R.I.P. Mike Conroy

Michael Conroy passed last night at age 68 of a brain aneurysm.  Mike’s father married Anais Harding, the cousin of Donna’s father, Lou.  Mike, like his dad, was an attorney; I can personally attest to his legal talents.

When Donna and I were engaged, I was a very low-paid journalist for a group of publications covering the telecommunications industry around the time of the breakup of AT&T.  One day I got the opportunity to cover a Supreme Court trial.  It was pretty heady stuff for a relatively inexperienced reporter to be in attendance at the high court and to see the Supremes—they were like celebrities sitting behind the large, elevated dais, each of them recognizable.

When the session was over and I had written my story, I headed to Annapolis to visit my friend Lee and to brag about my big experience.  We went to Riordan’s, I believe, one of the bars on the square that faces Ego Alley, the dock where boaters moor and show off their vessels.

After a few beers, I headed back to Rockville, where I was living with my parents to save money for married life.  I got pulled over by a state trooper for what he described as leaving my lane.  Knowing I had had too much to drink to pass a sobriety test, I refused a breathalyzer test (at the time you had that option without automatically having your license suspended) and opted for a blood test.  So he handcuffed me, put me in the back of his cruiser and drove to Anne Arundel Hospital.  He marched me into the hospital in cuffs—I’m sure strictly to humiliate me—and I had my blood drawn.  I called Lee, who drove me home, and I retrieved the car the next day. 

The results showed a blood-alcohol level of 0.08%--on the border at the time for driving under the influence, or DUI.  I think the level for driving while intoxicated, DWI, may have been 0.13%.  I was charged for DWI and assigned a trial date.  Scary stuff for a soon-to-be-married young man.

I called Mike.  He figured out I was pretty poor and tried to help me out without charging me.  He gave me a series of instructions for when I got to the courthouse on the day of the trial.  First, seek out the bailiff to see if my case had been dropped or if the trooper failed to show.  If the case were still on, when my case came up, I should ask the judge for a delay to prepare my defense.  If that request was denied, I should ask for a jury trial.  Mike said he didn’t see the need for him to show up.  This was a terrifying prospect for me but I went along.  I really was financially challenged.

On the morning of the court date I arrived and searched out the bailiff.  That in itself was no small task.  When I finally tracked him down, he tersely noted that the case was on and that the trooper was here.  Strike one.

I went into the court and my case was, I believe, number eight on the docket.  All the cases for that morning were DUIs and DWI cases.  At the beginning of the session, the judge informed the defendants that a) there would be no delays, as we had all had plenty of time to prepare our defenses, and b) she would grant no requests for jury trials.  Strikes two and three.  Now I was sick with fear.  And remember, this was in the days before cell phones.  I was alone, cut off from anyone who could help me, and at the mercy of a judge who had swatted away plans B and C.

Then the cases proceeded.  The first case resulted in the defendant getting jail time for a DWI.  So did the second case, and the third.  I think five of the first half-dozen cases ended with jail sentences.  I can’t tell you the panic I felt.

My one break that morning came when the judge announced a recess before my case was called.  I literally ran into the hallway and found a pay phone.  I called Mike and explained the situation.  He very nonchalantly said that he would meet me at the courthouse.  He didn’t seem very concerned that I might go to jail, my career would end and my wife (we had married between the citation and the trial) would drop me like a hot convict.

I met Mike in the parking lot so we would be sure to find each other.  He wanted to know where we could get lunch—lunch!  With my life in the balance!  We found a place around the corner.

I normally can eat anything, anytime, anywhere, then eat some more.  But I couldn’t touch the sandwich I had ordered.  Mike, in between bites, asked me to show him the ticket and asked a few basic questions about the circumstances. 

When we arrived back in the courtroom, we sat together.  He leaned over and asked me to write him a check for a ridiculously small amount so he could say he was officially representing me.  Then the bailiff called my case.  We moved to the front table, then Mike walked up to the judge and said something I couldn’t understand.  Then he came over to me, discreetly slipped me his car keys and told me to get up, go to the parking lot and get in his car, get down as far as possible and lock the doors. 

Was he joking?  Was I going to be a fugitive?  Perplexed and afraid, I complied.

A few minutes later, although it seemed like hours, I could see as I lifted my head just enough to peek out, Mike strolling out of the courthouse with his patented grin—a smug, pleased-with-himself grin.

“Those stupid jerks,” he said, or something like that as he unlocked the driver’s door.

“What the hell happened?” I demanded.

The trooper had written the ticket for DWI instead of for both DWI and the lesser DUI.  Because my blood-alcohol level was below the limit for DWI, they had no case. 

So why was I hiding like an idiot in the car?  Mike said if the arresting officer was on his toes, he could have written me up for DUI on the spot.  Maybe so, or maybe Mike just wanted to see me make a fool of myself.  Either way, he saved my bacon that day and I have always remembered the kindness he showed.  For the record, I have never driven under the influence since.

Mike was an organ donor.  He was declared brain dead Tuesday morning but kept on a ventilator until three doctors were able to coordinate a harvesting procedure at 10:00pm that night.  We heard that five people were receiving from Mike a lung or a kidney or his liver.  So five people, five families, five communities of friends and relatives will be celebrating a life saved or greatly improved.  Add that heroism to the long list of good that Mike did in his time here with us.

Cheers, Mike!  You leave this world having made it a better place.