Jordan's Royal Automobile Museum is history on wheels

 

The 1975 Mercedes Benz 600 Pullman Limosine complete with custom footboards for his security detail. 

A destination for both tourists and royalty, Jordan's Royal Automobile Museum is a symbol of the country's history. Home to dozens of vintage and modern vehicles, the museum tells the story of the Jordanian monarchy's obsession with motoring.

It was a final journey for the king — and the car, a 1975 Mercedes-Benz 600 Pullman Limousine, complete with custom footboards for his security detail. 

The beloved King Hussein bin Talal of Jordan had been suffering from lymphatic cancer. A heavy smoker, he nonetheless spent five months at the Mayo Clinic in 1999 receiving chemotherapy.

That October, he returned home to a hero’s welcome. Frail and thin, Hussein proclaimed himself cured and climbed out of Royal Jordanian I and into his Mercedes Pullman, waving to a dense crowd of admirers as he began his last ride through the streets of Amman escorted by the Keffiyeh-clad Royal Guard Brigade in bright red Puma-era Land Rover Defenders replete with open tops, short windscreens, and swivel-mounted machine guns. 

The king wouldn’t last much longer. But the cars did. 

The outside of the Royal Automobile Museum in Amman [photo credit: Adrian Brune]

Less than four months from his triumphant motorcade, Hussein returned abruptly to the U.S. After receiving a bone marrow transplant, he slipped into a coma and was flown back to Jordan flanked by U.S., UK and Israeli fighter jets — one of a few times the King did not pilot himself.

A Royal Jordanian Air Force helicopter transported him to the medical centre that bore his name, while hundreds of thousands lined the street, chanted his name and openly wept. At  11:43 on 7 February 1999, Hussein, age 63, was pronounced dead of organ failure.

The next day, his Pan-Arab green, red and black flag-draped coffin made its way from Raghadan palace to the Royal Cemetery at Al-Maquar on a tan, flat-bed military Land Rover hearse. 

Bright red Puma-era Land Rover Defenders replete with open tops, short windscreens, and swivel-mounted machine guns. 

“If you saw King Hussein in any of these cars, you realize how special he was. Whether driving a race car at Rumman Hill Climb, or when he sat on the roof of the armoured Mercedes coming back from his first Mayo Clinic treatment or driving himself through Amman traffic, cars were always special to him,” says Raja Gargour, the director of the Royal Automobile Museum in Amman, Hussein’s living tribute. And while Hussein had mixed reviews as a statesman, Middle East peace broker and heir to the Hashemite dynasty, no one could dispute his honorary title of “royal petrol-head” — a man who gained a reputation in his youth for his love of fast cars, nimble planes and just about everything else with an engine.  

That passion is on full display at the Royal Automobile Museum dedicated by his son, King Abdullah II, in 2003. While most of Jordan’s decades-old archaeology museums are antiquated themselves, the automobile museum gives a fresh perspective of Jordan and the Hashemite Dynasty’s modern history through more than 70 cars and motorcycles on display — all flanked by historic photographs, English signage and multimedia presentations.

One of King Hussein’ first acquisitions, a 1955 Mercedes Benz 300 SL “Gullwing,” which he raced at the Rumman Hill Climb — a three-round race over a 3,000-meter course.

“When Abdullah asked me to do a museum, I had the idea of doing it, not from what we had seen of the cars, but what the cars had seen  — the journey of the Royal Family from 1916,” Gargor says. “Other museums are Jordan’s history through art or stones. This is Jordan’s contemporary history through cars.”

Most of these wheels were not bought at auction but were acquired privately or gifted to the King and his sons. Many are still in working order, taken out on weekly spins around the park and used by the royal family, including Abdullah, who is known to zip around Amman’s streets in the 2003 Porsche Carerra GT. For his wedding to Saudi architect Princess Rahway Al Saif in June, Crown Prince Hussein bin Abdullah borrowed the 1984 white, “Sheer Rover” open-review car made especially for Queen Elizabeth’s visits to Jordan. Per usual, an armada of Puma Defender vehicles followed. 

The museum also sheds light on the history of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan from the early 1920s to the present day.

A walk through the museum begins with a collection of motorbikes, led off by a red Harley Davidson used by King Hussein and his last wife, Queen Noor, for a 1996 Condé Nast Traveller photoshoot about Wadi Rum. Aside from that bit of glam, Gargour suggests touring the museum “with an inquisitive eye on how the socio-political and cultural environment changed during King Hussein’s era and moved forward with King Abdullah.”

Hussein, who ascended the throne at age 17 and whose ability to operate and fix most motors helped him cope with the stresses of his early reign (as well as several assassination attempts), remained more practical in his tastes with a slight taste of whimsy. 

After driving around a 1952 Steel Blue Rover P2-75 for a few years, as king, one of his first acquisitions was a 1955 Mercedes Benz 300 SL “Gullwing” which he raced at the Rumman Hill Climb — a three-round race over a 3,000-meter course that climbs 243-meters throughout Jerash. After that, Hussein settled on a number of Mercedes and Rolls Royces — sensible cars for a monarch in the middle of Middle East politics — and these open the museum: a  1987 Mercedes GE 280 4x4, a conservative 1979 Mercedes 450-SL, a regal 1961 white Phantom V and 1968 black Phantom V

The King also had a few of the weird and wacky, such as the "amphicar'', a cross between a red tugboat and an old Volvo, which the king would take on jaunts to the Gulf of Aqaba. And then there's the Czech-built 1937 T97 Tatra, a war-green, Volkswagen look-alike designed by Hans Ledwinka and coveted by Hitler. “I think King Hussein loved cars since childhood. His first car is the Rover on exhibit. He got bored of it very quickly and went on to faster and more exciting models, such as the Bristol and the Aston Martin,” Gargour says. “As years progressed, he had a keen sense of everything mechanical… He loved German engineering, so all the official cars became Mercedes for a long time.”

Czech-built 1937 T97 Tatra, a war-green, Volkswagen look-alike designed by Hans Ledwinka and coveted by Hitler.

The King also had a few of the weird and wacky, such as the "amphicar'', a cross between a red tugboat and an old Volvo, which the king would take on jaunts to the Gulf of Aqaba. And then there's the Czech-built 1937 T97 Tatra, a war-green, Volkswagen look-alike designed by Hans Ledwinka and coveted by Hitler. “I think King Hussein loved cars since childhood. His first car is the Rover on exhibit. He got bored of it very quickly and went on to faster and more exciting models, such as the Bristol and the Aston Martin,” Gargour says. “As years progressed, he had a keen sense of everything mechanical… He loved German engineering, so all the official cars became Mercedes for a long time.”

The second half of the Royal Automobile Museum caters more to Abdullah’s fast and furious style: the DeLorean, the Ferraris, Porsches and BMW motorcycles. While, King Abdullah II, prefers motorbikes to cars, according to Gargour, he is still one of the best drivers in the country — a Jordanian champion in various desert rallies in 1986 and 1988, which he won in the Opel Mantra on exhibit.”

And while some may ask if it’s necessary for any King to have a $100 million car collection on display, especially in a country known for a large refugee population and other internal discord, Gargour has only this to say. 

“The Royal Automobile Museum is constantly voted the best thing to see in Amman on Trip Advisor and other sites.” Could one car have made it better — the one that got away? “A Porsche 904 GTS that he had in 1966 and raced in it.  It is now the 904 at the Porsche Museum. It was traded for a couple of 911 turbos in the 1970s,” Gargour says. “Couldn’t manage to keep and I couldn’t manage to get back.” 

Adrian Brune is a journalist, freelance writer, and multimedia specialist. Her work has appeared in Foreign AffairsAir Mail, the New Yorker, The Guardian and OZY.com on a variety of topics, including global affairs, social justice, the United Nations, human rights and culture. 

Follow her on Twitter: @amargebrune

Feel the Fear and Carry On

 

Landmines these days come in all kinds of different forms, buried and unburied. They range from round, plastic-cased and waterproofed VS-50 anti-personnel mines mostly used in the Iran-Iraq war of the 1980s; to much larger anti-tank VS-500s; to improvised explosive devices (IEDs) that can be tripped in a home with the flip of a light switch or by lifting the lid of a pot on a stove.

In Iraq the landmines problem is vast. Since the early 1940s, the country has been involved in some internal conflict, mostly between the defunct kingdom and pan-Arabists, then with the Kurds, followed by a serious contest against neighbouring Iran and culminating with the two Gulf wars. But none has been as deadly as the seven-year clash of Daesh (or Islamic State) versus the Kurdish Peshmerga, the Iraqi Army and, at one point, the US. ‘Iraq is a hugely contaminated country. There are still more than 1,700 kilometres-squared of minefields – an area larger than London – to clear,’ says Jack Morgan, the country director of Mines Advisory Group (MAG), a British NGO. ‘The government is about to unveil a strategy to make Iraq mine-free by 2028, but the more we survey the more [landmines] we find.’

Although demining work in Iraq had traditionally been done by men, in 2016 MAG decided to open it up to women. After all, the organization had first recruited female deminers as far back as 1995 in Cambodia.

Since then all-female and mixed teams have been hired to demine contaminated areas in Sinjar, Telafar, Hamdaniyah and other districts in the Nineveh plains previously occupied by Daesh. Work is also ongoing to clear minefields dating back to the Iran-Iraq war of the 1980s. In 2020 an open call for women to join demining teams in Mosul received 120 applications in two days. The area had been the locus of the genocidal campaign waged by Daesh against the Yazidi minority. In 2021, MAG hired the first female team in Sulaymaniyah governorate, Kurdistan. ‘Women are not treated any differently; they have the same courses, same equipment and same supervision as the men,’ says Morgan.

‘BE AWARE OF EVERY STEP’

For the women involved it is a life-changing experience to be doing work that is as essential as that done by the male deminers. ‘Women are incredibly detail-oriented and conscientious,’ says Sahar, 27, as she appears on a video call in a tan hijab and black fur-lined puffer jacket after a day’s work. ‘Out in the field, you must be able to concentrate – be aware of every step – because if you make the wrong one, you could lose your life or cause another person to lose theirs.’ Sahar was an eight-year-old girl when the US invaded Iraq to push out Saddam Hussein. She hardly remembers the era – aside from playing games in her Mosul neighbourhood. These days, she is up at 3.00am to arrive at the MAG base at 5.00am, where she gathers the day’s remit. She and her mixed-gender team of 14 drive together to the contamination site, where they don their camo-patterned personal protective equipment, flak jackets and helmets and pick up mine detectors to begin clearing the site. Work ends around 2.00pm.

‘Every day, I have a lot of feelings,’ say Sahar. ‘Sometimes I feel fear, but I just forget it. I think of the people that I save when I go in. I am making a living for my family. I feel like we are superwomen and supermen to save people’s lives – to save my country.’

The Directorate for Mine Action (DMA) in Iraq has set an ambitious schedule during this period of relative stability and, despite the level of contamination, wants the country cleared of mines by 2028. Demining is supervised by two main authorities: the DMA is in charge in federal Iraq, while the Iraqi Kurdistan Mine Action Agency (IKMAA) covers the Kurdistan region. Daesh is ‘down, but not out’, according to Morgan, and continues to place more mines and IEDs, as well as launch attacks against the Peshmerga and Iraqi Security Forces. Countrywide lockdowns, curfews and movement restrictions in response to the Covid-19 pandemic resulted in a slowing of the demining pace in 2020.

But more donor funding became available in 2021, after a lull of four years, and MAG keeps hiring. Sanarya, 28, a deminer in Sulaymaniyah, who grew up near a minefield, joined in August, trading in her job at a medical lab for the field. Since completing her four-week training in late September, she has helped clear a number of mortar bombs left over from the Iran-Iraq war, as well as Italian-made Valmaras and V69 bounding fragmentation mines – mines that shoot spikes or shrapnel.

‘When I was approved for the training, my mom was really hesitant to give me the green light,’ says Sanarya, ‘but my father was a big supporter and convinced her.

‘I know what it’s like to live near bombs – not only how it affects people’s safety, but also their quality of life. They are afraid to leave their homes or go to nice places. Whoever puts mines in the ground, or puts any explosive where an unsuspecting person can trip it, is merciless.’

Despite can-do attitudes, a proven work record and the ‘excitement they bring to the field as trail-blazers’, Morgan acknowledges that the work is long, arduous and – at times – traumatic. ‘That said, many of MAG’s deminers have worked with the organization for several decades, and I hope that Sanarya and Sahar will remain for the long term.’

Sahar says that she ‘loves this kind of job and will be in it to the end, until all the mines are gone in Iraq’. But she also acknowledges societal pressure for women to marry, have babies and give up work outside the home. ‘In Middle Eastern societies women find it hard to proceed with their jobs – they need the permission of their fathers and the support of the family,’ she says. ‘Women need to get a stronger position in society.’ Sanarya reflects this when she talks about her future, saying: ‘It’s important [for me] to stay in the job now, so if I have to leave some day, it will have inspired other women to do it.’

This article is from the March-April 2022 issue of New Internationalist.

  • Discover unique global perspectives

  • Support cutting-edge independent media

  • Magazine delivered to your door or inbox

  • Digital archive of over 500 issues

  • Fund in-depth, high quality journalism

The Neon of Old New York

by Adrian Brune and Micah Beree |

08/10/2009 11:33 AM

By the time Earle C. Anthony installed his iconic, luminous Packard neon sign — the first in America — outside his Los Angeles car dealership in 1923 the “liquid fire” that had already spread across Europe was taking hold in America. Throughout the Depression, WWII and Baby Boom years, neon signs invited patrons to drink, hawked goods and helped weary travelers find their way to the nearest inn. New York’s own vintage neon can be found from velvet rope venues and world-famous restaurants all the way down to $1.50-a-beer-dives. The greatest examples, of course, are the neon signs that have been pristinely preserved over the decades, whether by serendipity or a deep and sincere dedication by the owners who love them. In a city that has a history of bulldozing, then building over its past, there are just a few of these signs left around the neighborhoods of the five boroughs (P&G Café RIP), but they still shine prominently and continue to vie for the title of oldest and most treasured. Click through for some great photos of NYC’s best kept neon.

In 1921, John Carway, a transplant from Dublin, opened the doors to the Dublin House, a nondescript speakeasy conveniently located on the ground floor of an Upper West Side townhouse, to give his fellow Irishmen a furtive place to congregate and drink after work — just as they did in the old country without the hassle of Prohibition. Nearly 12 years later, with the end of the “noble experiment” Carway commissioned E.G. Clarke, Inc., to create one of the brightest and most distinctive signs of the era — a two-sided green harp (the national symbol of Ireland) continuously flashing “Bar” and “Tap Room,” to welcome old patrons and entice new ones. His endeavor worked as well then as it does now, where on any given Saturday night, customers can hear lively banter in thick Irish brogue over the din of the jukebox. “You come out of the subway and you’re instantly hit with the sign,” said Shamus Barnicle, sipping a Guinness. “It gives you a warm feeling when you’re so far away from home.” Although current owner Mike Cormican won’t disclose how much he pays to keep the sign prominently lit, he acknowledges it gets expensive to replace blown tubes after a wild snow or thunderstorm. But, he adds, the sign is worth it. “You can’t get that sign today — they don’t make ‘em like that anymore,” he said. “I hope it stays up forever.”

Known affectionately as Le Chateau Subway to locals, the brightly lit red neon of the Subway Inn sign shines prominently across from Bloomingdale’s art-deco flagship store, although it attracts a markedly different crowd to the corner of 60th and Lex. Located two stories above a hub of underground train activity, longtime owners of the bar put up the sign in 1937 — just before the neon craze of the 40s hit the city — to attract weary commuters in need of a drink to ease their MTA pain. These days, however, quite a few patrons (or former-patrons) complain that the 70-year-old sign is better cared for than the bar itself, which many say was likely last renovated and cleaned around the same time the sign went up. “People walk through the door and say that they used to come in here 30 years ago and just wanted to stop in and see how the place looked,” said Will Sutton, a somnolent bartender from Sunset Park. “They may or may not have a beer, but all agree that nothing about it has changed much.” Nor will it anytime soon, if the longtime drunks have anything to say. Though almost lost in the development boom of the past five years, the current economy and new owners of the Subway Inn promise the dive bar — and its sign — will continue to delight and annoy Upper East-Siders for at least a few more years.

Built in 1880 on the corner of Hudson and 11th Streets, the White House Tavern’s proximity to the docks of the Hudson River made it a longshoreman’s watering hole — not the literary haunt it later became. A Jewish sign painter from Russia named Charles Karsch would begin to alter the old tavern’s character in 1946 when he crafted the White Horse’s famed neon sign; but the bar’s reputation would forever change when a drunken Welsh poet named Dylan Thomas collapsed under that sign’s rosy glow shortly before his death in November 1953. For a generation — during some of the country’s most tumultuous times — the tavern and the sign, featuring scripted red neon letters and a giant horse’s head, drew the best and the most destructive writers from Jack Kerouac (who once discovered “Go Home Kerouac” scribbled on the bathroom wall) to Anais Nin, one of the few notorious female writers to cross the tavern’s threshold. Though the sign holds a special place in hearts of West Village passers-by, Thomas’ ghost will forever reign inside the tavern, his image eclipsing the lone watercolor of the sign in the very back of the bar.

When Polish immigrant Nathan Handwerker started hawking his special recipe frankfurters on the boardwalk of Coney Island 90 years ago, local lore has it that he paid bums in hot dogs to hang around his stand and attract customers. Ten years later, Handwerker settled on a different approach to advertising, installing the giant upright yellow-and-green flagship sign, the first of several large-scale neon beacons around the building. Today, the original Nathan’s stand on Surf Avenue is awash in vintage neon — some of the finest the city has to offer, according to aficionados. “New Yorkers already know the signs by heart, but when we have tourists come, they stand right under them to have their pictures taken,” said Bruce Miller, Nathan’s director of operations, adding that the company pays $25,000 a year to keep Nathan’s glowing. While redevelopment rumors at one point alluded to the replacement of Nathan’s and the signs — including the 1940s-era animated hot dog on the corner of Surf and Stillwell Avenues – Miller says Nathan’s will remain “at the forefront” of Coney Island. “You just can’t get this kind of look anymore.”

Standing at 150 feet, Denos Wonder Wheel is already the centerpiece of the Coney Island boardwalk, but in the ride’s amusement heyday, owner Herald J. Garms and the Eccentric Ferris Wheel Company ensured the wheel’s conspicuousness with several neon banners, including the animated sign on Twelfth Avenue. Constructed in 1950 and featuring a wheel with circling neon cars, the sign guards a lightly trafficked entrance to the wheel, but has nonetheless protected its notoriety — and taken some hard knocks for it. “The sign’s been hit by 18-wheelers making u-turns on a number of occasions,” said Dennis Vourderis, the current co-owner of the Wonder Wheel. “We always put it back up because it draws people in and adds to the flavor of the park.” The sign’s also a land-marked piece of New York history – part of the package Vourderis’ father, Denos, pushed through the fastidious New York City Landmarks Preservation Commission in 1989. Still, landmark status doesn’t always keep the graffiti artists away, or Mother Nature from exacting her wear-and-tear. “Just before we open every year, we have to do extensive work on the corrosion of the sign,” Vourderis said. “The previous owners had a mesh screen over the sign to protect it from vandals, but we pulled it off. It just took away from the sign’s beauty.”

The Gold Standard

Debevoise & Plimpton is number one on The A-List—again. Here’s how the firm keeps rising to the top. By Adrian Brune

MARTIN FREDERIC EVANS (everyone calls him “Rick”) has one of those sigh-provoking Manhattan views that makes you wonder how he gets any work done. From his forty-third-floor midtown perch, the Debevoise & Plimpton presiding partner can, as he puts it, “see the storms rolling in.”

Right now, however, the skies are crystal-clear for Evans and Debevoise. For the second consecutive year, the firm is number one on The American Lawyer’s A-list, our ranking of the nation’s best law firms. If its scores are any indication, Debevoise has hit upon the rarest of formulas: it makes money—a lot of it—while honoring its pro bono commitment, treating younger lawyers like human beings, and working, albeit with somewhat less success, at making sure its workforce is diverse.

We rank firms for The A-List according to their performance in those four categories: revenue per lawyer, pro bono, associate satisfaction, and diversity. You don’t have to be perfect to make it to the top. Among the 20 a-list firms, Debevoise ranked number seven in revenue per lawyer; number three in pro bono; number four in associate satisfaction; and number 12 in diversity. But you do have to be consistent. The firm had high enough scores across the board to carve out a 40- point lead over the number two firm on the list, New York’s Patterson Belknap Webb & Tyler.

So how does Debevoise keep doing it? Is there something so different in its DNA? On the surface, at least, the answer would seem to be no. The firm is a lot like other elite New York players. It has the requisite band of tough corporate specialists and litigators. Its highest-profile cases won’t win it any warm-and-fuzzy awards. And not everything’s perfect in the partnership: earlier this year, for instance, Ralph Ferrara, who opened Debevoise’s Washington, D.C., office

and was a top gun in the securities bar there, took his $30 million book of business to LeBoeuf, Lamb, Greene & Macrae.

Yet current and former partners and associates say the firm has a key advantage: a culture that emphasizes collegiality, allows partners to experiment with new clients and business opportunities, and honors public service. In interview after interview, Debevoise lawyers use words like “integrity,” “intellect,” and, by far their favorite, the aforementioned “collegiality” to describe the firm. Even Ferrara, whose well-publicized jump to LeBoeuf battered the 20-lawyer D.C. office, describes Debevoise as “a spectacular firm, with spectacular people.”

What Ferrara didn’t mention—and what was reportedly an issue in his decision to jump ship—is the firm’s continuing use of a lockstep pay structure for partners. A top-earning veteran like Ferrara, who, according to our sibling publication Legal Times in Washington, pulled down $2 million a year, could see his salary double at a competing firm (and presumably did when he exited).

Even so, some of the firm’s biggest revenue-generators are the most vocal proponents of the lockstep system and say it is an absolute must in keeping the firm’s culture intact. The fact that the high end of the lockstep scale guarantees a $2 million–plus payday is probably one reason. Another, says Jeffrey Rosen, co-chair of the firm’s mergers and acquisitions group, is that lockstep keeps the firm “pleasant and efficient . . . a lot of firms have become much less of a partnership and become more of a mini–financial institution. We’re sort of anti-rainmaker here.”

ANTI-RAINMAKER, MAYBE, but not anti-money. The cornerstone of Debevoise’s A-List ranking is its financial results. In the last five years, despite a recession and rocky economic recovery, Debevoise has increased revenues 78 percent, from $269 million to $478.5 million, with revenue per lawyer climbing from $670,000 to $890,000. Profits per partner have followed suit, rising from $1.2 million to $1.5 million during the same period—not quite the $2 million of a few of the firm’s elite competitors (here, Debevoise lawyers might whisper “Cravath, Swaine & Moore”), but a top-of-the-profession return nonetheless.

Debevoise counts, in part, on a base of traditional corporate work for institutional clients, some of which have been with the firm for decades. Phelps Dodge corporation, the copper mining conglomerate, signed on with Debevoise 70 years ago; John Hancock Financial Services, inc., has been a client for 60 years; American Airlines, now a subsidiary of AMR corporation, for 50.

Yet the firm touts—and with some merit—its expanding M&A practice. A team of 32 partners and 100 associates work on approximately 100 deals per year, and in the past two years, Debevoise “has started swinging for the fences” in the terms of the breadth and scope of its corporate work, says Michael Blair, chair of corporate practice. Rosen represented General Electric Company’s NBC in its $14 billion acquisition of Vivendi Universal entertainment in 2004 [“Americans in Paris,” April 2004]. The firm also worked on the $2.4 billion sale of Kinko’s, inc., to FedEx corporation and financial services giant AXA Financial, Inc.’s $1.5 billion cash acquisition of The Mony Group Inc., a New York insurance and financial services company. Debevoise is currently advising Verizon communications inc. in its $8.5 billion acquisition of MCI, inc., and guiding the Dolan family, which wants to take private a portion of communications provider Cablevision Systems Corporation. “Corporate’s revenue growth in the four years 2000–2004 was 42 percent. The dollar amount of revenue growth in those four years actually modestly exceeded the dollar growth in department revenues during the booming 1996– 2000 period,” Blair says.

Litigation is also boosting revenues, bringing in $200 million last year from clients such as Merck & Co., Inc., the maker of Vioxx, which tapped Debevoise to head an internal investigation into charges that the drug contributed to heart disease and several deaths. The firm also has represented Global crossing limited in Securities and Exchange Commission and other matters relating to its 2002 meltdown, and was at Rosie O’Donnell’s side when the comedienne and talk show host was sued by magazine publisher Gruner + Jahr for walking away from her self-titled magazine in September 2002. (The case ended in a draw a year later.)

O’Donnell, in an e-mail exchange, says she came to the firm needing “the toughest, smartest female lawyer in NYC” to defend her: “one name—Mary Jo White—came up; I called for an appointment.”

White’s name comes up a lot, actually. The former U.S. attorney for the Southern District of New York has helped the firm jump into a series of what partner Mark Goodman, a former federal prosecutor who served under White, calls “big-mess cases.” Says partner Lorna Schofield, also a former assistant U.S. attorney from the Southern District, “It’s the perfect storm. It’s a very trying time for corporations; that work is going to continue for a while.” White came aboard in 2002 following her eight-year star turn as U.S. attorney. As she stepped down, she was on the must- have list for firms hoping to build their white-collar practices. Debevoise had an advantage: The 57-year-old had been a partner at the firm before she became a prosecutor. After a quiet courtship (“They’re all smart enough to know . . . that a heavy rush is not the way to recruit me,” White says), she returned to the firm.

“[Debevoise] does have—and it’s not a negative on any other firm— what I think is a unique, heightened consciousness of the ethics of the practice of law,” says White. “Particularly in this day and age, conflicts of interest are everywhere. Here it’s ‘Should I make this argument?’ not ‘can I make this argument under the law?’ but ‘Should I make this argument; should I give this advice?’ you focus in on what you ought to be doing, not what you ought not to be doing. So, my tax partner on the thirty-second floor—I don’t have to worry if he has the same zeitgeist. It’s the zeitgeist of the firm.”

DEBEVOISE LAWYERS ALSO APPEAR TO BE on the same page about their commitment to pro bono work. Last year Debevoise lawyers performed 51,000 pro bono hours, and 278—65 percent—of the firm’s 430 U.S.– based lawyers did more than 20 hours of pro bono work per year. Debevoise also pitched in another $1 million in travel expenses and fees for experts and court reporters.

The point man for the firm’s pro bono effort is partner Christopher Tahbaz, a 40-year-old litigator who came to the firm as an associate from Donovan Leisure Newton & Irvine in 1994. He co- chairs the firm’s pro bono committee and says he spends about 200 hours a year administering pro bono issues for the firm. (In June, Debevoise hired a full-time manager of pro bono administration to help oversee a variety of pro bono administrative tasks, as well as some longer- term planning.) “As a firm, we believe that pro bono work is an essential part of a fully realized and satisfying law practice,” Tahbaz says. “We strongly encourage all of our lawyers to become involved in their own pro bono projects, and we support such efforts with the full resources of the firm. I think this commitment explains our success.”

Tahbaz himself has been at the center of one of the firm’s longest-running pro bono cases. Back in 1997, while he was still a senior associate, he took up a case with the Urban Justice center, a New York nonprofit that provides legal assistance to the poor and homeless. The center hoped to stop the city’s practice of putting mentally ill jail inmates on the streets without follow-up care,

and Tahbaz, who serves as a board member at the center, agreed to help. “I saw a terrific opportunity to make a real contribution, through my legal work, to the life of the city in which I lived and practiced,” says Tahbaz. For two years, Tahbaz investigated the facts, and in 1999, with Debevoise’s blessing, filed Brad H. v. City of New York—a class action against New York’s penal system that charged negligence on the part of the city. New York settled the case in 2003, agreeing to provide services to inmates before and after their release. “Our class members are no longer released during the middle of the night with $1.50 and two subway tokens,” Tahbaz says. “The best moment of my pro bono career was signing that settlement.” The work isn’t over, however. The city now pays for two independent, court-appointed monitors to oversee implementation of the settlement. They, in turn, are being watched by Debevoise lawyers.

HERE’S ANOTHER UPSIDE TO the pro-bono efforts: it’s good for recruiting and training talent. Take Catherine Amirfar, a fifth-year litigation associate. When she considered firms after New York University School of Law, she settled on Debevoise. The firm’s pro bono commitment “was one of the things that clinched the deal,” Amirfar says.

Associates at Debevoise, in our midlevel satisfaction survey, gave the firm nearly perfect scores for its pro bono work. In fact, associates awarded good grades across the board: They backed up management’s assertion the firm was a collegial place to work, giving high marks for associate and partner relations. They also lauded the firm for its training and guidance and benefits and compensation. Associates at Debevoise don’t necessarily have it easy. Any firm with million- dollar partner profits and double-digit spikes in revenue can safely avoid the label “lifestyle firm.” (According to last year’s survey of midlevels, associates at the firm bill roughly 2,200 hours per year.) Yet, Debevoise managers seem to reject the idea that an associate’s worth is measured solely in quantity of billable hours. They stress that they want the lawyers at the firm to have a life. The firm has no minimum billable hours requirement for associates, though managers clearly expect that work will get done. “Some months I’m working 80-hour weeks, others 50 or so,” Amirfar says. “I have friends whose lives out- side of work are diminished to nothing; I have a life outside of the firm.”

Partners appear to take a hands-on approach to man- aging junior lawyers: associates are each assigned a partner-adviser who monitors their progress. If they fall behind, the firm tries hard to work with them to reinvigorate their work, says partner Michael Gillespie, who serves on the firm’s recruiting committee. When it’s clear that an associate isn’t going to make it, “we will provide that associate with outplacement resources designed to enable a smooth transition to other career paths,” he says. There’s also something of a “no jerks” policy at the firm. Partners are expected to treat associates with respect, Gillespie says: “We simply don’t tolerate bad behavior at any levels of the organization.”

AS THE FIRM’S A-LIST SCORES ATTEST Debevoise isn’t perfect. Though it has a respectable diversity score—especially compared to its New York counterparts—Debevoise is still a largely white bastion. Just 15.2 percent of the firm’s U.S. lawyers and 3.4 percent of its partners are minorities. That breaks down to 27 African Americans (two of them partners); 34 Asian Americans, including one partner; and 13 Hispanic Americans, one of whom is a partner. Even so, that’s high enough to rank in the top 40 of our sibling publication Minority Law Journal’s annual diversity Scorecard, which ranks 260 law firms for diversity. (The most diverse firm in the survey, Miami’s Steel Hector & Davis, had a nearly 36 percent minority head count; Simpson Thacher & Bartlett had the highest minority percentage among New York–based firms: 23.9 percent.)

James Johnson, one of the firm’s two African American partners and a member of its diversity

committee, insists that a diverse workforce is one of the partnership’s primary goals. Debevoise, he says, recruits ethnic minorities at about 30 law schools around the country and that 22.2 percent of the associates hired in the New York office over the last five years were minorities. Johnson acknowledges that “all of us (New York firms) could do better. It may sound trite, but it’s often said that as our clients become more diverse and the world gets smaller, we need to be more diverse.” He cited a recent internal investigation conducted outside the United States in which a team of attorneys were interviewing Arab witnesses. “One of the lawyers not only spoke the particular Arabic dialect, but was also a practicing Muslim and was able to inform our approaches to the witnesses,” Johnson says.

IF THIS ALL SOUNDS VERY EARNEST AND YES, even nice, that’s the point. Debevoise lawyers say the firm has, from its beginnings, worked to foster a reputation as a law firm with a soul. Kenneth Nolan, an aviation attorney and managing partner of the New York office of Speiser Krause, heads the plain- tiffs committee for the families of 9/11 victims in a case against American airlines. Debevoise represents the airline. “They’re tenacious,” he says. “They leave no stone unturned—but they’re decent individuals.”

The firm was founded in 1931 by Eli Whitney Debevoise, a descendant of cotton gin inventor Eli Whitney and then a junior associate at Davis Polk & Wardwell. He was joined by another Davis Polk lawyer, William Stevenson, who was better known for his gold-winning leg on the 1,600- meter relay during the 1924 Olympics. A few years later, Francis Plimpton, father of the writer George Plimpton, came aboard.

The team had strong patrician leanings: Debevoise’s father was a top Wall Street lawyer and longtime counsel to Standard oil baron John Rockefeller, Jr., and the erudite Plimpton, who later served as a deputy representative to the United Nations under Presidents John Kennedy and Lyndon Johnson, was, according to a colleague quoted in a 1971 New Yorker profile, “the only person who can write an indenture in iambic pentameter.”

Despite their elite backgrounds, they worked to promote a strong commitment to pro bono and public service, and fiercely protected the firm’s culture. Lawyers grew up at the firm and were promoted to partner. Lateral hires were frowned upon (and still are; the firm has brought in just eight outside partners in the last decade). And the firm would hang onto lockstep compensation even as their competitors shifted toward merit-based pay systems.

Debevoise, who died in 1990, served as presiding partner into the 1970s and remains a strong influence on the firm. Partners cite him when they talk about the firm’s culture and pro bono work, and Evans tries to keep up some of his predecessor’s traditions. Every year, at the annual firm dinner, he says a few words about the firm’s best moments, something Debevoise did every year. Predictably, the speech is a mix of how well the firm did with business and pro bono clients. This year Evans described walking into the firm’s conference center, where lawyers were working on restructuring the finances for Delta Air Lines Inc.’s aircraft fleet: “I saw rooms of documents and lawyers, the lawyers diverse by any measure and working across specialties to deliver unrivaled service on a project of great commercial importance.” The second event took place on Election Day. “I went to see a conference room full of computer screens and telephones, as Debevoise lawyers played a leading role in the nationwide voter information and protection effort.”

Evans is in his forty-third-floor office as he relates the story. Both events, he says, “showed the firm at its best.” Three-quarters of a mile into the sky, the firm sits atop the profession, with nary a storm cloud on the vast and splendid horizon.

E-mail: abrune@alm.com.
As appeared in the September 2005 edition of The American Lawyer.