NEWS

Word came Tuesday morning that the U.S. Supreme Court had declined to hear the case of Cincinnati's Issue 3. That meant the controversial anti-gay rights charter amendment had survived challenges by opponents, including Mr. Greenwood, general counsel of the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) of Ohio.

"Personally and professionally, this is just shattering," says Mr. Greenwood, who is gay. "We've litigated this case for five years. Over half the time I've been in practice, I've been litigating this case."

Scott Greenwood is known for confronting controversy head-on, both as a lawyer in private practice and as a volunteer ACLU lawyer. And Issue 3, as much as any other case, helped him carve a niche into the legal landscape by defining his community role, which he says is "to look for gross government abuses of power, violations of people's civil liberties and civil rights."

Often, that means looking out for the little guy, taking on unpopular causes, or both.

He's the ACLU lawyer who fought for the Ku Klux Klan's right to post a cross on Fountain Square. He's the attorney in private practice who represents more than 6,000 people in a first-of-its-kind class-action lawsuit over Hamilton County's seizure of a computer system.

And he's the young man who made an ugly exit five years ago from one of Cincinnati's biggest and most prestigious law firms.

GREENWOOD BIO

Occupation: Attorney in private practice who specializes in civil liberties and civil rights law; general counsel for the American Civil Liberties Union of Ohio. Born: Aug. 5, 1963, in Dayton, Ohio. Grew up in Kettering. Education: Bachelor's degrees in Latin and in classical humanities, Miami University, 1986; law degree from University of Chicago Law School, 1989. Partner: Ron Halcomb. Pet: Sarah, a chocolate Labrador retriever. Three words that best describe me: "Relentless, committed, academic." Last good book I read: Chief Justice: A Biography of Earl Warren by Ed Cray. On Latin as his college major: "In many respects, I think I use it every day in my (legal) analysis, in my writing. Being precise with language is necessary . . . I usually know exactly what I'm saying."

Scott Greenwood has had two legal careers. The first began in 1989 when Taft, Stettinius & Hollister hired him out of University of Chicago law school.

He got a comfy salary, his own secretary and a network of talented colleagues. But trying to mesh his interests and personality with that of the venerable Cincinnati firm, he says now, was a "tremendous mistake."

As a corporate attorney, he divvied up money after contracts had been broken or anti-trust laws had been violated. "It was very amoral in that I could see both sides, always. There was never a clear right and a clear wrong."

Taft attorneys were encouraged to pursue outside volunteer activities, so in 1991 he began attending meetings of the local ACLU lawyers' committee. The national organization was founded in 1920 to support the Bill of Rights, which guarantees such freedoms as speech, religion and assembly.

Listening to discussions of civil liberties issues fascinated Mr. Greenwood. He perceived no fuzziness between right and wrong. He saw a moral path, clearly defined. Instead of helping clients divide the pie, he says, the ACLU was assisting people who weren't invited to the table. Gradually, he became more involved in that work.

Then in 1992, Cincinnati City Council adopted the Human Rights Ordinance, which prohibited discrimination because of sexual orientation. Soon after, ordinance opponents proposed a ballot measure, Issue 3, that would bar such protections.

Mr. Greenwood helped organize a legal team to oppose Issue 3. Also in 1993, he took a bold step: He put his gay partner's name on an insurance beneficiary form at Taft. Soon after, he says, he was "outed" at the firm.

In September 1993, as his fourth anniversary at Taft approached, he was either fired (his version) or resigned (the firm's version). He says he was told that his ACLU activities, including work with Issue 3, were offensive to some of the firm's partners and clients.

He sued, claiming wrongful dismissal and invasion of privacy, and more than two years of legal wrangling began. In the end, the case was settled out of court.

It hurt to lose his job, he says, but in hindsight it allowed his second legal career to blossom. "They simply liberated me so that I could do the work I wanted to do anyway."

On a sidewalk in Covington, Mr. Greenwood is about to begin a news conference.

The Kenton County Administration Building serves as backdrop. It's where a 68-year-old diabetic named James Franklin died June 26, alone in a jail cell. Mr. Greenwood, his co-counsel and members of Mr. Franklin's family are here to announce the filing of a wrongful-death and civil rights lawsuit.

First, though, Mr. Greenwood asks TV cameramen if the spot he's chosen is too shady. Then he requests that cameras back up a few feet so he can position Mr. Franklin's family behind him and his co-counsel. Small details, perhaps; ones a less media-savvy attorney might ignore. Not Mr. Greenwood, who is smooth and polished in front of cameras.

They focus on the bookish lawyer who looks younger than his 35 years. He has short, dark hair, styled with gel. He wears oval-rimmed glasses, a brown tweed jacket, red patterned tie, cuffed trousers and a look of indignation. As he describes the fate that befell Mr. Franklin, he is his usual confident, quotable self.

"I put my dog in a kennel that is cleaner, safer, better-controlled, and with better food than the one that the Kenton County jailer put Mr. Franklin into," he says.

David Steele, the attorney for jailer Don Younger, later calls that an "inaccurate characterization" and "hyperbole," noting that the jail has passed state and federal inspections. Mr. Greenwood sits in the living room of his home on Cincinnati's east side. It's bright and airy, with sunshine pouring through windows onto new white carpet. He shares the home with his partner of two years, Ron Halcomb, an adoption social worker with the Hamilton County Department of Human Services, and Sarah, a 105-pound chocolate Labrador retriever.

Mr. Greenwood's law office is here, too. He asks that the neighborhood not be published.

"The very day that Cincinnati voted on Issue 3 (in 1993, when it passed with 62 percent of the vote), someone cut the electrical power line," he says. "Sliced it . . . in the five minutes that I was in the house. That meant somebody had watched me, followed me. So, it does get a little personal at times."

Also that year, he threatened Felicity-Franklin Local School District with a lawsuit if it didn't cancel plans for prayers at a high school graduation. That brought his first death threat from someone who called every half hour between 1:30 and 6 a.m.

Cases that draw the most ire, he says, are those involving religion in public life.

"People misunderstand what I'm doing in religion cases. I tell people that religion prospers the best when it's left alone. The whole point of the establishment clause (also known as separation of church and state) is to make it clear that the government doesn't meddle with their religious beliefs. That also means they don't get to foist their religious beliefs on everybody else."

He took heat, too, for the Fountain Square cross case. Soon after taking it in December 1993, Mr. Greenwood was approached by a woman downtown who asked if he was the lawyer representing the Klan. Yes, he said.

She spit on him.

"I understand her anger," he says. "I wasn't far from her in my own evaluation of what kind of people they were. To me, that has always been exactly the point of civil liberties. If I can't or don't represent people whose civil liberties are under attack -- even when I couldn't possibly ever agree with them -- then I don't have the same right to stand up for my own (rights)."

He didn't have to represent the Klan. "If I didn't do it, somebody else would."

Well, maybe.

"How many lawyers in Cincinnati would step forward to do that?" says David Goldberger, an Ohio State University law professor and ACLU lawyer. "I have a feeling you could count them on the fingers of one hand. And you might not have to get past 1. He's been absolutely fearless and about as intensely principled a guy as I've run into in the ACLU."

Mr. Greenwood acknowledges he may have been the perfect person to handle the case, because no one could accuse him of harboring pro-Klan sympathies. "The last time I checked," he says, "the Klan wasn't looking for gay white men of progressive political persuasion as potential recruits."

As an ACLU volunteer lawyer, Mr. Greenwood argued that the Klan had a First Amendment right to display its cross. The case dragged on for two years, with Mr. Greenwood winning on every level, including the U.S. Court of Appeals for the 6th Circuit. The city was required to pay his legal fees, $44,188.75, which went to the Ohio ACLU.

Says Mr. Greenwood: "I think I am supremely self-confident in many ways. But I don't think that's brash or brazen. . . . Most people are not neutral about me. They like me or they loathe me."

Phil Burress disagrees with him on that, and on most everything else. He is the president of Citizens for Community Values, and pushed for passage of Issue 3 as chairman of Equal Rights, Not Special Rights.

"I know absolutely no one who loathes Scott Greenwood," he says. "I know a lot of people who disagree with him."

He says Mr. Greenwood doesn't let disagreements get personal, and vice versa.

"I think we respect each other," Mr. Burress says.

Cincinnati City Councilman Phil Heimlich, known for his law-and-order stance, has sponsored a number of ordinances that Mr. Greenwood has challenged as unconstitutional. Included are city bans on begging and sitting on sidewalks that a court threw out this year. "He zealously advocates his point of view," Mr. Heimlich says, "and I zealously advocate mine. He's always been articulate and . . . never mean-spirited. I always know where he stands."

Chris Link, executive director of the ACLU of Ohio, says Mr. Greenwood "typifies the iconoclast of the ACLU. There's this bumper sticker that says, "If you're not outraged, you're not paying attention.' Scott's paying attention.

"He feels a deep affront when he thinks the Constitution is in jeopardy."

Mr. Greenwood says he has long been interested in public service. He did some politicking as a youngster growing up in Kettering, handing out campaign literature with his grandmother. When he was 21 and a student at Miami University in Oxford, he ran for state representative against an incumbent. "I got swamped."

He knew he wanted to be a lawyer by the time he entered college. And he says he says he has "always been sensitive to problems of the little guy . . . somebody who's not getting a fair shake."

So where does that come from?

His father was an elementary school principal in Dayton Public Schools; his mother worked in computer systems. Both are retired. Growing up in Kettering, he often saw both black and white guests at home. "I assumed that everyone else did it that way."

He also saw his father cope with the challenges of a newly desegregated school district. He remembers hearing on the radio about the assassination of a school administrator and wondering if it was his father.

Then, too, there is the notion that Mr. Greenwood, although he grew up in white-bread suburbia, is a minority because he's gay. "I think in my case, being gay has at minimum sensitized me to other people's concerns, people who may not be in the dominant racial, political or social culture. Does it color my beliefs on a whole range of issues? Generally not."

Civil rights attorney Alphonse Gerhardstein says that by specializing in civil liberties and civil rights, Mr. Greenwood makes a significant mark locally. They worked together to oppose Issue 3. Mr. Gerhardstein also represented him in his suit against Taft, Stettinius & Hollister.

"I'd say there's a real need here to stay in touch with the basic principles that are set out in the Bill of Rights. Scott Greenwood really helps us do that."

That often means taking on unpopular causes. "I know from my own experience that isn't a way to make money," Mr. Gerhardstein says, "but it's a way to contribute to things this community needs."

Not that Mr. Greenwood is poor. He won't divulge his income, but he and Mr. Halcomb have a nice house. They enjoy traveling, including trips in the past year to Australia, England and Italy.

Mr. Greenwood spends much of his spare time reading. He never watches television -- has never seen a single Seinfeld episode, he says -- but is an Internet junkie. He reads five newspapers online every morning.

"Some people say my work is my hobby. My pro bono work (as an ACLU volunteer) is my avocation." He puts in 50 to 60 hours in a typical week, he says, though sometimes as many as 90.

As Ohio ACLU's general counsel, he's the organization's highest-ranking volunteer. Much of his time is spent planning case strategy. He keeps tabs on upward of 60 lawsuits, ensuring that there is a consistency to how the ACLU tries cases statewide.

"Like a lot of ACLU guys, I think he's hoping for his turn at "the show,' " Ms. Link says.

That would be the U.S. Supreme Court. He has yet to argue a case there, and yes, he'd like to. Issue 3 might have been his ticket. Not now.

Even in local courtrooms, he says he still feels a sense of awe at the beginning of a hearing or trial.

"It is a privilege in American society to practice law. What we say, what we write, who we represent, why we represent them, what theories we advance, all have an influence on the development of the law, and by extension, society."

"He is very fortunate," says Ms. Link of the Ohio ACLU. "Almost every young person I know who goes to law school, goes in with big, starry eyes. They're going to right wrongs and stop injustice. Scott's actually created a life where he can do that."

NOTABLE CASES