They say that money talks and a certain bovine byproduct walks, and I know it’s true. A case in point is 87-year-old Joseph Dahr Jamail, Jr. Summarizing the life of Joe Jamail is not easy, but I will try. He is of Lebanese descent, the son of a Houston grocer who graduated from the University of Texas in 1950 and from UT Law School three years later. Jamail started a personal injury firm in his hometown and did very well, eventually earning the sobriquet “King of Torts.” He was already quite rich before he won an $11 billion lawsuit for his client, Pennzoil, against Texaco in 1987. Jamail's fee was an estimated $345 million. His personal worth today is $1.5 billion. These are large numbers indeed.
Jamail, although a capitalist to the core, has not hoarded his money. He has given away vast amounts, including to our shared alma mater. There are numerous endowed chairs for professors and scholarships for students in Jamail's name. (Every year, Jamail subsidizes the education of a whopping 30% of students in the UT Nursing School.) He has created endowments that supplement the salaries of Longhorn football coaches. These days, public higher education gets much less funding from the government than three decades ago. Tax-deductible donations are thus often and fervently sought; the euphemism for the begging-giving-thanking process is “development.” Jamail has donated millions of dollars to UT, and the resulting gratitude has been manifested in several ways.
I have not met the gentleman, but I know enough to characterize him fairly. Subtlety is not part of his makeup. Jamail has earned a reputation for advocating passionately and abrasively on behalf of his clients. In one case in Delaware, his conduct was called rude, uncivil and vulgar. He has been admonished by numerous judges, but he knows the law. When it comes to litigation, he wins much more often than he loses. Jamail’s personality is no different outside the courtroom, as he is loud and garish, peppering his language with well-chosen obscenities. He brags, he preens, he vituperates. When he does so, who will call him on it? Surely not UT president William Powers, not chairman of the Board of Regents Eugene Powell, not athletic director DeLoss Dodds and not football coach Mack Brown.
He has been such a generous benefactor to the University of Texas, I almost hesitate to criticize. Jamail, like most such donors, craves recognition. Here is an abbreviated list of how UT has said “thanks, Joe”: the library at the Law School is named after him; the swim center is named after him; a large conference room in the Tower is named after his late wife, Lee; perhaps most shamelessly, the field at Texas Memorial Stadium is named in his honor. Close by is a life-sized statue. (One statue at the Law School was apparently insufficient to satisfy his ego. On the 350-acre campus, only Jamail merits two statues.)
The question, it seems to me, is how much appreciation is enough? I would respect him more if he gave quietly, but Joe Jamail is not known for doing things quietly. After I read the unctuous, fulsome praise heaped upon him by Powers, Dodds, Brown, et al., I feel a bit queasy. The adulatory articles written about him go on and on. When Jamail’s white limo pulls into one of the VIP spots underneath Memorial Stadium and he walks into the athletic department offices, you can be sure that people will bow deeply. The same thing applies across San Jacinto Boulevard at the alumni association, in the upper reaches of the administration and in several academic departments.
Jamail is no different from Phil Knight at the University of Oregon and T. Boone Pickens at Oklahoma State University—fat cats and big boosters whose opinions are sought on a variety of issues. They speak, and others listen carefully. Whether in Eugene, Stillwater or Austin, nothing is too much to stroke and flatter these men.
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