As Ron Yengich walks briskly to court this morning, he is pondering his three decades of defending the accused. Sept. 29 will mark 30 years as a criminal defense attorney in Salt Lake City. He noted it on his calendar. It has been on his mind for months.
"Thirty years," he says. "I've spent a lot of time thinking about it."
That's 30 years of taking on some of Utah's most high-profile cases, usually on the side of the underdog and squarely against public sentiment. That's 30 years of having the fate of men resting on his shoulders. Thirty years of representing murderers, drug dealers, thieves. Thirty years of fighting for congressmen, mayors, judges, "Joe Sixpack," pro athletes, actors, religious leaders, journalists. "All manner of disreputables," he says wryly.
It has a way of wearing down a man — of rounding off the sharp points, he says, hoping it hasn't — especially one as passionate and intense as the 57-year-old Yengich. He is famous for his victories, small (plea deals) and big (exoneration), but then sometimes you wonder if it's a fair fight. When this man walks into a courtroom, he's carrying the hopes, struggles and toughness of the old Bingham miners from whom he sprang; he carries the tragedy of his beloved brother Nick Jr. in his heart; he carries the bitterness of his own brief stint in jail and the keen feeling of helplessness in the morass of the justice-system machine.
He carries all that into the courtroom. No wonder he's known as the toughest, scrappiest, not to mention most successful defense attorney in the state.
"Thirty years," he says again as he huffs and puffs his way up the back stairway of the courthouse. "I'm fighting it. How much is left in the well? Can it be replenished? How do I go about doing that? Is it worth it? At this point, I'm deciding where I go from here. Nobody played in the Major Leagues for 30 years. Nobody played in the NFL for 30 years."
He enters the courtroom, where lawyers are gathering to set court dates, and Yengich turns on the charm, working the room like a politician. "How are you doing?" "How are the grandkids?" "Hey, saw your baby! He is a cuuute boy!" He sits down on a bench and puts his arm around a client, a former schoolteacher accused of sexual contact with a student, and they have a quiet discussion about his case.
Moments later, when he spots another client in the hallway outside, he barks, "You're late!" When the man says he was delayed by traffic, Yengich shoots back, "I don't give a #*& $!#! It's the Nick Yengich rule. He was my dad. He said when someone says be there at 9, he means 8:45. I understand traffic, but you gotta build that in. Got it?!" After they discuss the man's court date, Yengich sends him on his way.
Back at the office, Yengich meets with a middle-age couple and their teenage son, who is addicted to narcotics and has stolen money to feed his habit. The judge cut him a deal: drug treatment, college classes, a job. He has done none of these things.
"If we walked over there (court) right now, they'd put your ass in jail," Yengich says to the young man. "I don't know what to do with you. You're stuck with me. I'm part of the family now. If I have to take you myself, I'll do it. I'm not going to let happen what happened to members of my family."
The father says the son has been disrespectful and hurtful to his mother. They are distraught. Money is missing. He sneaks out of the house with people the parents don't know. As the parents talk, the teenager interrupts them, and Yengich chides him — "Don't interrupt your mom and dad! I know it's a different time, and parents allow that. I don't. I've thrown people out of here for that."
The boy interrupts again several times, and each time Yengich rebukes him. When it happens a fourth time, Yengich says, "All right, come with me," and they leave the room. Yengich returns alone a few minutes later and says, "OK, here's the deal. I'm going to meet with him each week. He will be enrolled in (drug treatment) on Monday, or I'll take him to the judge and see what she wants to do with him. And he will enroll in school next week." After further discussion, he brings the boy back into the room. "You treat your mom with respect," he says. "If I were your dad and you treated her that way, I'd kick your ass. I really would." When they are finished, he hugs the kid.
"Hey, gotta give them a hug," says Yengich when his clients have gone. "My job is to help them. I believe in them. It doesn't mean I agree with everything they're doing."
How did Salt Lake Valley spawn the phenomenon known as Ronald James Yengich — liberal, outspoken, in-your-face, Catholic, Italian-Croatian, blue collar, champion of the underdog and oppressed, son of two generations of miners? He's a man so far outside the norm in Utah that he is in a category of one.
Yengich has made himself a famous lawyer who is in demand throughout the West at least in part because of his willingness to take on unpopular cases and his success. He got a plea deal instead of the death penalty for both Mark Hofmann, the infamous forger-murderer, and Michael Decorso, a murderer and rapist. He handled the appeal for made-for-TV-movie subject Frances Schreuder (convicted of having her son kill her father). He successfully defended Sam Kastanis, who was accused of killing his wife and his children (jurors who were interviewed after the case was completed said Yengich's courtroom performance was one of the reasons they voted to set Kastanis free), and James Bottarini, who was accused of pushing his wife off a mountain in Zion National Park.
"He gets the toughest cases that a lot of people don't want," says U.S. District Attorney Paul Warner, who, despite being a professional opponent, admires Yengich so much that he chose him to speak at his investiture. "He throws his heart and soul into them, and he has a remarkable record of success. If I was in trouble, he is the first one I would call. Even people who don't necessarily like him, if they get in trouble, they call him. All of a sudden politics and religion don't matter."
To wit: The numerous policemen who, suddenly forgetting that Yengich has frustrated many of their own cases, seek him out when they're in trouble. Officer Bruce Eric Ballenger beat rape charges when Yengich persuaded the judge to overlook Utah's shield laws (which protect alleged rape victims from divulging their sexual past in court), and officer Lane Heaps beat assault charges after Yengich convinced a jury that his client punched a prisoner in the face because the man was being unruly and Heaps feared for his safety.
Yengich knows what it's like to be in jail. He spent two nights in the Jefferson County Jail in Louisville, Ky. At the time, he was attending Bellarmine College, where he had a partial baseball scholarship, and one night he and a teammate were attending a party that got busted by police, who found marijuana in an upstairs room.
Yengich and the others were booked into the jail. The other partygoers posted bail, but not Yengich. Years earlier his father had warned him and his brother Nick: "If you ever get in trouble and they take you to jail, tell them to make the bail as high as they can. Because if you get in trouble and ruin our good name that we have made, and I am able to bail you out, I will kill you."
So, Yengich sat in jail for 2 1/2 days. Finally, his teammate's father hired an attorney named Henry Sadlo to represent Yengich and his son. He bailed out Yengich and escorted him to the courtroom. Yengich was awestruck by what happened next.
"It was an epiphany," Yengich says. "Sadlo moved through the court, and it was like parting the Red Sea. He talks to everyone. I have no idea what's going on. It's like magic. He took over. And just like that it's over. Nineteen cases are dismissed when Sadlo talks. He conducts the orchestra, and it's over. I walked out a free man. I was just stunned by this guy."
Yengich had submitted applications to Columbia School of Journalism and to several law schools, either to follow his brother into journalism or to become a labor lawyer. After watching Sadlo's performance, he decided to become a defense attorney. He graduated from the University of Utah law school.
"When I look at people I defend, I still see that kid in Jefferson County Jail," Yengich says. "I still ask myself, 'Do you still see him, or have you become sufficiently jaundiced that you don't give him the same presumption of innocence?' Is it more about money now? Is it a job or a profession?"
Yengich has made a career of defending underdogs and "the obviously guilty," as one observer puts it. He came by his empathy for the little guy naturally, spending part of his youth in the old mining town of Bingham.
As John Schulian, a columnist/TV writer and longtime Yengich pal, observes, "I know that (Yengich) takes Bingham with him into every courthouse he's stepped into."
Bingham, now buried under slag, was once a thriving mining town tucked away in a valley so narrow it was said a dog had to wag his tail up and town.
The vast majority of the miners were immigrants like the Yengiches, who scratched out a living and a foothold in America by going to work in the mines. They were tough, hard-working people who considered themselves outsiders to Utah, physically, religiously, economically and socially.
Yengich's paternal grandfather emigrated from Croatia to mine here before the turn of the century. His maternal grandfather emigrated from Italy in the '20s. Yengich's fathers and uncles were miners here, and Ron himself worked as a miner in the summer.
His father, Nick Sr., was a carpenter in the mine and a labor union leader. He came home in the evening and fixed dinner for the children while his wife, Erma, went to work as a keypunch operator.
The Yengiches preached education and hard work. ("I'm not sending you to school to eat your lunch," Nick used to tell his children.) When Ron was 6, the family moved to White City, a humble enclave of tiny box homes in Sandy where the Yengich attitude that would become Ron's trademark began to foment. He grew up convinced that his Catholicism, foreign name and modest means made him a second-class citizen in the largely LDS valley, although one former classmate says he makes too much of this, noting: "I was picked on for being a goody-goody Mormon as much as he was for being a Croatian Catholic."
The differences between him and the other children were as subtle as a prayer. At school and at Boy Scouts, he grew resentful after listening to every prayer being given in the LDS style until finally one day, after hearing a prayer in a school assembly, he got fed up and left school.
"I love Mormons, and I say that unabashedly, but there comes a point when you say, 'Stop jamming it down my throat,' " Yengich says. "They don't even know they do it."
After a pause, he continues: "Bingham had a major impact on me in the sense that I've always been somebody who looks at people who are not necessarily white, Anglo-Saxon Protestant Americans as being . . . people who are deserving of consideration or fairness. As much as anything, being from Bingham is an attitude, an attitude about being an outsider almost."
When it came time to choose college, Yengich was determined to leave the state and find a new environment. He found it in Kentucky. He thought it ironic that, in the coming years, he found himself defending LDS Church members against misconceptions he heard from classmates. It was while defending Hofmann that he developed "an incredible respect" for the LDS Church. To prepare for that case, he reread the history of the persecution of the Mormons.
"It made me have a better understanding of the relationship between the church and its followers and how they react to others," he says. "I read The Declaration of Grievances — the Mormon people writing to President Arthur. It deserves to be read alongside the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence. It's a great document. I've come full circle in many ways from being just so fed up. I became concerned that I might have the same kind of prejudices and wondered if I had been doing what they were doing."
On a recent morning, Yengich, the man who wonders if he's losing his edge, could be found delivering another emotional closing argument, except this wasn't in a courtroom and there was no injury. He had an audience of one, in his office. He began talking about the judicial system, and soon he worked himself into fever pitch. Thirty years of cynicism are being unleashed.
"A significant portion of those who come in here are guilty of something," Yengich says. "I try to help them. I help them find their way through the judicial system. Our criminal justice system is built to destroy as opposed to help. The reality is, there isn't anyone who hasn't made mistakes. The system should be meant to help people. I recognize there are some people who simply can't play with the rest of us and have to be isolated. But in the 30 years I've been doing this I have seen us become the meanest, most punitive people in the world."
Yengich is especially frustrated by what he views as the archaic treatment — or nontreatment really — of drug and alcohol abusers. He launches another fit about the dearth of treatment for abusers and the mandatory sentencing guidelines for punishment over treatment.
This hits close to home for Yengich. His brother Nick, who was a reporter for the Baltimore Sun, drank himself to death at the age of 37. "I don't want to hurt my mom talking about that," Yengich says. "My brother was a brilliant guy and a great writer. Journalism was important to him. He sacrificed some of that because he drank too much." Yengich says this under the watchful eyes of the many photos and memorabilia that adorn his office walls, including mug shots of Nick. The office is a scrapbook.
There is a photo of Martin Luther King and a replica of his "I Have a Dream" speech. There are several photos of his family. There is a Mark Twain coffee cup and numerous paintings of the legendary writer, including one his wife had commissioned in which Yengich himself is standing next to Twain.
Yengich's home library contains between 4,000 and 5,000 books, all meticulously organized according to subject. He favors Shakespeare, King, Gandhi, the Roman poet Horace, Dante. He has read all 73 volumes of the Nero Wolfe series by Rex Stout and all of the Sherlock Holmes books many times. He reads novels, history, philosophy, religion, histories of Rome.
"He always has about six books going at once," says his wife, Kay.
In Yengich's office, there is a book called "Latin verbs" on his desk. He has been teaching himself Latin for eight years. (He also can read French and speak Italian.) He sponsors an annual Latin competition for in-state universities and colleges, named after his father.
"There's the public persona of Ron," Warner says, "but there's a lot more there than what you see. He's a Renaissance guy, very eclectic."
Yengich taught himself sign language. Lately, he has been studying Morse Code. Because his father served in the Coast Guard, Yengich decided he should learn Morse, so he bought several books on the subject and has begun studying it.
"He just has an insatiable appetite for learning," says Heidi Buchi, a public defender who once worked for Yengich.
Yengich wrote newspaper columns for 14 years for an alternative newspaper in town and Utah Holiday magazine. He has taught several law classes as an adjunct professor at the University of Utah, including trial rights of the accused for the past 13 years. He co-taught a class on Dante's "Divine Comedy," and over the years he has taught at Westminster, Mountain West Business College and even the state penitentiary. He has undertaken acting roles in two plays at the U. He was the co-host of a radio show for two years called "Talkin' Baseball."
"He's nuts for baseball," says Schulian. In the basement of Yengich's Capitol Hill home, in what Schulian calls "The Inner Sanctum," Yengich has a room entirely devoted to baseball. It contains sports memorabilia — autographed bats and baseballs and photos.
Given his passion, this shouldn't come as a surprise, but there it is: Yengich has had more than his share of confrontations.
He once clenched his fist and threatened to clobber a prosecutor in a judge's private chambers. "He lied in court during a case we were trying, and I lost my temper," says Yengich. He had a much-publicized run-in with security at the courthouse, which nearly led to formal charges. He had another confrontation with his editor of Salt Lake Weekly. "He was getting on me because I was representing (Mayor Deedee) Corradini," Yengich explains. "We were on the phone, and he called me a liar. We argued. He said he'd kick my ass if I came to their building. I said, 'OK, I'm on my way.' I went over there, and we had a big argument. After that, I quit or got fired, depending on whom you believe."
At least one observer, who considers Yengich a friend and a great attorney, thinks Yengich is suffering from burnout after 30 years in the business. "He's getting too much of a reputation around town as being an angry man, bitter, cynical, thin-skinned. He gets his feelings hurt easily and lashes back. He is the kind of guy who will hold a grudge. That's his biggest Achilles heel. He's not as easygoing these days."
Yengich has always carried a chip on his shoulder and a temper and toughness to back it up. As a boy, he was thrown out of a Little League baseball game for protesting a third-strike call. The umpire was his father. He was once kicked out of a church basketball game, as well.
"I know my faults," Yengich says. "Want me to tell them to you? I have a horrible temper. I'm profane. I hold a grudge."
But moments later he is saying, "I get fed up with the idea that I'm such a (expletive). Because the truth is, if you play fair with me, I'll play fair with you."
Friends are defensive of Yengich. They paint a picture of a passionate, driven man who considers his job something of a calling. "This is far more than a job for Ron," Schulian says.
Fellow defense attorney Ed Brass notes, "He isn't the world's greatest businessman when it comes to making a buck. He can be swayed by a sad story. The side a lot of people don't know is that he is compassionate."
In his spare time, Yengich sponsors an annual road race named after his brother and donates the proceeds to charity. For years he paid for the all-state baseball banquet. He has helped friends and peers with substance abuse and financial problems. He has donated generously to charities.
"He has done a lot of things for people, but he wouldn't want me to talk about that," says Kay.
Yengich's one undeniable soft spot is his family, which consists of Kay, three stepchildren and four grandchildren, whom he mentions frequently in conversation, ever the proud grandpa. He and Kay speak glowingly of each other after 17 years of marriage.
"We have a wonderful life together," Kay says.
"She is the best person I know," Yengich says
Family members are perhaps the only people who can tame the rage that is Yengich. They can knock the chip off his shoulder with impunity. Yengich was pontificating at the house one day — "I do pontificate," he confesses — expounding on some subject to his wife with his usual bluster, and when finally there was a pause, his young granddaughter, who had been listening quietly to this, said, "Blah ba-blah, ba-blah, ba-blah, blah, blah."
Yengich melted into laughter.
It is just such passion that has driven Yengich to become a top attorney who hurls himself into intense preparation for clients, feeling their lives depending on him. Dee Benson, the federal judge, echoes a widely held sentiment when he says, "There are two criminal defense attorneys I would hire in town, and Ron is one of them. (Partner Ed Brass is the other.)"
Says Brass, "In my opinion, Yengich is the best criminal lawyer in this state."
For his part, Yengich says this of himself: "My strength is the courtroom closing arguments and cross examinations. That's preparation. A lot of this stuff they teach you about using diagrams and computers is all crap. You have a jury and they want to hear a story. A court case is a story. . . . I think I am good at storytelling."
Looking back on his 30 years, he has this to say about a few of his notorious cases:
Hofmann: "We still communicate. He writes me a couple of times a year. He gets constant requests for interviews. He won't do them. I respect him for that. He's had an opportunity, like a lot of people in his situation, to try to justify himself. He hasn't done that. One of the most moving things to come out of that case is that Gary Sheets and Mac Christensen (relatives of the murder victims) have become friends (of Yengich's). They both refer cases to me. I have an incredible admiration for them. Their ability to forgive was a real lesson to me. I remember when Gary and Mac and Bill Hofmann (Mark's dad) arranged to meet. It was one of the most gut-wrenching things I've seen. Here are guys whose children had been killed by Bill's son, and they were so incredibly decent to him. I will never forget that day. They didn't take it out on his family. They didn't argue. It was a meeting to say, we've lost a son and a wife, and in a sense you've lost a son."
Kastanis: "I am convinced he was innocent. His wife killed those kids. It was alleged he killed his wife and children. It was a death-penalty case. The prosecution was out to lunch on it." Yengich calls this his most satisfying case "without question. That guy was innocent."
Bottarini: "That was a fun case, a tough case. I think he was innocent."
Corradini: "You know what case I took the most crap for?" Yengich asks. "Corradini. . . . I didn't like her before. I didn't like what was going on in the city. I grew to like her. In fact, I thought at the time that she had bad people around her."
All that said, Yengich adds, "My favorite clients are 'Joe Sixpack' who are good people who get into trouble. I could spend the rest of my career not defending high-profile cases."
Yengich, a man so tough that he eschewed conventional wisdom and had both knees surgically replaced within two days of each other, looks at his knees and thinks of those 30 years and ponders his mortality and the meaning of his work.
One moment Yengich sounds as if he can't take another moment as a lawyer; the next he sounds energized.
"This has been a time of amazing introspection," he says. "I keep asking myself what have I achieved? What is it I want now? I will die practicing law. I have loved practicing law. I've hated it at times. But I'm a lucky guy. I have received more out of this than I could have hoped for."
E-mail: drob@desnews.com