Lawyers like to brag about their criminal not guilty or personal injury million-dollar verdicts but sometimes satisfaction practicing law comes from handling seemingly ordinary matters. It fell to me as the youngest associate in the firm to handle a request for a name change made by a senior partner’s client about to receive a large PI settlement. He wanted to change his name from Rochester Pressley to Ze Ze Zellazorro to better reflect his Puerto Rican heritage. Never having done a name change, all I had to figure out how to do one and, fortunately, it turned out to be pretty straight forward. All I had to do was just draft a petition to the then County Court, attach an affidavit the client had no criminal convictions, bankruptcies, or outstanding judgments, wasn’t seeking to avoid creditors, publish a notice in the local paper, and draft a proposed order for the judge to sign. Piece of cake, or so I thought. The case was assigned to the Honorable Lester Legare Bates of the Richland County Court usually a most friendly judge. It turned out, however, Judge Bates had trouble wraping his brain around the name Ze Ze Zellazorro or anyone wanting to better reflect their Puerto Rican heritage.
I was anticipating just a routine hearing. Hearings like this were conducted informally in the judge’s chambers and always began with Judge Bates asking, “What can I do for you, my boy?” I sensed something was amiss when I didn’t get a “my boy” at the beginning of the hearing. And things went downhill from there. To put it simply the judge felt I was wasting his time. He began to pick apart my petition. “How do you know your client doesn’t have any criminal record?” “Well, your Honor,’ I stammered, “He said he didn’t have one and his SLED record check came back clean.” A muffled harumph was all that got me from the judger. “What is the meaning of this ‘Ze Ze Zellazorro,’” the judge growled, “Is it some stage name he wants to use?” “No, your Honor, his parents migrated to the United States from Puerto Rico back in the 1960”s and his father changed their name to Pressley to better fit in. My client simply wants to go back to his family’s original name, Zellazorro.” Apparently not satisfied, the judge asked his clerk, Mr. Chitwood, to swear my client in and began questioning him in a gruff and demeaning manner.
Things got testy when the judge indicated he thought my client wasn’t an American citizen and seemed genuinely confused when I told him Puerto Ricans were granted American citizenship by the Jones-Shafroth Act in 1917. The judge went allegation by allegation through my petition demanding sworn verification of everything. My client stood his ground and directly answered each question. I could see the judge’s complexion darkening with each affirmative answer. I guess he expected the sneer in his voice would intimidate my client and get him admit some falsity in his answers. You could sense the judge’s frustration mounting when it never happened.
Exasperated, he asked if I had any questions. I thanked the judge although I was unsure what for, and asked my client about his service in the Army and two tours of duty in Vietnam. The judge’s attitude immediately changed. He cut me short and, with a great flourish, signed my proposed name change order. “Here you go, my boy, anything else I can do for you?”
“What just happened?” the newly named Ze Ze asked as soon as we were outside of the courthouse. “I thought you said it was just gonna be in and out, no big deal.” “I have no idea, I guess the judge took offense to something, but I don’t really know,” I replied. Ze Ze thought for a moment before saying, “I do. I’ve faced such discrimination all my life. It’s part of the reason I wanted to change my name, because I’m proud of my heritage. I want to thank you for sticking with me and not backing down.” It may have been a miniscule victory in the long struggle for civil rights in Americsa, but it meant a lot to me because it meant a lot to my client.
It had to be a year or so later when the receptionist buzzed saying there was a call for me from a Rochester Pressley. I picked the phone and asked, “Ze Ze?” He laughed and said, “I didn’t think you’d remember.”
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