Forced off bench at 91, judge mulls new career

Some time this afternoon, Judge Julius M. Title, 91 years old, with hearing aids in both ears but a back that’s still ramrod straight, will leave the bench for the last time.

Or maybe not.

Because come Monday morning, Title, who was appointed to the bench in 1966 and is being forced off, said he plans to start looking for another job.

“I want to work,” he said this week, demonstrating that very fact as he hunched over law books in his almost-empty office researching case law on tenant-landlord disputes.

As life spans lengthen, working people reach the traditional age of retirement unable or unwilling to stop going to their jobs. For some, it’s a question of finances. Others worry about being idle. And then there is Title. He retired from the bench for the first time in the 1980s, returned in the 1990s as an assigned retired judge to help out because there were so many vacancies, and now is contemplating a new career.

But first, he had to get through his last week on the bench.

Monday afternoon was Traffic Court, among the least desirable of judicial assignments. Title, because he is filling an empty position, was stuck with it.

He took the bench with a swoosh of black robes and bright eyes that glittered as though he was about to preside over the Trial of the Century.

Court, even the tedium of Traffic Court, is “life in the raw,” he said. And it’s his job as a judge to “call the shots.”

More than 50 defendants stared back, a cross-section of Los Angeles, many a bit sullen, a few beseeching. They’d been accused of running red lights, speeding, running stop signs and, in one case, driving a Jet Ski without registration.

Title has no patience for people who ignore court summonses. “Have you ever heard of buses?” he demanded of one scofflaw who claimed lack of transportation.

But his bailiff, Theresa Clark, said she’s frequently moved by Title’s compassion for the people who come before him, even if they don’t always realize it’s hidden beneath his gruff exterior. When a homeless man, Enrique Fuentes, appeared on a citation for picking through items being saved for recycling, Title listened as the man pleaded for mercy.

“I live in a van,” Fuentes said. “I haven’t been in any trouble in a long time.”

“OK, just have a seat,” the judge said. Then he dismissed the case.

Over the next 30 minutes, Title breezed through more than a dozen cases, then returned to his chambers. The walls, once decorated with paintings he had made, are bare now, pockmarked by nails. Only one painting remains, a portrait of Title’s beloved black Labrador mix, Molly.

Title loves to paint but does not relish the idea of having all day to do it. He adores his three grandchildren but said he is horrified by the idea of staying home, or traveling, or pretending that a hobby, even one he is passionate about, will occupy him full time.

He jokes that his wife of 56 years makes him leave the house every day from 9 to 5. This turns out not to be quite true, and Rita Title, 76, said she is looking forward to spending more time with her husband -- if, indeed, he does retire.

Title said perhaps he’ll become a private judge.

Even as they marvel at his long years of public service, many of Title’s colleagues and family are sad that he’s being forced to leave the bench. Eight new judges join the bench in January, filling all the vacant seats, meaning Los Angeles County Superior Court no longer needs Title’s services. Theoretically, Title could run for office or be appointed by the governor.

“On the one hand, you say, well, isn’t it almost time for him to retire? But on the other hand, he loves to do it,” said his daughter, Barbara Title. “He loves to work.... I can’t relate, myself.”

Born in New York City in 1915, Title moved to Boyle Heights the next year with his parents. He played the trumpet for a time in theaters downtown but said he “found out to my dismay that that was incompatible with eating three meals a day.” A drummer he knew suggested he go to law school.

He became a real estate lawyer. Judge Linda Lefkowitz said she always gets a kick out of driving around the Westside with him, because he can point to one housing development after another that he had a hand in.

In 1966, Gov. Pat Brown appointed him to the bench.

A friend of Title’s made his twin daughters cry by telling them their father would no longer be able to buy them pretty outfits on a judge’s salary, but Title said he had no qualms about taking the job.

That first day, he drove to the downtown courthouse in his shiny Ford coupe, his stomach a knot of nerves. He knew stories of judges who were incapable of making decisions.

But he quickly discovered he wasn’t like that. He has learned to “decide the case and move on to the next one.”

In his day, he handled a number of huge cases. A lawsuit among members of the Getty family. Another involving tennis great Billie Jean King. A fascinating one about Norton Simon, whose art collection transformed the former Pasadena Art Museum.

“I’ve tried every possible kind of dispute in the world,” he said.

One thing he’s noticed: In the old days, “there was a lot more civility.”

Title, however, has always kept his courtly manners. That may be part of why he’s become a mentor to younger judges.

Superior Court Judge Gerald Rosenberg called him “a father figure.” Rosenberg said he argued cases before Title years ago and admired his compassion and style. Then he learned that Title went to Roosevelt High School with Rosenberg’s father. “He’s my idol,” Rosenberg said.

A lot of judges don’t like to do the small claims and traffic cases Title has been hearing, said Lefkowitz, the supervising judge in Santa Monica. Title greets each case with enthusiasm. “He’ll come down two or three times a week and say, ‘Look at this exciting issue I found,’ ” she said. “He still has the same curiosity about the law he had 50 years ago.”

Like a lot of people in Title’s life, Lefkowitz said she’s a bit worried about what’s going to happen to him now. “I’ve told him he can come here any time he wants. We’ll arrange for settlement hearings,” she said. But that volunteer work would probably happen only a few times a month.

As the afternoon sun slanted into his office, Title summoned his clerk. Did the judge in Department S next door have any small claims cases he didn’t have time to hear? Title would be happy to take them.

His clerk went to check.

Title looked around his office. In the corner was a coatrack where four black robes hung like crouched crows. The judge, almost as if he was thinking out loud, began talking about his plans.

“I’m not happy about it,” he said again of retirement. “I paint, but I can’t paint every day.”

He shook his head. “I’ll figure something out.”

Finally he got up and went to the door.

“Anything in S?” he asked hopefully.

But the answer was no. There was no more work to be done.

jessica.garrison@latimes.com