It was early October of 1975 after I had taken the Indiana Bar Exam in July. I was nearly 25, unemployed, and living in my parents’ home awaiting an envelope. The mail arrived with an envelope addressed to me that would dictate, in substantial part, my future being. I received that envelope with equal portions of anticipation and dread. As it is today, it was not unusual then for 25 or 30% of first-time exam-takers to fail. The budding cynic in me suspected that the percentage of failure was somehow arbitrary and pre-determined.
While I was a good law student (not quite outstanding) based on grades earned, I knew that such modest academic success counts nothing when it comes to the Bar Exam. Just a few days prior to the two-day Exam I developed the worst summer cold imaginable. My senses were dulled. It was impossible to get a full night’s sleep. During the Exam itself whenever I looked up from the papers on the lecture hall table in front of me I would see a few faces in various stages of meltdown. I knew that I should pass the bar; and I also knew that nothing was guaranteed.
I took the envelope into the bedroom that I occupied in my parents’ home and did my best to quiet my racing mind. I knew that I had to be at peace with the text of the letter within, regardless of the message. Drum roll, please . . . I passed. Those who passed were not told by what margin. Around two and a half weeks later there came the admission ceremony. Some classmates who graduated with me and took the Bar Exam with me were missing. Among the missing was my classmate Raymond John Arvin.
I met Ray Arvin early in my first year of law school at IU-Bloomington, which has since sold itself like some cheap whore and bears a new name not to be acknowledged here. I had something in common with Ray in that he hailed from the very rural Martin County in Southwestern Indiana. My parents (and theirs) were also from Martin County, though my parents left for the City (Indianapolis) prior to my conception. I arrived at law school grateful to have been admitted during a very competitive era for law school admission. I had known for years that I wanted to be a lawyer. I was motivated to succeed at law school. Despite being on the same campus where he had earned a bachelor’s degree, Ray Arvin looked, to my eyes, out of place.
For too many, law school is the death of an aspiration. No one (not even the affirmative action admittees) entering law school lacked the academic ability to graduate. Rather, the death of an aspiration took place when a student came face-to-face with the banal attributes of legal education and/or of the law itself. I would not have been surprised to see Ray Arvin as a casualty of legal education, dropping out as a matter of conscience. But Ray persisted.
Ray Arvin and I were paired (not by our choice) for a mandatory moot court submission. I did the heavy lifting in written and oral argument such that Ray and I prevailed before our panel of imaginary appellate judges. If there was passion in him for the position assigned to us he never showed it. He was also shy of pretense and aggression. I had to wonder whether Ray was where he belonged. Then we graduated.
The biggest difference between Raymond John Arvin and me was that I passed the Indiana Bar Exam. I could have been him. He could have been me. You could have been him.
It was on or about the 21st of November, 2019, when I visited the online Shoals News of Martin County, Indiana and found the obituary of Ray Arvin announcing (as of November 18th) that Ray had “died recently” in Santa Monica, California. It struck me as odd that the date of death was described only as “recently.” Then I read on. The obituary explained that Ray had spent his last 35 years in California “where he found a supportive and caring community.” The obituary ended with a pitch for donations to an entity in Santa Monica that feeds the homeless and “special thanks to Alexandra Paul, who reported him missing and has assisted in the identification of his body.” It was easy to make the inference that Ray Arvin, my classmate and fellow law graduate, had been living homeless and that he died alone well before his body was found . On the other hand, I had no idea of who Alexandra Paul might be.
Turns out that I knew Alexandra Paul but only as the fetching, the memorable “Virgin” Connie Swail from the 1987 “Dragnet” film. She was also in the cast of Baywatch, which I did not watch. In addition to being an actress and former model, Alexandra Paul has been a social activist and health coach. She is also a participant in the “Food not Bombs” Santa Monica Chapter.
I thought there might be a Santa Monica obituary for Ray. First I found the Santa Monica Daily Press and then the obituary for Ray written by none other than Alexandra Paul recalling the recovery of Ray’s body known (pre-identification) as “John Doe #135″ from an encampment beneath the bluffs of Santa Monica’s Palisades Park. The remains were recovered June 22, 2019. The coroner found that Ray had died in his sleep perhaps two and a half months prior to that date. Despite Ray’s modest station in life he had the good fortune to be counted as a friend to Alexandra Paul and to others. Ms. Paul described him as a “vibrant, interesting, loving man who brought sunshine to our lives.” She added that Ray should not be forgotten.
It’s certainly possible that Ray was not meant to be a lawyer. Still, I think he might have enjoyed a more comfortable (not necessarily happier) life but for that cold culling of the herd known as the Indiana Bar Exam. When the time comes to mourn fallen colleagues let us not forget those separated from us by little more than a Bar Exam grade. Ray is not forgotten.
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