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Welcome Message from the President
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A Mom and Pop Operation
By 1972, my sainted wife, Polly had already endured 21 years of my dreams and schemes. I shall never forget her reaction when I told her that I intended to start a law school. She was at the stove, stirring something with a long wooden spoon. Pointing the spoon at my nose she announced, "Now THERE'S a good idea."
The emphasis on the word 'there's' was a pointed reference to some of my other ideas. Like converting the attached garage into a new kitchen.
Having given the project her approval, Polly dug in enthusiastically. She accepted the assignment of manning the office, a barren space on the second floor of a brick building at 507 South Grand Avenue in downtown Lansing. The building belonged to a man named Oding, who operated an engraving shop in the basement and rented the first floor to an insurance agency. I set up a card table, got a telephone, and left her there while I went about my duties as a member of the supreme court.
Alone in this unfinished, empty, 5,000 square feet of nothing, she busied herself sending out application forms to the 300 or so prospects who had expressed an interest in attending law school, and assembling files as applications, transcripts, letters of recommendation, and resumes came in each mail delivery.
On one such day, two policemen came up the stairs and presented themselves in front of her. She could only imagine what they were there for. Had her husband gotten her into some kind of a felonious scam? Was she about to be lead away in handcuffs, fingerprinted, booked on a 602 like on TV?
Summoning her best feminine charm and composure, she inquired as to the purpose of their visit. Shortly, she was relieved to learn that one of the two officers, an African American named Claude Thomas, was interested in going to law school and wanted an application. She accommodated him, of course, and breathed a sigh of relief.
Claude Thomas was the first black student at Cooley, and its first black graduate. He later became the first black district court judge in Ingham County.
Little did we know in those early days that Cooley Law School would one day become the largest accredited law school in America, or that it would consistently enroll and educate more African American law students than any other law school in the nation, including such celebrated Negro colleges and universities as Howard and Texas Southern.
It was, to be sure, a "Mom and Pop" operation, as described in the Lansing State Journal. We enlisted friends and relatives to help, just as we had done in my many political campaigns. The first admissions committee meeting was a perfect example.
The front part of our rented space was set up with ten or twelve card tables, on each of which was stacked a pile of application files. Four members of the committee sat around each table and read the files, discussing and commenting as they did.
It was an eclectic cast of characters, lawyers all, from every niche of the profession. Supreme Court and Court of Appeals judges, circuit and district court judges, sole practicioners, corporate counsel, government lawyers, bankers, partners and associates in big firms, they poured over the files, read some of the more interesting entries aloud, milled about looking for files of relatives and friends, and debated hotly over the respective merits of the candidates.
The first class was to be a night school class. It would start in January of 1973. Students would take 12 credit hours, for which they paid $50 per credit. The upstairs quarters were divided into three major spaces; the office across the front of the building and two long narrow classrooms in the center. We purchased 75 student desks — actually chairs with attached writing surfaces often called one arm bandits — from a defunct Catholic High School.
The first meeting of the class was ceremonial. The board of directors of the school was to meet at the State Bar building about an hour before the class was to be convened. We were all dressed in tuxedos. Shortly before the board meeting, Polly informed me that she had agreed to admit another student; number 76. I don't know what sob story he told her, but whatever it was, she melted. I had 76 students and only 75 chairs.
So at about 5:45 p.m. on the evening of January 12, 1973, I went to the former O'Rafferty High School and persuaded the janitor to sell me one more student chair for $10 which I promptly took to 507 South Grand and carried upstairs, dressed in my tuxedo. I must have been a curious sight.
For nearly thirty years after that night, I welcomed new classes to Cooley law School. Those opening sessions were always moments of high expectation, warm welcome, and shared excitement. None was as emotional as that first night. It would be one of those crystal moments in time that seem never to dull, never to fade from memory. It was a night to remember.
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This Page was last updated on:
08/19/2004