Each week, the Shreveport-Bossier Journal’s Tony Taglavore takes to lunch a local person — someone who is well-known, successful, and/or influential, and asks, “What’s Your Story?”
“I was relieved,” Curtis told me, not of the verdict, but that the week-long trial was over.” If you’ve never represented someone whose life is on the scale — I’ve never felt this ball of tension in my stomach like I did when I represented him in that case.”
Curtis remembers looking into his client’s eyes for the last time.
“I knew where he was going. I knew what the rest of his days on the planet would be like. But our life is the consequence of our decisions, right?
So, did Curtis think all along his client was innocent?
“I wasn’t sure. The jury found that he was guilty. But I wasn’t in the room when (the crime) went down.”
So, if Curtis wasn’t sure, how could he, in good consciousness, argue his client’s innocence?
“That’s my job. I represent that person. I speak for them. It’s not on me to judge them, and I certainly hope no one would judge me on my worst day . . . . I’m not God. I can’t ascribe any judgement to anyone.”
Curtis told me this story, and his story, during lunch at a place of his choosing. Rhino Coffee is just up Texas Street from the Caddo Parish Courthouse, where earlier Curtis had appeared before a judge to receive a case ruling. Curtis took his lunch to go, a BLT, with a side of fruit, and an orange juice. I enjoyed the Southfield Avocado wrap with pita chips and water.
“My story really starts with her,” Curtis said of his 72 year-old mother, Linda. As a young girl, Linda, the ninth of 10 children, sharecropped cotton in Frierson, Louisiana.
“She was really bright. Early on, they could tell how sharp she was. So, she picked a little less cotton than her older siblings, and went to school a little bit more.”
Linda was so bright, she finished high school in three years and college in three years, eventually joining the Army as a chemical engineer.
Curtis’ story starts with his mother because she is the inspiration for who he is today.
“It’s like when you see a beautiful flower that creeps up in the middle of concrete. You look at that and think, ‘Alright, that life was determined to live. There was nothing that was going to keep that life from existing, even in that environment.’ How do you conceive the fact that you’re out picking cotton in the bald sun in Louisiana, that one day, I’m going to be a chemist. The audacity to have that as a dream.”
As a child, Curtis also had a dream.
“My mom tells me I came home one day when I was in second grade, looked at her, and said I wanted to be a lawyer. She said we didn’t know any lawyers, and didn’t know where I got that from. She asked me why? I told her I wanted to wear a nice suit and carry a briefcase.”
So it wasn’t a surprise the 52-year-old, who towers over most folks at six-feet, five-inches tall, arrived at lunch wearing a stylish dark and light grey pinstripe suit, with a complimentary grey pocket square. Curtis also wore an Open Road Stetson, in a nod to his affinity for former President Lyndon Baines Johnson. LBJ was seldom seen on his Texas ranch without his Open Road.
Curtis calls his childhood “Disjointed”, the product of having a military mom. Growing up, Curtis bounced from his aunt’s house in Shreveport, to Colorado, Missouri, and Germany. And that’s not counting New York, where, before enlisting, his mom worked for Eastman Kodak.
“I would start school in one city, and I might wind up finishing in another city. So much so that sometimes I would think I was going to the next grade, and it was still the same school year.”
But moving so often gave Curtis an education outside the classroom.
“It forced me at an early age to get to know people and to see people. All different types of people, in different environments.”
For the most part, Curtis’ childhood environment didn’t include his father. Curtis’ parents got divorced when Curtis was 12. His dad stayed out of his son’s life for nine years.
“They needed to divorce. This is where sociology comes into play. People often look at end results without seeing how situations develop. He didn’t know his father, so you wind up in a situation where you don’t know what’s expected. You don’t know what you’re supposed to be doing—what my role is. What my function is. I don’t begrudge him any of that.”
And Curtis, the married father of two children, doesn’t hold a grudge. He and his father have reconciled.
“He’s a good guy. He’s in a better place now.”
In the early 2000’s, Curtis was in a good place. Having graduated with a law degree from Washington and Lee University, he was back in Shreveport working for then well-known attorney Wellborn Jack, Jr. But there was one itch Curtis was dying to scratch.
He wanted to be a professional musician.
As a boy, when Curtis’ church got a set of drums, he taught himself to play. In law school, Curtis played in a band. But who would quit being an attorney to travel the country in a van and play music late into the night?
“She thought I was nuts,” Curtis said of his mom’s reaction. “She said, ‘You mean to tell me you’re going to do this?’. I said, ‘Just trust me.'”
So, Curtis moved to New Orleans, got together with two of his old college band mates, made and sold a CD, and traveled state-to-state. But after Curtis “promptly went through” the money he had saved, Curtis turned to his mom.
“I called her up. I needed help with my rent and my car insurance. My nickname is “Bud”. She said, ‘Bud, baby, you quit a good paying job to go down there and play music. You’ll figure it out.”
And Curtis did. To help support his music career, Curtis eventually got a job teaching middle school. Curtis wasn’t enjoying the comfortable lifestyle of a lawyer, but he was enjoying life.
“I knew I would only live one time. I’m not much on regret. I like to do things my way as best as possible. (I like to do) what makes me happy. If I didn’t do it, I knew I would regret not having done it. I didn’t go into it thinking I was going to be Dave Matthews. I knew that ultimately, I would be practicing law. I told my mom, ‘Look, I’m going to go do this and I’m going to come back and they will still be practicing law, I promise you. If they’re not still practicing law, something dreadful has happened.'”
Now, Curtis is doing both, appearing in courtrooms and on stage. He plays in two bands, beating the drums to everything from jazz and blues, to the Isley Brothers.
“They love it, Curtis said of the people who see him at his day job, taking depositions and trying cases. “I think people intuitively enjoy seeing somebody doing something they enjoy doing. People may not admit this, but there are some who didn’t have the gumption to make a move like that. I think they enjoy seeing somebody else doing something that they didn’t quite have it in them to do.”
Because Curtis’ earlier courtroom appearance ran long, he and I were tight on time. So, I asked my final question. As always, what is it about his life story that can be helpful to others? Spoken as eloquently as if he was giving final arguments, this year’s Vice-President of the Committee of 100 had three answers:
* “Be unapologetically who you are. Be the things you want to be. Put the work forward toward achieving those things, knowing you can.”
* “Make decisions that make you feel good about yourself . . . . Just trust yourself and listen to that voice. You can call it God. You can call it The Universe. But, we all have that voice inside that tells us. We know right from wrong. We know what we should be doing.”
* “Be a contributor to your society. Try to make things better. We’re here to assist and help one another. I think we have the capacity to show love, to show kindness, to show generosity, to lend a helping hand. Be there, and you will be shocked at the return you get, and the difference you can make in somebody’s life, just by spending a few moments with them.”
Curtis spent a few moments with me, and made a difference.
Do you know someone who has a story?
Email SBJTonyT@gmail.com.
