Last week I got a one-page flyer from the staff in lawyer Tony Serra’s office. Tony was due to be sentenced for “misdemeanor willful failure to pay income tax,” and his staff was asking people to attend the sentencing. “Stand Up for Him As He Has Stood Up For Us,” it said, and listed the date, time, judge (Joseph C. Spero), and courtroom in San Francisco. Tony is a legendary defense lawyer, defender of civil rights, who often takes on impossible cases, often pro bono, and has had an extraordinary career in the San Francisco area and the rest of the nation. He lives a spartan life, drives junker cars. He is colorful, with a long grey pony tail, and wears suits he gets at the Salvation Army. About 10 years ago, 60 Minutes did a piece on him. The movie True Believer was about one of his cases, with James Wood playing Tony. A Google search turns up about 7000 references to him, and he’s described as “radical,” “flamboyant,” and “renowned.”

I’ve known Tony for over 50 years. We both grew up in San Francisco and then lived in the same fraternity house at Stanford. He graduated 6 months before I did and took off for a tour of Europe on a motorscooter with his first wife Judy. He wrote me letters from the trip, one of which I remember vividly, about staying up all night on a boat from Barcelona to Palma de Mallorca, and dolphins criss-crossing in front of the boat making phosphorescent patterns in the sea, with stars shining overhead. As soon as I graduated, my wife and I did the same thing, caught a ship from NY to France, hitchhiked to Milan, bought a new Lambretta scooter, and spent 3 months touring all of Europe, two California kids away from home for the first time — all because of Tony.

In the early ’60s he went to work for the public defender’s office in Oakland and I was working as an insurance broker in SF. In about 1963 we both smoked pot together for the first time, and by 1965 he had switched to private criminal defense practice and I had quit my job to work as a carpenter. We both were profoundly influenced by the cultural revolution of the times. In the early ’70s he and his girlfriend Mary Edna rented a house from me in Bolinas and their first two (twins) of 5 children — Shelter and Ivory — were born there.

I got to the courtroom about 10 minutes late yesterday. It was packed — about 100 people — with about 30 people milling around outside. I decided to try my Shelter Publications press pass and darned if it didn’t work: they let me in, the last seat. Tony’s attorney, Randy Darr, was in the midst of an impassioned plea to the judge. This guy had a silver tongue and he went on at length. Tony admits his guilt, Tony has a “dysfunctional” relationship with money (true), there’d be no purpose in sending him to jail, Tony would pay $1500 a month to the IRS. Blah blah.

The IRS claimed Tony owed over $500,000 in taxes and had only paid $60,000, and wanted a one-year sentence. A probation officer was recommending a 5-month sentence.

Then about a dozen lawyers, mostly of the criminal defense variety, spoke to the judge. Tony had been a great influence in their lives and careers. He was their hero, he had defended the poor and downtrodden, he belonged in the courtroom and not in a jail cell. Blah blah, and I do mean blah blah. I haven’t spent a lot of time in courtrooms, but I’m of the editorial persuasion and found these speeches long and tedious. You could have cut about 2/3 out of what each person said in the interest of clarity and succinctness, but I guess these guys are used to addressing juries and hammering home their points. Throw bombast at the wall and see what sticks. Plus they didn’t really have a leg to stand on. Tony admitted his guilt. In retrospect this wasn’t a display of reason, but rather of passion, of emotion, hallmarks of Tony’s dramatic courtroom appearances. This was theater. At one point one of the lawyers asked Tony’s five kids to stand up, which they did; they’d flown in from New York and LA to back their dad, and they looked wonderful.

Everyone gave it their all. It was a court appearance, but it was also a celebration of Tony’s dedication to justice, and of how much he means to so many people.

It went on for about 3 hours and then Judge Spero said to take a 10 minute break and he’d impose the sentence. People chatted, Tony went around hugging his friends, until the judge returned. The judge acknowledged the good work Tony had done, representing the poor, influencing other lawyers, but said Tony wasn’t above the law and sentenced him to 10 months (in Lompoc federal prison camp) and to paying the feds 100K at $1500 a month once he’s out of prison.

Tony will do OK in prison. The other inmates will love him. He’s a philosopher, a voracious reader. Once at Stanford he locked himself in a closet for 3 days with just bread and water so he could experience isolation. Maybe he’ll take the time to write a book. He has to report to Lompoc in January 2006.

On Saturday (this is Tuesday), I spent the night at architect John Raabe’s house on Whidbey Island, Washington. John runs a unique website offering home building plans inexpensively, and has a great builders’ forum:

https://www.countryplans.com

The next morning I caught a ferry to the mainland. They had a cop with dog sniffing under all the cars waiting to get on the ferry, looking for explosives. Ah me! I drove through to Seattle (Mt. Rainier is magnificent, it dominates the landscape in that part of the world) and then down to Medford Oregon, slept a few hours in the truck and then dropped in on my friends Bill and Judy Pearl at 5:30 AM in their gym, where I knew they’d be. We had breakfast and then yesterday I headed south. It was HOT. I stopped in Redding, and trespassed on an upscale trailer park land to get access to the swiftly-flowing Sacramento river, jumped in, and it was ice water! Talk about refreshing. Then about two hours later, I detoured off Hwy 5 to the town of Colusa, where I’d lived off and on as a teenager, found the old swimming beach and swam in water that was about 20 degrees warmer. Then decided to come back to Louie’s place on the way home, finish off this blogging from the trip, show Louie some of the pix, and start trying to figure out to do with this ton of wonderful material I’ve amassed. For one thing, there is a whole new level up building in the northwest. It was like stepping on another planet.

Did I mention the last builder I met, Bruce Atkey? Bruce is a big strong surfer dude/builder who lives in a little cabin overlooking one of the northwest coasts lesser-known surf breaks and has built cabins and houses on remote sites along the west coast of Vancouver Island (north of Tofino), felling and splitting all the wood on-site. 40 miles by boat to get there.) He’s also building a steel sailboat from scratch, almost finished (maybe 35′ or so). To see and photograph Bruce’s work and Lloyd House’s place (also reachable only by boat), Bruce offered to take me in his speedboat out of Tofino if I would pay for gas. Would I! We’ll either do it this fall or next spring. There could be a book on just these northwest coast builders.Hmmmmm….

Then there is the art work of Chief Tony Hunt. What a book this would make. I’m going to visit Tony on my next trip to Vancouver and talk about the reality of such a book. His art still has the awesome power of the coast’s native people. And how about this: Tony recently built a “long house” for the Salish and Ontario people in Ft. Rupert, Vancouver Island with carved corner posts of logs 4-1/2 feet wide, 22 feet high. The building is 80′ by 120′ and seats 1300 people.

Well, that’s it f-f-f-f-folks. Over and out from Louie’s this sunny afternoon. I’m gonna go jump in the local river.

Oh yeah…

I mean I’ve been stuck before — in the mud, snow, sand, and even in ditches — but never like this. Backing down a narrow country road on Hornby Island one evening, my left rear tire went into a 3′ deep ditch, the truck went wham! There was broken glass, I couldn’t believe it, I was watching it happen in slow motion, saying this can’t be happening. I pulled myself up out of the upper door and walked to the closest house. This happened to be Wayne Ngan, a gentle soul and, it turns out, an internationally known potter. Wayne called a guy who might be able to get me out and about an hour later Tim Biggins arrives in a big flatbed truck. Within 5 minutes we had established that he knew my book SHELTER well and further, that his own house on the island had been in the book HANDMADE HOUSES, THE WOODBUTCHER’S ART. Tim studied the situation a long time and concluded we should come back in the morning, so I went home with him and slept in the loft shown below. Tim is a story himself, a cowboy of the northwest, builder, welder, trucker; he reminded me of Neal Cassady.

Pole rafters are radial, all at a differnt level, and bolted to a central log.

Exterior of Tim’s house

We got up at 6, had oatmeal and good coffee, loaded his truck and set off. In about 2 hours, with a combination of come-alongs, cable around 2 trees, various jacks and luckily a neighbors tractor, the gringo’s truck was gently lifted back on the road. Whew, broke one window, some denting, but nothing that can’t be fixed. Sometimes I think the Lords of Karma watch over me and send along the right people to get me out my dumb predicaments.

In a small town in Northern California

A work of love. In the ’70s, Tony and Julie Anderson built this liitle multi-level home on a coastal hillside overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

Inside