited me whenever I visited—then as a full participant). The first time I went to Kronheim’s for lunch, we picked up two justices at the Supreme Court building: William O. Douglas and William Brennan. I had previously met Justice Brennan through his son Bill, who was my law school classmate and moot court partner. Justice Brennan was just about the nicest, sweetest, most modest, important person I had ever met. I continued a friendship with him until his death in 1997. Justice Douglas was entirely different. Nobody ever accused him of being nice or friendly. He was surly, arrogant, dismissive and—I later learned—a blatant hypocrite. I learned this several weeks after the Kronheim lunch, when Judge Bazelon buzzed me into his office and pointed to the extension phone, signaling me to pick it up. The voice on the other end of the phone was familiar. He was berating Judge Bazelon for canceling a speaking engagement that he had previously accepted. Bazelon turned to me and silently mouthed the words “Bill Douglas,” pointing to the phone. I listened as the Justice lectured my judge. Bazelon kept trying to reply, saying “I just can’t do it, Bill. It’s a matter of principle.” Douglas responded, “We’re not asking you to join, just to speak.” Bazelon replied, “That’s the point, Bill. They wouldn’t let me join. They don’t accept Jews or Blacks.” It soon became evident that the two great liberal judges were arguing about a private club that excluded Jews and Blacks. Douglas was a member of that club and had invited Bazelon to give a luncheon talk to its members. Bazelon had originally agreed, but when he learned of the clubs “restricted” nature, he withdrew his acceptance. Douglas was furious, Bazelon adamant. Neither relented. I couldn’t believe that the great liberal justice not only belonged to a restricted club that discriminated on the basis of race and religion, but that he was utterly insensitive to Bazelon’s principled refusal to speak at such a club. This was the height of the civil rights movement, and Justice Douglas was writing decision after decision decrying public segregation and supporting efforts to demantle it. Yet he himself was participating in private segregation and condemning Bazelon’s principled refusal to become complicit in it. This phone call had a profound effect on my own subsequent actions and my refusal to speak, or remain silent about, private clubs that discriminate, whether it be the Harvard Club of New York, 49 HOUSE_OVERSIGHT_017136