A Well-Paid Slave (26 page)

“Do you want that answer stricken, Justice Goldberg?” Cooper asked.

“No, I like that answer,” Goldberg said.

“Engraved in gold,” Topkis whispered.

After a few more questions from Hughes and a few from Kuhn's lawyer, Victor Kramer, the owners finished their cross-examination. Flood stepped down from the witness stand after nearly five hours of testimony.

Instead of trying to redirect Flood and exposing him to further cross-examination, Goldberg called his next witness, Marvin Miller. As smooth as Flood was nervous, Miller described how the owners had refused to negotiate about the reserve clause, that he had explained to Flood the risks of suing baseball, and that the Players Association had voted to pay Flood's legal bills.

Miller also detailed the association's fee arrangement with Goldberg. At first, Goldberg had waived his own hourly fees but asked the association to pay the fees and expenses of his colleagues. After Yastrzemski and several other players loyal to ownership objected to the arrangement, Goldberg told Miller that his firm would not collect any fees and expenses if further objections arose. That was not going to happen, not if Goldberg's Paul, Weiss partners had anything to say about it. Goldberg, however, was not going to allow the owners to “scare” him out of the case.

After Miller's brief testimony, Cooper granted the request of Flood's lawyers to delay the continuation of the trial one day until May 21. Flood was done testifying, but he was “on short notice” in case he needed to be recalled. The first day of the trial produced two conclusions: Flood was a nervous, unprepared witness, and Goldberg was not a good trial lawyer. Flood's hopes of generating a good trial record or favorable publicity seemed to be in trouble.

Several sports columnists were not impressed with Flood's testimony. “On the surface it would appear that the most damaging evidence to Flood's case was Flood himself,” Larry Merchant wrote in the
New York Post
. Flood “trailed on several unofficial scorecards . . . ,” according to Stan Hochman of the
Philadelphia Daily News
. “A player like Flood, in the $90,000 category, with business off-shoots, does not evoke much sympathy in the turbulent streets.”

Flood's trial team did not want to be at the courthouse on May 20, because as many as 150,000 construction workers were planning to march on Foley Square to show their support for the Vietnam War and to protest against the antiwar protesters. It was a reactionary time. On March 3, an angry white mob in Lamar, South Carolina, attacked three buses of black schoolchildren on their way to a desegregated school. On April 30, President Nixon announced that he was sending troops into Cambodia, which reinvigorated antiwar protests on college campuses. On May 4, National Guardsmen killed four white students at Kent State. Ten days later, police killed two black students at Jackson State. The construction workers' May 20 rally responded to the student protests and the antiwar stance of New York City mayor John Lindsay with American flags, hardhats, and signs that said “Lindsay for Mayor of Hanoi.”

These same reactionary forces were arrayed against Flood and his lawsuit. The commissioner's lawyer, Victor Kramer, knew nothing about baseball. When he took over Paul Porter's trial duties in the case, he asked his young associate Douglas Robinson how many players were on a baseball team. But Kramer was an antitrust expert, a great trial lawyer, and an astute observer of public opinion. Every time Kramer hopped into a New York City cab, he asked the white ethnic cabdriver his thoughts about the
Flood
case. Every time, the cabdriver sympathized with the owners rather than with the black player making $90,000 a year. “Some of that was racial,” Robinson said, “and some of it was more this feeling that why should anyone who's making $90,000 a year be complaining.”

For Flood's legal team, the key to changing public opinion was to find powerful witnesses. No current players would dare testify. And most former players were equally reluctant. But one former player immediately jumped to the minds of Flood's legal team: Ned Garver. A former pitcher, Garver accounted for 20 of the last-place St. Louis Browns' 52 victories in 1951. The previous season, he had led the American League with 22 complete games but suffered 18 losses. He toiled for the Browns for nearly five seasons before being traded to the Detroit Tigers near the end of the 1952 season. He never made more than $30,000. “If ever there was a guy who had been victimized by the reserve clause, it was Ned Garver,” Iverson said. In response to questions from a House subcommittee in 1951, Garver had written that baseball “could not exist” without the reserve clause, but he had suggested modifications to allow an underpaid player on a second-division club to get paid what he was worth or switch teams. Garver, however, rejected Iverson's invitation to testify on Flood's behalf.

Flood's witness list was shrouded in secrecy. The Associated Press reported shortly before trial that Satchel Paige, the great Negro league pitcher, might testify for Flood. Paige had made his major league debut in 1948 at age 42 with the Indians, had pitched for the St. Louis Browns until he was 47, and became the oldest pitcher in major league history by throwing three scoreless innings in 1965 for the Kansas City Athletics at age 59. The owners, in recent labor negotiations, had refused to make players free agents at age 65. The Athletics had granted Paige his unconditional release after the 1965 season, but technically they could have owned him for the rest of his life. Flood's lawyers, however, were looking for former players with more gravitas than Paige.

Goldberg, Topkis, Miller, Gitter, and Iverson all spent time tracking down obvious witnesses—great players on bad teams like Ned Garver who did not get paid very much. None of them wanted to testify. A huge Brooklyn Dodgers fan growing up in upstate New York, Iverson decided to start calling the people he most wanted to see in court—the mid- 1950s Dodgers. Iverson called almost every Dodger except Roy Campanella, the catcher who had been paralyzed in an automobile accident. Iverson did not want to bother Campanella; nor was Campanella one to speak out on racial or social issues. Iverson talked to all the heroes of his youth: Sandy Amoros, Billy Cox, Carl Furillo, Junior Gilliam, and Duke Snider. “None of them wanted to testify,” Iverson said, “but my reaction was, ‘Hey, I'm getting paid for this.' ” There were, however, a few notable exceptions. The media was alerted that when the trial resumed May 21, several former players would be testifying on Flood's behalf.

F
lood's trial resumed at 10:15 a.m. on May 21. Goldberg an- nounced that he had a few more questions for Marvin Miller, but first he would like to call a special witness.

Goldberg called Jack R. Robinson to the witness stand.

White-haired, diabetic, and going blind, Jackie Robinson looked like the oldest 51-year-old man on the planet. He had suffered a mild heart attack a few years earlier. Diabetes had destroyed the circulation in his legs. His doctor had given him only two to three years to live. Robinson walked in his distinctive pigeon-toed gait down the center aisle of Judge Cooper's crowded courtroom with the help of a cane. To Flood, however, Robinson may as well have been Superman. As he made his way down the aisle, Robinson stopped at the table for plaintiff's counsel. He shook Flood's hand and whispered words of encouragement into Flood's ear. Tears welled in Flood's eyes.

Flood knew that he was doing the right thing. It all seemed worth it now—giving up his baseball career, turning his back on more than $90,000, the hate mail at home, and the humiliation two days earlier on the witness stand. It all seemed worth it because his hero had come to testify on his behalf, to help Flood make professional athletes more free than they had been in Robinson's day.

A hush fell over the courtroom as Robinson approached the witness stand. Aside from his 1962 Hall of Fame induction and a stint as a color commentator for ABC television in 1965, Robinson had exiled himself from baseball. He railed against the game's refusal to hire black coaches and managers. He criticized Frank Robinson and Willie Mays for refusing to speak out on racial issues. He clashed with Bob Feller during the game's centennial celebration at the 1969 All-Star Game in Washington over the lack of minorities in baseball management. The racism in base-ball that Robinson had experienced beginning in 1946 had taken on new forms, and he saw no one willing to confront them. “I don't know if anyone could get me back into baseball today, where I would have to deal with the kind of people that I feel are associated with baseball,” Robinson said in 1966. “I think there is a narrow-minded, bigoted group of people who believe that the only way the Negro should get opportunities is if he is willing to go along with what they say—‘Don't rock the boat.' ”

Robinson admired boat rockers such as Flood and his former Cardinals teammate Bill White because “when there's an issue Curt Flood is ready; Bill White is ready. But there are not enough Curt Floods and Bill Whites.” In the February 15 issue of
Jet
, Robinson had spoken out on Flood's behalf: “I think Curt is doing a service to all players in the leagues, especially for the younger players coming up who are not superstars. All he is asking for is the right to negotiate. It doesn't surprise me that he had the courage to do it. He's a very sensitive man concerned about the rights of everybody. We need men of integrity like Curt Flood and Bill Russell who are involved in the area of civil rights and who are not willing to sit back and let Mr. Charlie dictate their needs and wants for them or spread the message for them.”

An ardent civil rights advocate, Robinson had raised money for the NAACP and the SCLC, participated in the March on Washington, and marched in Birmingham. He was an integrationist who clashed publicly with younger, more militant black activists including Malcolm X. A registered independent, he often supported Republican candidates because he believed blacks should be represented in both political parties. He had campaigned for Richard Nixon during the 1960 presidential election and again two years later when Nixon ran for governor of California. He had served as one of six deputy directors of Nelson Rockefeller's presidential campaign in 1964, worked on Rockefeller's reelection campaign for governor in 1966, and that same year was appointed the governor's special assistant for community affairs. Robinson had come to regret his earlier support of Nixon, who was not as progressive on civil rights issues as Robinson had been led to believe. After Rockefeller lost the 1968 Republican presidential nomination to Nixon, Robinson endorsed Democratic nominee Hubert Humphrey. In politics, as in life, Jackie Robinson was his own man.

Robinson also was active in business, with mixed results. For seven years after his playing career ended, he had worked for Chock full o' Nuts as a vice president and director of personnel. Robinson's main function for the coffee shop chain was to serve as an intermediary to prevent its employees from unionizing. He had helped start a black-controlled bank, Freedom National Bank, and the Jackie Robinson Construction Corporation that built low- and middle-income housing. Nonetheless, he and his wife, Rachel, a psychiatric nurse, struggled to make ends meet.

After meeting with Marvin Miller, Robinson agreed to see Iverson at his office at Proteus Foods, Inc. Iverson thought the cramped office in a grimy building was not befitting a man of Robinson's stature. Although nominally a vice president, Robinson had no decision-making authority. His job was to encourage people to invest in fish and seafood fast-food restaurants in low-income neighborhoods. He was paid $10,000 a year plus some small stock options and a $500 bonus for each franchise he sold through personal contacts. In July, the company fired him a few months before it filed for bankruptcy. “It had seemed clear that he didn't have a whole lot to do. . . . It was kind of sad that this was what he was doing now,” Iverson said. “And frankly, because of the system, he had to do it to make a living he needed to make.”

Robinson showed no fear of alienating the Lords of Baseball. He had retired after the 1956 season when the Dodgers sent him to the Giants. He understood the injustice of the reserve clause but did not purport to be an expert on reserve clause issues. He had agreed to testify, he told Miller, because he “thought Flood was a courageous young man.” Miller knew that Robinson's testimony came with some baggage. He reminded Robinson that he had told a 1958 Senate subcommittee, “I am highly in favor of the reserve clause.” The owners, Miller said, would use Robinson's prior testimony to discredit him. Robinson was unfazed. “I was young and ignorant at the time,” he told Miller. “That is what they told me, and that is what I said. But I know differently now, and I won't hesitate to say so.”

Robinson spoke in a nasal, high-pitched voice. His white hair, self-confidence, and emotion gave him tremendous stage presence. The courtroom hung on his every word. Even lawyers sitting at the defense table listened in awe.

Robinson discussed his career with the Dodgers: his $600-a-month salary in 1946 with the Montreal Royals, the Dodgers' Triple-A farm club; his $5,000 salary his first year with the Dodgers in 1947; his 1949 Most Valuable Player Award; his .311 lifetime batting average; his six World Series appearances; and his 1962 induction into the Baseball Hall of Fame. Yet he was not certain that his lifetime batting average was .311 or that his highest single-season batting average of .342 came in 1949.

“You don't have one of those little cards?” Goldberg asked.

“No,” Robinson replied as he fidgeted with a pair of glasses in his hands.

Judge Cooper tried to get the court reporter to strike the words “I think” about his .311 career average and .342 average in 1949. Robinson interrupted him.