ABA Journal - March 2009

HERE WAS A TIME WHEN
Richard “Racehorse” Haynes
had his clients thank judges
and juries at the end of their
trials. But back-to-back cases
in the 1970s changed his mind about that. ¶First,
a Texas jury had just found his client not guilty
on all counts, when Haynes told the court his
client had something to say. ¶“Ladies and gentle-
men, I want to thank each and every one of you,”
the client stated. “And I promise you that I will
never, ever do it again.”

A few weeks later, another Haynes client was acquitted. Again, the defendant thanked the judge and jury, only to be interrupted by the judge.

“Don’t thank me, you little turd,” the judge said. “You and I both know you’re guilty.”

Living and learning, says Haynes, is the key to being a good trial lawyer. If you don’t try something, you will never know if it would have worked. And Haynes admits he’s tried a lot of things.

“If you go in for heart surgery,” he says, “you want a surgeon who has done it a few times before.”

Indeed, Haynes is the master of courtroom theatrics. He once shocked himself with a cattle prod in open court to show the jury that, while it “hurts like hell, it’s not deadly.” Another time, he threatened to drive a nail through his hand to prove to the jury that it wasn’t really that painful. And he once cross-examined an empty witness chair in an effort to mock opposing counsel.

But these courtroom demonstrations are not the reason that Racehorse Haynes is a legend. The reason is his extraordinary success.

During his five decades of practice, he’s represented 40 clients facing capital punishment; not one has been sentenced to death.

Between 1956 and 1968, Haynes had one of the longest winning

streaks in legal history. He defended 163 individuals charged with driving under the influence of alcohol. All 163 were found not guilty.

Comedian, musician and former Texas gubernatorial candidate Kinky Friedman described Haynes as “one of the most successful and most colorful silver-tongued devils to grace Texas since God made trial lawyers.”

Haynes, who turns 82 in April, has been the defense attorney in some of the most prominent Texas murder cases ever tried. He’s been memorialized in three books, two movies, a Broadway play, and even in popular music. In 2003, singer Tom Russell released a single called Racehorse Haynes:

Show me the phone, lend me a dime I ain’t rollin’ over, I ain’t doing no time

I ain’t coppin’ no plea, I’m hip to your game

I ain’t talkin’ to no one, except Racehorse Haynes

Somebody better call Racehorse Haynes.

EARLY SHTICK GROWS OLD

RICHARD HAYNES SPLIT HIS CHILD

-
hood growing up in Houston and
San Antonio. His grandmother read
Shakespeare and the Bible to him at
bedtime.

He got the nickname “Racehorse” from his high school football coach, who complained that Haynes always

darted for the sideline instead of gaining yards downfield.

After a stint with the Marines, Haynes used the GI Bill to pay his way through college and law school. He graduated from the Bates College of Law in 1956.

Haynes became a lawyer on a Friday afternoon and was in court trying a criminal case the next Monday morning.

“My first time to address the jury, I stepped right in the [chewing to-bacco] spittoon,” he says. “I felt stupid, but the jury apparently felt sorry for me, and probably felt sorry for my client that he had such a stupid and clumsy lawyer. They acquitted him on all charges.”

If that works, Haynes thought, maybe he should try it again. So he started his second trial by stepping in the spittoon again, making it look like an accident. Again, the jury declared his client not guilty. Noting this seemed an effective ice-breaker with the jury, the Houston lawyer did it a third, a fourth—and continued nearly a dozen times. With each pratfall, the result was the same.

Finally, Haynes began another case by heading straight for the courtroom spittoon when the judge called him over to the bench.

“You’re not going to kick over that spittoon again, are ya?” the judge asked.

“I guess not, your honor.” Haynes knew the gag had run its course.

The Dallas Observer described Haynes as a “flamboyant ex-welter-weight boxer, South Pacific war hero, motorcyclist, sailor and millionaire with a reputation that has grown to 9 feet tall and weighs in at a junkyard-dog-mean 500 pounds.” He told the weekly that he wanted to practice for another four years and then hang it up. That was in 2003.