Legal precedent

Law school classes are often taught using the Socratic method, where teacher and students engage in a spirited give-and-take, challenging each other as they analyze the nuances of the law.

But every once in a while, a hush comes over Ken Lawson’s students at the William S. Richardson School of Law at the University of Hawaii at Manoa. Their teacher is baring his soul about a personal odyssey that led him soaring to glorious heights and then plunging into a $1,000-a-day addiction to prescription painkillers, recreational drug abuse and professional disgrace.

"All that stuff I did caught up with me," former lawyer Lawson told students during one of those moments one evening. "I’m sitting there taking all those pills and stuff and smoking weed and thinking, ‘Ain’t nobody going to find out about this.’ But every single thing, all that dirt, came out. That’s my experience. So I had to go through what I had to go through to get clean."

Two years after getting out of prison on felony drug charges, coming clean is Lawson’s latest mission in life. On its face it might not be the toughest challenge he’s faced — he survived a troubled upbringing, tried high-profile cases, suffered through detox and endured prison.

But telling his story to those who might benefit brings him contentment and personal satisfaction. It’s one of many messages he is hoping to instill in Hawaii’s next generation of lawyers, and so far, it seems to be working.

"He’s an inspiration," said law student Matthew Cohen. "At least once a class, he’s got some kind of story where he breaks out spontaneously and talks from his heart. It’s always amazing. … Everybody’s always really excited to take a course from professor Lawson."

Lawson is, in fact, not a professor. He is the manager of the Hawaii Innocence Project who teaches a few courses. But in his brief time at UH, he has taken on such stature that he receives as much respect as any professor.

Professor Randy Roth, who was instrumental in bringing Lawson to the school, calls him "a gift from above."

"I see the impact that he has on other people," Roth said. "I’ll be honest with you, I think he’s made me a better person. … I’m just convinced that for the rest of his life, he’s going to do everything he can to help people, in part because that’s what had been missing for a long time in his life."

Lawson has talked about filling that "hole" in his life many times with students, colleagues, strangers in 12-step programs, in court before prosecutors and judges. It’s a well-rehearsed story but comes out naturally, no punches pulled, punctuated by laughter, tears and profanity.

"It helps me to tell it," he said. "I never thought my past would be my greatest asset." 

Lawson, 50, grew up in Cincinnati in a family that adopted him at age 2. A light-skinned black, he said he felt like he was "apart" from his dark-skinned family, and getting beaten regularly by his alcoholic father only exacerbated those feelings. It kept him out of school at times, and he would wear extra-long sleeves and high socks to football practice to hide the bruises.

Though he certainly felt resentment then, that has not carried over. Lawson reconciled with his father in his 20s, and he will only say that his father "had his own demons he was dealing with."

Rather than sentencing him to defeat, the tough upbringing seemed to help Lawson. He was a star athlete and an excellent student, going to college and graduating from University of Cincinnati Law School. He became the first black attorney hired at Taft, Stettinius & Hollister, a prestigious Ohio firm that traces its lineage to the sons of President Howard Taft. It wasn’t enough.

"I’m making a ton of money, at the largest law firm in the city, driving a nice car … and I’m miserable," he said. "I’d be happy two or three weeks, but that hole would still be there."

He left his job to start his own law firm, gaining headlines when he successfully defended sports superstar Deion Sanders in a case stemming from an altercation with a stadium security guard.

"I remember winning that case, getting the exposure, hanging out with Deion for a couple hours after the verdict. … And then walking back to my office and thinking, ‘Where the hell is the thrill at? The thrill is gone,’" he said. "The more I achieved, the sicker I got spiritually and mentally."

Advertising himself as "The Junk Yard Dog of Justice" in the local phone book, he became an advocate for Cincinnati’s African-American community, pursuing cases against police for racial profiling. In a 1998 profile in the Cincinnati Enquirer, he comes off as a tough, street-wise advocate, and in 2000, when the city became embroiled in race riots after the shooting of unarmed black youth, he appeared on national news, seeming to be leading the charge of social change in the city.

But he had been fighting personal issues as well, which put Lawson on an emotional roller coaster. He became "obsessed" with finding his biological mother, eventually discovering that she was a white woman with a troubled history who was sent to a mental hospital when her family discovered she was pregnant by a black man, heavyweight boxing champion Ezzard Charles.

"It answered so many questions about who I am," he said. He was able to be with her for three years, until she died of cancer.

Later, his brother George came to work for his law firm. One day, Lawson was trying to reach him, repeatedly paging him, until he went to go look for him and found that George had hanged himself. "That was the first time I felt completely powerless," he said. "George is dead and I can’t bring him back, and I can’t deal with that."

Lawson’s problems came to a head in his late 30s when he injured himself weightlifting and was prescribed painkillers. He had been a drinker who would go for weeks without alcohol but would always drink excessively when he did drink. He soon was addicted to painkillers and began using marijuana and cocaine.

"Drugs filled that hole. It made me OK with me, which made me OK with you," Lawson said.

The drugs took over his life. He began using his firm’s money to buy drugs, going from pharmacy to pharmacy filling prescriptions, making a client who was a doctor write prescriptions for him. z

His habit eventually was costing him $1,000 a day.

One of his biggest regrets is that he never — "not a day in their life, not one hour" — saw his two youngest children while he was sober during the first several years of their lives.

His downfall was neither swift nor easy. He began missing court dates and client meetings, and a judge reported him to the local bar association "not to get me in trouble, but to get me help." He learned that the Drug Enforcement Agency was investigating him.

"I was just hoping they would arrest me, because I couldn’t stop, it was just crazy," he said.

Memories of his brother’s suicide plagued him, and he remembers praying to God, "‘Please don’t wake me up in the morning; my wife and kids would be better off.’

"I’d been given one shot at life, and I blew it."

Lawson lost his house, his cars, all the trappings of success. His wife, Marva, left him for a time, and he moved in with his mother. He entered a short-term detox program but fought the treatment and relapsed. "I was thinking, ‘You just have to detox me and I can fix this,’" he said. "But I’m home for two weeks and I’m going crazy."

Eventually a six-month 12-step program got him clean. He learned to overcome his resentments and his fears, realizing that "his best thinking," which had fueled his success, had ultimately driven him to drug abuse.

"My whole problem was my self-centered thinking and how the drugs were my solution," he said. Although Lawson doesn’t like to preach about his religion, he says, "It was about developing a relationship with a higher power."

His drug case lasted two years, which ended in a guilty plea to a federal charge of conspiracy to obtain a controlled substance and a two-year prison term, later reduced. A defeated man, he stood in court for four hours admitting everything and told the judge, "Whatever you sentence me to is what I deserve."

Lawson came to Hawaii by way of his wife, a psychiatrist. Her medical education obligated her to spend time working in an underserved community, and a job at Wai­anae Coast Comprehensive Health Center qualified. "She was told that Hawaii is a place of redemption," he said.

He came to Hawaii with his sentencing still pending and through an acquaintance met Roth, who asked him to speak to his class on professional responsibility, a required course at all law programs. The session opened awkwardly but soon things began to click.

"The students were laughing half the time and crying half the time," said Roth, who hired Lawson after he got out of prison and helped him get the job at the Hawaii Innocence Project. "By the end of his presentation, they gave him a standing ovation."

Some students have had doubts. Law student David Morris, who was enrolled in Lawson’s criminal law class last fall, said he searched Lawson’s name online and discovered his past. His reaction: "Really? Is this what we’re going in for?"

But Lawson began the class talking about his past, "laying it on the line," and Morris said he has found "nothing but positive things since then."

"He’s seen the highest highs in the legal profession and the lowest lows, and he paints it like no other professor," Morris said.

Some of Lawson’s stories are brutally honest, like one he told recently about assigning a young associate lawyer named Margaret to handle a domestic abuse case for client named Calvin. He had become disgusted with Calvin’s criminal ways and didn’t want to represent him in the seemingly small matter.

"Unbeknownst to me, they started dating," he told students, "And so in 2008, Margaret was murdered by Calvin. … He choked her to death, and then he put her body in a park, wrapped her body in a shower curtain.

"You got to be careful what you’re doing. … You got to be careful about the line you draw. That’s my speech for today."

In addition to criminal law and professional responsibility, Lawson will teach a new course on starting a law firm this fall.

He said the 12-step program has helped him to be happy in the moment, to appreciate the good things that are happening to him now.

He’s no longer worried about trying to impress other people through achievement or material wealth.

"It became very simple: My job is to be of help and service to others," he said.