UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN
Wednesday, April 23, 1997
5A
During the 1979 commencement at Memorial Stadium, Kuby and his girlfriend Laurie Hanley hold a banner protesting the University's investment in South Africa. KU police officers arrested Kuby for violating a Board of Regents rule.
Learning laws of life
Continued from page 1A
done business in South Africa.
"The South Africa Committee had been around for a while, but they weren't very effective. Who would care about what went on in South Africa?" Kuby recalled. "If we added the freedom of speech issue to the protest, we'd draw a lot more people. And that's what we did."
The committee made front-page news after KU's 1979 commencement.
Kuby and his girlfriend Laurie Hanley rolled out a banner that said "KU Out of South Africa" during commencement at Memorial Stadium.
Kuby was arrested and charged with interfering with the duties of a KU police officer
"That policy dealt with political campaigning. Our banner had nothing to do with elections," Kuby said.
when he refused to take the banner down. KU officials said the banner violated a Board of Regents rule that prohibited a display of political advertisements in enclosed areas during nonpolitical events.
As soon as he got out
of jail, Kuby filed his own University judiciary charges against Chancellor Archie R. Dykes, executive vice chancellor Del Shankel and four KU police officers for violating his student rights and freedom of speech.
"The University handled the situation very poorly," he said. "They should have let Ron and anyone else make statements they want. People do all kinds of things at commencement."
Del Shankel, who went on to serve as chancellor and now is a professor emeritus, said he never thought Kubu's protest was illegal
Many people in the Bronx idolize Kuby. They follow him to and from the courtroom. They take him out to lunch and brina him their woes.
Don Stull, professor of anthropology and Kuby's former adviser, said Kuby was a perfect student who was socially and intellectually mature.
"Ron was justifiably exercising his freedom of speech," he said. "But there were differences in opinion, and mine did not prevail."
Stull also said he had mixed feelings about the South Africa issue, but he believed Kuby had the right to protest at graduation.
He cites the case where Kuby defended Darrell Cabey, an African American, who was paralyzed after Bernard Goetz shot him and his three companions in a
"Kuby's one of the few people left that stick to defending the rights of the underprivileged," says Jorge Fitz-Gibbon, a New York Daily News reporter.
Later that summer, the KU Judiciary dropped Kuby's charges against the six KU officials. And the University dropped the charges against Kuby after he put up filers, which invited everyone to the trial.
"Kuby is one of the sharpest political analysts I've ever met."
Tim Miller KU Professor of Religion
1984 subway altercation.
Last winter, a Bronx jury awarded Cabey $43 million for his suffering, Fitz-Gibbon says.
After graduating from the University with honors in anthropology, Kuby did not leave Lawrence or his activism.
At the 1980 commencement, Kuby, along with 25 people,
unrolled two banners. One said "Freedom of
Speech at KU," and the other said "Help!
We're being arrested."
University police arrested everyone except Kuby.
"They had orders not to arrest me," Kuby said.
Kuby received a broken shoulder when a KU police officer snatched the banner from him.
"I told him he had to break my arm to get it, and he did. I'm glad I didn't ask him to shoot me." Kuby said.
Kuby said he thought their protests forced the University to decide whether it would be a flagship for high-dollar alumni ideals or a platform for energetic flow of ideas.
"Not that it would not have happened without us, but I think our struggles made KU more open," he said.
Despite all that happened, Kuby keeps a positive attitude about his alma mater.
"I got a good education at KU," he said.
"There were a lot of good professors that were refugees at KU. They were the ones who got sick of the mainstream universities in the 1960s and wanted to come to a quieter place."
Kuby said that after five years of activism, he and the University had outgrown one other, which led him to Cornell University to study law.
Kuby, with a smirk, describes himself as a "media whore." Since he does not make much in legal fees, with clients like Tocco or Cabey, media appearances are an additional income stream for him. On the way to Court TV where he will question the fairness of the Son of Sam law, a statute that forbids criminals from profiting by taking media fees for talking or writing about their crimes, he complains that he doesn't get enough sleep.
"Problem with being sleepy is, you lose your edge. Edge is everything in this business," he says. "If I lose my edge, then I'd better go start a real estate business instead of law."
Kuby's troublemaking nature had surfaced long before he came to the University.
"When you grow up as the son of an activist, the process of activism, distributing leaflets, getting arrested is familiar." he said.
After he was kicked out of ninth grade, Kuby joined the Jewish Defense League and decided to go to Israel to "join the militia and kill Arabs."
His father, Donald Kuby was an active member of the Jewish Defense League in the 60s, a group that militantly defended the Zionist cause. Kuby denies being influenced by his father but admits it was helpful to witness what it was to be an activist.
But when he started traveling in Israel, Kuby discovered another side of the coin.
Ironically, years later Kuby would defend El Sayid Nosair, who was charged with assassinating Rabbi Kahane, leader of the defense league.
"I spent a lot of time in Jerusalem with Arabs who were very hospitable, and I discovered I had a lot in common with them."
Kuby has lunch with William Kunstler, his mentor and long-time partner in law.
In law school, Kuby worked for Prisoner's Legal Services, which in 1982 led him to a summer internship with William Kunstler.
Before visiting Kunstler's office for the first time, Kuby had a vision of an office filled with people in suits, secretaries and a lot of marble and bronze. But he found a
Archive photo
"I expected that he'd be dressed, and we'd have a get-to-know-you session where he'd show me around," he said. "But Bill flung the door open with nothing on him except a shirt, gave me a cup of coffee and started telling me all this stuff I had to do."
Greenwich Village brownstone that was both office and home to the 70s legal icon.
The first case Kuby worked on was a case that involved Kunstler's dog. Sam Peekaboo.
"Peekaboo got a $50 ticket for crapping in the street. Although he was found guilty, I managed to get the ticket cut down to $25." Kuby bragged.
At the end of the summer of 1982, Kunstler asked Kuby to transfer to New York University and work for him.
"Kunstler was going to pay my tuition and everything, but Cornell didn't let me," Kubv said.
He said the underlying reason was political. Cornell didn't agree with Kunstler's left-wing, radical causes.
But, as soon as he graduated, Kuby was back with Kunstler and remained with him until Kunstler's death in 1996.
Kuby said his relationship with Kunstler was the longest consensual human relationship of his life; however, he never saw Kunstler as a father figure.
He said the relationship was similar to the kind police officers have with their partners.
"Cops talk about life with their partners and face dangers," he said. "It's not a hierarchical relationship. It's not something you have often. Cops have it. Bill and I had it. Sort of funny, I guess."
Kuby has seen a lot of young people wanting to take Kunstler's path, but he said he thought the legal left had been in a steep decline.
Kuby said the young people today knew nothing about the Vietnam war or the draft and, the legal left had become irrelevant to them.
"We've become like the World War II veterans," he said.
Kuby said he was concerned about the next generation. He has a five-year-old daughter named Emma with his companion of 12 years, Marilyn Vasta.
Kuby said he hoped for a change in the legal left but believed it was a difficult process.
"Especially in criminal court, there's moral ambiguity in the absence of a movement. You are pretty much left to your own devices," he said.
But Tim Miller, professor of religion and another commencement protester, said Kuby's devices were more than sufficient.
"He is one of the sharpest political analysts I've ever met. He's a tremendous activist whose mind was perfectly tuned to whatever he did," he said.
During the lunch break, Kuby walks out of the courthouse surrounded by an African-American family. They want his help. 'It's another case where Kuby will line up against the police and the prosecutor's office.'
Kuby talks with them. They all look at him with admiration.
As he starts to walk off, an African-American girl runs after him.
"Mr. Kuby, can I have your business card?" she asks.
Kubu kneels down to talk to her.
"Oh, of course honey. How old are you?" "Eiht," she saus.
Kuby pulls out his wallet and fishes for a card. "Here," he tells her, still on his knees. "You can have two."
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