Jordan Elliott Lewis was a brilliant, humble, kind lawyer, and a good friend. He died suddenly three weeks ago (working, I have heard, at his garage workbench). He was 41. He left behind two children—Ethan (14) and Annie (5). Here is his obituary.
What I remember about meeting Jordan is that he saw me in the courthouse, introduced himself, and kindly suggested to me that I might be kinder to people seeking my help on the HCCLA listserv.
What Jordan remembered about my first encounter with Jordan was:
I’m sure Jordan was right (both about how we met and about me being an asshole). That was maybe a decade ago. Over the intervening years we became closer. Jordan was one of those lawyers who I could talk to about my legal theories without his eyes glazing over, and I think he respected my brain as well. When I needed to recruit someone to write an amicus brief on a tricky expunction issue, I thought of Jordan. I was hopeful that Jordan would run for HCCLA president, and bring some of his energy to getting that organization back on track.
I showed him my workshop. We went to lunch with Uncle Mike and Matt B. and my younger kid. I introduced him to the joy of homemade firearms, and gave him a drillpress to get started. My dog Eiger and I joined Annie’s covid birthday parade. I helped him prep for an oral argument at the First Court of Appeals. (The argument was recorded, but the recording was lost in the Great Texas Courts Ransomware Attack of 2020.)
The last time I saw Jordan was January 11th, when we had lunch—Jordan, Matt, Armen, my younger kid, and I—at Henderson & Kane in the Sixth Ward. Jordan looked fit, and seemed happy.
It’s never been easy for me to make friends. I’m introverted, and I’ve never enjoyed sports or any of the things that most men seem to bond over. I’ve always preferred reading a book to small talk.
Social media, by calling people who read your updates “friends,” has degraded friendship. I’ve got a handful of true friends, people who I would call if I were in trouble and who I hope would call me if they were in trouble. I have one less than I had a month ago, and I feel the loss.
Jordan was not only a friend, but also a good man. He took good care of his family, his friends, his clients, and his community. I’m a better man for having known him.
If you never knew Jordan, I feel sorry for you, too. You lost more than I did. Now you know.
The Encomium Economy
When a public figure dies, someone writes a newspaper article, and everyone interviewed has something nice to say, and that’s the last permanent record of his existence. People whose obituaries get published in the newspaper are public figures, often politicians, often narcissistic, often verging on sociopathic, often downright toxic. They often have done more harm than good. The truth is, you’re probably better off for never having met Ruben Guerrero.
But we have a long cultural tradition of not speaking ill of the dead. So that last permanent record presents a false picture of the public figure.
Meanwhile quiet professionals like Jordan who dedicate their life to making the world a better place for other people are remembered only by those who loved him in life.
Vale atque ave, Jordan.
Hi, Mark. I'm Jordan's mother and as his birthday recently passed with the now familiar deluge of tears, memories, and gales of laughter over Jordan stories, I'm thinking of him with the same disbelief I had the day he died (does the wonderment ever cease over the realization that the world can actually continue to spin, even without the physical presence of your beloved in it?). And, I thought, "I will just Google his name and see what comes up." What came up was this piece, which I had never seen before. As his mother, please accept my deepest thanks for this remembrance of my boy. He was everything you say -- and more. He was not perfect, but he was a remarkable human being with a passion for the underdog and a mind that amazed us from the very beginning. That child was reading at three and asking me questions about the world, about people, and about what causes people to treat others badly. He was also one of the funniest people I've ever known. Dry sarcasm was the coin of the realm in our family and Jordan was a master of it. He adored his precious Beth and those two children. He called me one night and told me, "Don't tell the other lawyers, but I just got rolled by a 2-year-old." Annie had "negotiated" her way out of a bath, and he didn't realize until it was over that her, "Daddy, I have a solution that will make us both happy" was her final (and successful) lunge and parry. I miss every single thing about Jordan. His intellect; his honor; his compassion; his quirky smile. All of it. The last words he said to me, as he and his family left our house the Easter Sunday 6 days before he died, were tossed over his shoulder, with a broad smile, as he loped down my porch steps with Annie in his arms. "This boy sure does love his mama!" I thank God for that last picture of my beautiful boy, casually calling out to his mother what has always mattered most to her -- her babies' love. Anyway, thank you again for saying what every mother wants to hear -- that her child's life mattered. He made a difference. He loved and was loved. He litigated masterfully and won (most of the time). He did it with honor. I could not be any prouder of my boy. I could not miss his presence any more than I do. But I thank you for your kind words. Cynthia Williams Young
Hi, Cynthia. I’d like to preserve Jordan’s Twitter account. Do you know who might have the login (or have access to the email that he might have used to log in)? Please email me at mb@ivi3.com. Thank you.