This Time All the Hoopla Is on Behalf of Public Defenders

An early memory as a court reporter was seeing an entire courtroom gallery row fill with lawyers for the verdict in what had been a low-profile murder case.

A jury agreed with a deputy public defender that a young Vietnamese immigrant was guilty of involuntary manslaughter, not first-degree murder, which prosecutors had sought. All those lawyers, I discovered, were fellow public defenders. They’d come to support a comrade.

Sometimes, in a community like Orange County, they’ve only got one another.

Today is huge for the public defender’s office. In a 5:30 p.m. ceremony on the Civic Center grounds, just off Ross Street in Santa Ana, the county will dedicate its new headquarters there as the Ronald Y. Butler Public Defender Building. Butler, head of the public defender’s office for 16 years, died in December

following a battle with throat cancer.

Butler, 63, was beloved by colleagues, but also greatly admired by adversaries. It seems fitting to me that the push to have the building named for Butler came from a former prosecutor.

County Supervisor Todd Spitzer, who spent six years in the district attorney’s office, spearheaded the drive to honor Butler. Though we’re used to seeing a lot of 3-2 votes on the Board of Supervisors, this one sailed through in a heartbeat. But Spitzer deserves the credit for making it happen, and for playing the key role in today’s dedication.

Butler would have been a little embarrassed at today’s hoopla, but also pleased. He was always happy to see anything that shed light on the work of the public defender’s office. They don’t get many community valentines.

Just one example: Last week I wrote about Cal State Fullerton mass killer Edward Charles Allaway seeking release from a mental hospital after 23 years. I was flooded with calls and e-mails by those upset he might be freed. But sadly, many directed most of their anger at Deputy Public Defender John Bovee. He has been assigned Allaway’s case, but he’s not the bad guy. Though I made clear my own concerns about Allaway’s release, Bovee is guilty only of doing his job.

They represent the county’s indigent--about 75,000 cases per year--which is what drew most of them there as a career choice.

“I went to law school not to be just a lawyer, but a public defender,” said Carol Lavacot, who specializes now in training new lawyers for the office. “What’s hard for the public to understand is that by protecting the rights of the poor, we help protect their rights too.”

In writing about today’s ceremony, my thoughts immediately drifted back to that Vietnamese immigrant’s trial, nearly 20 years ago, and all those lawyers being there for one another. That kind of family aura has been a mainstay of the public defender’s office in the years since, though it has more than doubled in size in that time.

One of the few details I remember is that one of those lawyers in the gallery was Debbie Kwast. I’ll confess she stood out because she looked too young to be a lawyer, though I discovered during many trials afterward that she was as skilled as any veteran.

Kwast is now chief deputy public defender, the highest rank in the office besides Public Defender Carl Holmes. Kwast began working there as a clerk during law school and immediately returned after she passed the bar exam. She acknowledges that the family atmosphere is one reason she has never left, despite more lucrative opportunities.

“Because people don’t always understand what we do--they so often identify us with our clients--you begin to find solace from within,” Kwast said. “That’s what makes this place so special.”

Some families, however, have to learn to live in close quarters. For years the public defender’s office was on the first floor of the County Courthouse, with space so cramped that Kwast had to share an office even when she became a department head.

In 1991 the public defender staff moved to a new building just a block from the courthouse at 901 Civic Center Drive. But the office had to grow as the caseload grew. And in 1994, soon after the county bankruptcy, it expanded even more as the supervisors eliminated most private law firm contracts and concentrated trials in the public defender’s office.

Lawyers there were again sharing office space, with files piled wherever possible.

“I think we violated every safety code in existence,” Kwast said.

So this new move is long overdue, and the public defenders are thankful to the Board of Supervisors for understanding their need. It’s not a new building, but it’s newly renovated for them.

The five-story structure, at the corner of Ross and Civic Center Drive, once housed the now defunct General Services Administration, and before that the public health offices. Now the public defender’s staff takes up every floor.

“We’ve never been treated so well,” Kwast said.

Butler’s name on the building, of course, adds a touch of perfection. Speakers for the event will include supervisors Spitzer and Charles V. Smith, who was also instrumental in making this day happen. Other remarks will come from two of Butler’s dearest friends, Holmes and Presiding Superior Court Judge Kathleen O’Leary.

Butler’s presence will be in more than name. A plaque with a bust of the popular lawyer will permanently grace the building’s entrance with these words, from an 18th century Irish jurist: “The Price of Freedom is Eternal Vigilance.”

Jerry Hicks’ column appears Monday and Thursday. Readers may reach Hicks by calling (714) 564-1049 or e-mail to jerry.hicks@latimes.com