Fran Dunphy had always understood that dealing with the media came with the job when you were a college basketball coach. But he was never one of those coaches who craved attention the way some do.
Now, as he walked up the steps to the Philadelphia courthouse on Tuesday morning and saw the camera crews rolling, he could only shake his head and think, What in the world have I gotten myself into?
Jeff Michaels’s request, while a bit off the wall, had seemed a reasonable one. A bunch of kids needed help; he had the time and he had the experience to help. So, why not?
The answer was now right in front of him. He was in the middle of what was becoming a media maelstrom.
No good deed goes unpunished, he thought as he reached the top of the steps and several reporters—men and women he knew—asked him to stop and answer a few questions. “After we have a ruling,” he said. That was what Tony Carillo had told him to say.
The lawyer was waiting for Dunphy in the lobby, just beyond the metal detectors everyone had to clear to get into the building. They had never met, but Carillo recognized him and walked over and introduced himself.
“Tom Michaels tells me we’ve got an uphill fight,” Dunphy said.
Carillo nodded. “Yes—and no. Judge Levin has about ten grandchildren, so even though he’s a pro-union guy, I think he’ll take into account what ruling against us would do to twelve kids.”
They walked up the stairs to the third floor, where the courtroom was located. It was 8:55 a.m., and when they walked to the door, the security guard put up a hand and said, “No seats.” Then he recognized both men.
“Sorry, counselor,” he said. Turning to Dunphy he said, “Good luck in there, Coach. Lot of folks pulling for you.”
Dunphy shook his hand briefly, then followed Carillo inside.
The guard hadn’t been kidding. The courtroom was packed. It looked like the scene from Miracle on 34th Street when the judge had to rule on the existence of Santa Claus. This wasn’t nearly that important. It was about sixth-grade girls’ basketball.
Carillo stopped for a moment to say hello to the union’s lawyer. He introduced her as Carol Burmeister. She was, Dunphy guessed, about thirty-five. Dressed in a tailored suit, her dark hair cut stylishly, she had an easy smile.
“Big fan,” she said to him. “Went to Penn.”
As they walked away, Carillo said softly, “Don’t be fooled by her looks or her charm. She’s as smart and tough as anyone in this courthouse.”
“That’s certainly good news,” Dunphy answered.
Judge Levin came in a moment later and everyone stood. When they all took their seats, the judge said good morning to the two lawyers and then said, “Ms. Burmeister, you’re up.”
A bit informal, but all business.
Carol Burmeister was as good as advertised: She railed on the injustice of the girls signing a petition against their coach, who was being paid the grand total of $250 for the season and giving up her free time after school so they could have a team; she pointed out the dangerous precedent of letting someone “walk off the street” to supervise eleven- and twelve-year-olds, someone who had no middle-school teaching experience, adding, “with all due respect to Coach Dunphy.” She pointed out that this sort of thing would undermine the union, because schools at all levels—up to high school—might hire retired coaches looking for something to do and take away full-time and part-time jobs from “legitimate teachers.” She finished by saying that if the judge wished, she could very quickly produce Coach Josephson and both the women who had worked as her assistants to testify to the fact that a group of “budding adolescents” had badly overreacted to the discipline the coach had tried to bring to the team.
Levin leaned forward in his chair and pointed at Tony Carillo. “Mr. Carillo, your turn.”
The good news was that Tony Carillo had anticipated Burmeister’s arguments. He pointed out that there was probably nothing more cliquish than a group of, “to quote Ms. Burmeister, ‘budding adolescents,’ and yet all twelve girls—including the starters and the team captain, had felt the situation dire enough to sign the petition—knowing there could be serious consequences.
“It wasn’t as if Coach Dunphy was waiting in the wings, Judge,” he said. “The first thing that happened was that the school principal shut down the season. Since then, I’m told almost all the girls have been subjected to—at best—ice-cold treatment from other teachers in the school.”
At that point, Carol Burmeister objected.
“Hearsay,” she said.
“Sustained,” the judge said.
Tony Carillo nodded at Burmeister, then continued.
“There’s no precedent being set here, Your Honor. This is a one-time thing, eight games. Coach Dunphy has no interest in coaching these girls beyond that. He was asked by a friend to rescue these girls from losing their season. Your ruling could be restricted to this case as a one-time-only thing.”
“Mr. Carillo, I don’t need you to tell me what my ruling can and can’t do,” Levin said sternly.
“Of course not, Your Honor. Thank you.” If the judge’s admonition shook Tony Carillo, he didn’t show it.
“The bottom line here is the union will not be hurt by Coach Dunphy coaching these girls for seven more games, but the girls will be hurt if their season is cancelled because the union is trying to make a point about kids speaking their minds.”
“Objection.”
Judge Levin looked at Burmeister. “Overruled. Counsel has the right to express an opinion … Mr. Carillo, would Coach Dunphy object to coming up to the witness stand so I can ask him a few questions?”
Tony looked at Dunphy. “Happy to,” Dunphy said, standing up and walking to the witness stand. The judge reached down to shake his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” he said. “I’m a Princeton grad, but I forgive you.”
Everyone laughed at that.
“Sir, you aren’t under oath,” Levin said once Dunphy had taken a seat. “This isn’t a formal hearing that way. But I’d appreciate honest answers to my questions.”
“Guaranteed,” Dunphy answered, looking the judge in the eye.
For the next ten minutes, Judge Levin walked Dunphy through everything that had happened since the previous Wednesday night, when he’d gone to dinner with Tom and Jeff Michaels at the Capital Grille.
“If I rule in your favor, you promise not to come back and coach at Penn again?” he said to more laughter.
“I promise that regardless, Your Honor. But you’d probably be better off with me coaching again than with Steve Donahue there.”
More laughter. Dunphy wondered if the judge’s jokes meant anything. The judge thanked him, and he returned to sit next to Carillo.
Judge Levin said nothing for a moment, then leaned forward again. “Both sides have made compelling cases,” he said. “I understand why the union would be upset about this and see potential danger in it down the line. I also understand why Coach Dunphy would want to help a group of kids who just want to play basketball.
“I think I need to hear from the parties directly involved before I rule. Ms. Burmeister, how soon can you get Ms. Josephson in here?”
“Well, Your Honor, she’s a teacher and it’s a school day…”
“I understand that. But she must have a lunch hour and surely someone can cover for her for a class or two if need be.”
Burmeister nodded her assent.
“Mr. Carillo, how about getting at least one player here?”
“Lunch is at eleven thirty, Your Honor. I’m sure I can have someone here by noon, latest,” Tony Carillo said.
“Good. We’ll recess until noon.”
Andi saw the text as soon as she pulled her phone from her backpack while walking out of her fourth-period class. Her first thought was that the judge had already made a ruling—which probably wasn’t good.
She was wrong. Meet me in usual spot outside right now. Already signed you out. Will explain.
When Jamie and Jeff came running down the hall to ask if she’d heard from her father, she showed them the text.
“Better get going,” Jamie said.
“Good luck—whatever it is,” Jeff added.
Andi headed for the door, hearing shouts from various kids asking if there had been a ruling from the judge yet. It seemed as if the whole school knew what was going on.
As they drove to the courthouse, her dad filled her in. “I’ll lead you through the story,” he said. “Just tell it the way it happened.”
“And what about cross-examination?” As the daughter of two lawyers and someone who’d watched courtroom dramas on TV, Andi knew the opposition lawyer would get to question her.
“Just answer honestly,” her dad said.
They cleared security without much trouble; most people were headed out of the building at lunchtime, not into it. Andi walked into court and was happy to see Coach Dunphy already there. She was less happy when she saw who was sitting across the aisle from him: Coach Josephson.
“Just be polite, say hello, and sit down next to Dunph,” her dad whispered, as if reading her mind.
She walked down the aisle in front of her father. Coach Josephson was glaring at her. “Hello, Coach,” she said, looking her in the eye for a moment.
“It’s not ‘Coach’ anymore,” Ms. Josephson replied, turning away to talk to her lawyer.
Andi’s dad patted her on the back. “You did fine.”
A moment after they were seated, the judge came in and everyone stood, then sat.
He looked at the other lawyer. “I presume, Ms. Burmeister, this is Ms. Josephson?”
Burmeister stood. Apparently, you never addressed a judge while seated. “Yes, Your Honor, this is Amy Josephson.”
“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Ms. Josephson,” the judge said.
He turned to Andi’s dad. “And who have you got with you, counselor?”
Andi’s dad stood. “Your Honor, this is my daughter, Andi. She is the cocaptain of the Merion sixth-grade girls’ team.”
The judge nodded. “Andi, thank you for coming. Would you mind coming up here and sitting in this chair next to where I’m sitting?”
Andi understood. She walked to the chair and stood, waiting for someone to swear her in—the way she’d seen on TV.
The judge understood. “Andi, this is a hearing, not a trial, so you won’t be under oath. But I would appreciate it if you’d answer the questions honestly.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Andi said, and sat down.
Her dad went first. He led her through all that had happened, beginning with the first day of tryouts. As instructed, Andi answered in detail, especially when walking through the locker room incident at Chester Heights. Her dad also asked her to explain how divided the team had been at first—making the point that it had taken a lot to get them to the point where all twelve of them signed the petition.
Finally, he thanked her and sat down. The judge nodded at Ms. Burmeister, who stood and walked to stand directly in front of Andi.
She started with the soccer season, asking Andi about how she had “publicly humiliated” Coach Johnston to get on the team and then to play more. Andi’s dad had told her to expect something like this and to stay calm. She did.
“I wanted to play and thought I was good enough to play,” she said. “Coach Johnston told the school principal the only reason he cut me was because I was a girl. My friend Jeff Michaels told his dad what was going on and he thought it was worth a story on NBC Sports–Philadelphia.”
Burmeister seemed surprised. “You’re saying it wasn’t your idea to take your case to the media?”
“No, ma’am, it wasn’t.”
“But you went along with it, right?” she said, recovering.
“Yes, ma’am. I wanted to play.”
She moved forward quickly to the media turnout at the first game. Andi explained that she had known nothing about it beforehand and really didn’t want any publicity during basketball season.
“Well, you’ve got it now, don’t you?” Ms. Burmeister said, drawing a laugh from the crowd.
She went on to ask Andi if she and her “friends” hadn’t overreacted or misunderstood an “innocent” comment in the Chester Heights locker room.
Andi jumped on that one. “If it was an innocent or misunderstood comment, why didn’t Coach … Ms. Josephson, just say she was sorry or that she hadn’t meant it that way?”
“Your father prepared you well, didn’t he?” Burmeister said.
Talking about Andi’s benching, she just said, “Wouldn’t you agree that a coach, even an inexperienced one, probably knows more about who should play and who shouldn’t than an eleven-year-old?
Andi couldn’t believe she’d asked that question. It was like throwing a batting-practice fastball to Bryce Harper, the Phillies superstar right-fielder.
“I would agree that Fran Dunphy knows more about who should or shouldn’t play than an inexperienced coach does, and he started me and started Lisa Carmichael in his first game as our coach, and we won easily.”
The courtroom was murmuring loudly. Her father would tell Andi later it had been because an eleven-year-old kid was outsmarting one of the city’s better lawyers.
Burmeister seemed to understand. She thanked Andi and the judge told her to step down.
“Ms. Josephson,” he said. “Your turn.”