Three were on stretchers, several were in wheelchairs, two had oxygen tanks. There, in a dark and baroquely decorated room, we found eight elderly men. I followed him through a doorway to a small anteroom. One of the VFW officers whispered in his ear, and he nodded and said "I'll see them first." The clerks and my fellow extern were chatting to some immigration officials, and so he beckoned me. He donned his robe and peered through a window in a door to see hundreds of people sitting in the main hall, talking excitedly, the children waving small American flags and streamers about. We paused in the foyer and he introduced us to some of the VFW officers, who greeted him warmly. Judge Lew - the first Chinese-American district court judge in the continental United States - grabbed his robe from the trunk and walked briskly into the VFW hall with his externs and clerks trailing behind him.
Their children and grandchildren were Filipino-American they were not. They were all, I would learn later, Filipinos. And in each family group there was a man - an elderly man, dressed in a military uniform, many stooped with age but all with the bearing of men who belonged in that VFW hall. It was clear that they were families - babes in arms, small children running about, young and middle-aged parents. Great throngs of people, dressed in Sunday best, were filing into the building. Within ten awkward, quiet minutes we arrived at one of the largest VFW posts in Los Angeles. He piled us into his spotless Cadillac and drove out of the garage without another word. Exchanging puzzled glances, we followed him into the art-deco judge's elevator of the old Spring Street Courthouse, then into the cavernous judicial parking garage.
I saw he had already assembled his two law clerks and his other summer extern there. One day in early July he abruptly walked into my office and said without preamble "Get your coat." Somewhat concerned that I was about to be shown the door, I grabbed my blazer and followed him out of chambers into the hallway. Thirty years ago, in the hot summer of 1992, I was working as an extern for Judge Ronald S.W. If you're looking for a link to your daughter's "Bratz"-collecting blog, do you really want to receive traffic from the people who come here to read about law, theism, Hegelian idealism, crime, or cannibal zombies and the destruction they wreak, destruction that can only be ended by killing the brain so the body will die? And we're mild-mannered men compared to some of our readers, who cuss like sailors.This is a rerun - I originally wrote it back on - but I thought it was time to bring it over here.
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