W. George Allen’s death made the front page of the Fort Lauderdale paper. I think that’s awesome. He would too.
From 1981 until 1991 I had a temporary legal secretary service that served about 100 Broward County law firms. W. George Allen’s firm was one of them. I worked in Mr. Allen’s office often from 1984 until 1988.
Mr. Allen had a consultant working with him to make the office more productive. I was not impressed. I said something to one my co-workers and was told when Mr. Allen was a young lawyer, he came to Fort Lauderdale. No one would hire him, because he was black. The consultant’s husband gave him a job.
Mr. Allen had a heart attack and his office got really out of whack in his absence. He asked what I thought could be done. I asked him to authorize me to bring in a team over a weekend. We work two days, for however many hours it took. We would determine the status of every file and do what we were able to do. We did. Mr. Allen was impressed.
I was not in Mr. Allen’s office all the time, I was in and out, a lot. One day he told me he was taking everyone to the Tower Club for lunch the next day, to celebrate. He asked me to cover while they were gone. I told him I would cover, but this would be the last thing I would do for him. I recognized I wasn’t his employee, but I was there a lot. I like the Tower Club. It hurts my feelings everyone is going and I am staying. He thanked me for telling him and said we would lock the office while we all went to lunch.
I became a lawyer. I sometimes ran into Mr. Allen at lawyer lunches or the courthouse. One late afternoon I was walking through the oldest part of the old courthouse. There was no one else there. I hear a man call out, “Marian.” I see someone far down the hall. He’s headed my way. He knows my name. I can’t see him. He is at the far end of a dark hall. He knows what I am thinking, “It’s George Allen.” We ride down the elevator together. “How’s your daughter?” He asks.
One morning, when Judge Holmes was on the civil bench, Mr. Allen entered the courtroom fairly late. He spotted me and sat next to me. I felt important. He said he forgot to turn off his phone. He went to turn it off, and turning it off caused it to make a sound. Judge Holmes immediately asked whose phone it was. Mr. Allen stood up and said it was his. He said it went off because he was turning it off, because he forgot. She told him to give her the phone. He would get it back when a $100 check was delivered to her office made payable to a charity.
Mr. Allen was the main speaker for a lunch during Black History Month. He had written a book, "Where the Bus Stops". The room was full of black lawyers. He was so happy. I read his book. George Allen was raised in Sanford, Florida. He picked celery for the Duda family. I’ve eaten a lot of Duda celery because I’m always on a diet. I never thought about the Dudas being a family or how poor Mr. Allen was and what a tough childhood he had.
After Mr. Allen became successful he bought a weekend home in Lake County, Florida. It's a beautiful county. It has lakes and hills, unlike the rest of Florida. It's nearer to where he grew up. His house was purposefully burned to the ground, during the week, when no one was in it.
I think the last time I saw him was during the foreclosure crisis before a foreclosure division was created. We were waiting in the same small hall for our cases to be heard. We waited for about an hour. We were sitting and talking. We had a great time. He asked if I ever heard anything about my first husband. I told him what I knew. I said I read the associate who worked for him back in the ‘80s was disbarred. Mr. Allen said, “He didn’t have the character to be an attorney. The most important thing you have is your character.”
The bailiff came over and asked, “Mr. Allen, what number are you on the docket.” I said, “Five.” The bailiff asked how come he asks Mr. Allen a question and I answer. I said because I used to be his secretary. It was my job to help him be ready. The role has not left me. The bailiff asked, “Mr. Allen, she was your secretary?” He said I was. The bailiff said “Wow.” Wow is right, I was so fortunate to work with W. George Allen.
