The Dream Maker

The streets of Inverness are dark at 5 a.m. when Robert A. Clifford pulls his Cadillac Fleetwood out of the three-car garage of his English Tudor country house and begins the drive to the Loop. After a stop at the plush LaSalle Club for a treadmill run and a quick breakfast, Clifford arrives at the 2 North LaSalle Street law office with his name emblazoned on the door, ready to work. It's 8:00 a.m.

"Is the videotape all set up?" Clifford asks a young female attorney as he strides down the hall towards a conference room. "I just don't want anything to go wrong," he says, as he spots the camera positioned at one end of a rich mahogany table.

Making sure things don't go wrong is second nature to Clifford, who, at 37, is one of the city's top attorneys. And if things have already gone wrong, Clifford makes sure his clients secure compensation for their injuries, for the disruption of their lives. He is their dream maker.

Grateful admirers include Roy Speckerman, who won $950,000 in 1985 from the Burlington Northern Railroad for the loss of his left leg after he fell onto the tracks while boarding a rain. The wife and children of Delbert Drewes were awarded $600,000 in 1985 for Delbert's death after his truck hit an illegally stopped dairy transport carrier. David Evans III received $2.4 million in 1984 for injuries suffered in a swimming pool dive. More recently, Clifford has taken on the cause of the family of Nancy Clay, who was killed while trapped in a 1987 fire on the 20th floor of a downtown high rise.

The Clays are very much on Clifford's mind this morning as he sips a cup of coffee in his green-carpeted corner office, preparing for the day's battle. On the agenda is the deposition of Carl Brauneis, the Chicago Fire Department's chief dispatcher, who was responsible for all 15 dispatchers on duty the night Clay frantically called 911 for assistance.

"Please help me. I'm gonna die," Clay told a dispatcher a short time before passing out from the smoke emanating from the fire in her office at One Illinois Center on May 13, 1987.

Nearly a year ago, Clifford obtained copies of Chicago Fire Department logging tapes of this and other recorded conversations among the victim, the 911 operator, police and fire personnel.

Convinced that the 911 emergency dispatcher did not tell firemen that young woman's exact location in the skyscraper, or that she was trapped on an upper floor, Clifford now wants to ask Brauneis a few penetrating questions.

The discovery deposition will be an informational "fishing expedition" to help prepare the lawsuit the Clay family has filed against the city and the building managers.

Clifford has mapped out his strategy carefully.

"The video camera is there for a purpose," he confides. "The city's attorney is quite obtrusive and keeps trying to tell witnesses what to say. But if he know the camera is focused on him, he will watch his step. He knows full well I can take the tape into the judge and get sanctions against him."

It's now 11:30 a.m., and Brauneis, several lawyers, the videotape operator, a court reporter and two law clerks, all dressed conservatively, stroll into the conference room to take their places at the table.

Clifford -- hardly looking the role of a warrior in a navy wool cardigan over a white shirt and slacks -- strides into the room last, sits down and begins asking Brauneis questions from a yellow legal pad.

"Am I correct that at the police department a call comes into the system telling a dispatcher where the call comes from?" Clifford inquires, looking directly across the broad wooden expanse at Brauneis.

"Yes."

"But not at the Fire Department, " Clifford asks rhetorically.

"Correct."

"How come?" asks Clifford.

"The explanation is Illinois Bell doesn't have equipment anymore to do that," Brauneis says.

Four hours later, the fishing trip concludes. And Clifford has landed at least one valuable piece of information: A 20-year Fire Department regulation bans dispatchers from radioing to firefighters that anyone is "trapped or pinned" at a fire site.

Brauneis says the seemingly nonsensical rule stems from a policy dictated by late Chicago Fire Chief Robert Quinn, who was once embarrassed by callers monitoring radio transmission from trapped victims.

"This will help us in our case against the city. It helps solidify information we received already," Clifford says as he writes a memo about the deposition.

The tape of Nancy Clay's dramatic cries for help was played on the air-waves and a transcript was printed in newspapers around the country at the time of her death. This tape and Clifford's broadcast press conferences, where he demanded answers on how and why the woman died, brought a great deal of media attention.

He defends his use of the press to further his cause.

"I think it's real easy to try to divert attention to what is really a non-issue in the case by saying this is a lawyer trying to create undue publicity about an event. But if the only way to create an outcry to improve a disservice to the public is by using Nancy Clay's tragic death as a vehicle to do it, then fine," Clifford says.

William Clay, a Libertyville resident and the victim's father, says Clifford has carried out the Clay family's wishes in his public battle for the log tapes and answers from city officials.

"We're not interested in money. Our interest was then, and is now, to see some changes made so nobody else has to lose their life. The methods he used were very proper. Mr. Clifford has our support 100 percent," Clay says. Already, as a result of Clifford's digging, Clay says high-rise tenants have been given information on escape routes in the event of a fire. But still the city has not provided an answer on how his daughter died.

"We waited to file an actual suit because the Clay family told the city, ‘If you clean up your act, we'll forego initiating litigation and we'll talk settlement," Clifford says. "But they made no change and did nothing, so we sued the city one day before the anniversary of Nancy's death."

It's now after 4 p.m. Clifford stuffs his notes into the massive Clay file, puts it on a stack for his secretary, Marion Reidy, and takes a look at the pile of messages on his desk. For the next few hours he pours over other cases, meets with a new client and returns telephone calls.

"What's unique about this business is that you are constantly dealing with people from different disciplines and all walks of life, whether they be engineers, neuropsychologists, plumbers or postmen," Clifford offers as a few of the six young associates in the firm of Robert A. Clifford & Associates drop by for some words with the boss.

The boyish looking Clifford enjoys playing pedagogue. After all, it has only been a few years since he was a disciple learning the tricks of the personal injury litigation trade from master plaintiff's attorney Philip Corboy. In 1974, while a sophomore at DePaul University Law School, Clifford heard Corboy speak on civil procedure.

After class, Clifford recalls asking the dean, "How do you get a job with a guy like that?" "You don't," was the dean's terse reply.

But Clifford followed Corboy to his downtown law office and prevailed. A week later, he was hired as Corboy's law clerk and remained with him until June 1984.

"I remember when Bob came to my office. He is Mr. Jack Armstrong, All American. He's very credible, very charming and has charisma," says Corboy. "He has absolutely no ego or conceits or personality foibles that are distracting to jurors. And above all, he works hard."

Under Corboy's tutelage and guidance, Clifford helped handle several multimillion-dollar wrongful death suits and earned some newspaper headlines for high-power cases, including a $200,000 jury award (later slashed by a judge) to former Illinois Supreme Court Justice Thomas E. Kluczynski and his wife for being bumped from a Delta Air Lines flight.

But eventually, Clifford decided to set up shop on his own.

"It's difficult leaving someone like Phil, but it was important. It was my way of starting a lifelong dream of being totally responsible for my growth," says Clifford, whose first effort was an unsuccessful joint venture with another law firm. The two spilt within a year.

"I've always wanted to be a lawyer," declared Clifford, who was born and raised in Ed Vrdolyak's South Side neighborhood.

"I grew up in a neighborhood of cops, firemen and politicians. My dad's a carpenter. I chose to be a lawyer," says Clifford, who was a debater at Marist High School and earned extra cash working at a lumberyard.

One day, while an undergraduate at DePaul University, Clifford, then president of Tau Kappa Epsilon fraternity, brought a date to a school mixer. He went home with a different woman: Joan Makowski, president of Rho Delta Pi sorority.

"This may sound corny, but my primary hobby is my family. I don't have a lot of free time between work as a lawyer and other obligations," says Clifford, who does manage to be an avid golfer and sometime fisherman.

He is president of the Inverness Golf Club and a perpetual Wisconsin fisherman.

Last October, Clifford landed a 17-pound Muskie during a camping trip with some buddies outside Boulder Junction, Wis.

"If you keep at something, you get the big one," he says philosophically.

Clifford's diligence and hard work have also seen him garner some big cases -- and big verdicts to match. He has lost only two cases after trials.

But while Clifford enjoys the perks -- the lovely six-bedroom home in Inverness on 2.5 acres adjoining a lake, the Cadillac and Mercedes-Benz, a vacation house in Naples, Fla., and glamorous family vacations -- he also enjoys his success with others.

Clifford recently funded a playground at his parish, St. Theresa in Palatine ("because the playground they had was unsafe"), and made a $100,000 gift to DePaul University College of Law for its planned Lawyering Skills Center.

Clifford is active in DePaul alumni affairs, is a member of the university's board of trustees, has chaired several American Bar Association committees and written and spoken widely on trial techniques. He travels an average of 100,000 miles a year and plans to spend a major portion of the spring lobbying in Springfield against "the enemy" -- a cap on damage awards being endorsed by the property-casualty insurance industry, the Illinois Manufacturer's Association and the Illinois state Medical Society.

"It's a vicious cycle. Here you have companies with advertising budgets, the ability to retain public relations counsel versus the guy who can't make mortgage payments because of injuries. The insurance industry in 1986, ‘87 and ‘88 earned more money than at any other time in its existence because of escalating premiums that are being caused by overinflated reports by the insurance industry on damage claims," says Clifford, who in 1990 becomes president of the 2,500-member Illinois Trial Lawyers Association.

Clifford believes his skills help some folks "who otherwise would not have the ability to recover or have their rights protected." One of his favorite cases involved David Evans who in 1981, as a junior at Glenbrook South High School, was practicing a dive in the shallow end of the school's swimming pool.

The youth hit the bottom of the pool, shattering his spinal cord. At first it was called a freak accident, but Clifford found out that a diving technique called a "pike" was being used, and that the dive was not safe in the 3.3-foot-deep shallow end of the pool.

Exhausted research led Clifford to two Olympic swimming coaches, Don Gambril and James Councilman, who said the dives should not have been made. Facing the prospect of devastating trial testimony by the two experts, the school in 1984 reached a $2.4 million settlement with the swimmer, who is now a quadriplegic.

Evans, 23, lives in Tuscon, Ariz., where he earned an undergraduate degree and is working on a master's degree in business administration. He wants to be a tax accountant.

"Bob was absolutely amazing." recalls the youth's father, David Evans. "With most lawyers, you go to them and never hear from them again. But Bob would call just to say hello and visit with Dave at the rehabilitation institute."

The money enables Evans' son to live independently, drive a specially-equipped van, hire live-in attendants and lead as normal a life as possible, the senior Evans says.

Charm, all-American looks and the right attire can carry a litigator only so far in court or to settlement talks. His colleagues all agree that Clifford brings something more to his work.

"His number one skill is preparedness. He is extremely dogged in getting all the facts," says Kevin Martin, a lawyer who recently lost a case to Clifford's client, a 55-year-old man awarded $4.4 million by a jury in a medical malpractice case. The verdict was $1 million more than Clifford has asked jurors to award his client James Fairley, for a hip injury resulting from a chronic infection. It's possible Fairley could lose his leg.

"To try a lawsuit and know what you're doing is very tolling. There is all the pressure and dynamics of always being on stage, of having to make decisions on the spot," says Martin.

"It's a pleasure to try a case against someone who at all times is a gentleman, who is a skilled lawyer and gives you the respect of being a skilled lawyer as well."

Clifford does not consider his results to be gifts.

"I work a lot of hours, spend a lot of time on preparation, on continuing education, I don't do things in the extreme. I recognize the depth of responsibility I have for people," says Clifford.

Last fall Clifford drove his daughter to visit a client who's hobby is growing giant pumpkins . While the children shrieked and marveled over the 70-pound pumpkins, Clifford was touched by a display in the suburban farmer's living room.

It was a model of the home the man hopes to build for his wheelchair-bound wife, should they win their malpractice lawsuit against doctors who they charge failed to treat an infection following a 1985 breast biopsy. The woman's legs and all her fingers were subsequently amputated as the infection led to gangrene.

"I take that very seriously as a lawyer," Clifford says, shutting his briefcase and heading out the door, to the elevator, to LaSalle Street. It's now 7:10 p.m., and Clifford is on his way home to Inverness for dinner with Joan, Erin and Tracy.

His thoughts, however, are still with the work he lives, breathes and thrives on.

"I can't let these people down," he says, turning the wheel on his Fleetwood aiming northwest on the Kennedy Expressway toward the Northwest Tollway. "These people are salt of the earth who are hardworking, sincere in their efforts and have had the worst of all things occur to them because of physical injuries or death. What I try to do is bring them back to as nearly whole as is permissible under the law, so they can rebuild their shattered lives.

"When I hear the success stories of the David Evanes of the world, it makes me feel terrific," Clifford says. "Because there is a man who has certainly grown and prospered as a human being, who otherwise would have had what seemingly would be a shattered life and dreams.

"There is no question I can be their dream maker."