FOR FORT WORTH attorney Sean “Mad Dog” O’Reilly, the courtroom became a bloodless battlefield, where she won case after case without ever really realizing her dream of justice for the poor. For every divorce proceeding that made it to the courtroom, there were countless others that never even got to the docket. She lost clients, not because her sharp rhetoric started to dull, but because so many penniless, powerless women had to wait too long for their turn in court. Although they found a friend in O’Reilly, for many such women divorce is little more than a legal term that belongs to a world of condominiums and Corvettes. In the poor Hispanic and black communities of Fort Worth, it’s sometimes easier to shoot a wife than to divorce her.
The problems of the weepy-eyed women, who were as helpless in their marriages as on the witness stand, followed O’Reilly home every night. Along with the paperwork, there were 3 a.m. phone calls from bondsmen and threats from angry husbands. Through it all, O’Reilly appeared unrattled by events, but those closest to her knew that every nighf O’Reilly took the heartache home – not to a husband or a roommate or a parent, but to the Sisters of St. Mary of Namur Convent.
“During the three years I practiced law in Fort Worth, two clients were killed by their husbands, and two committed suicide,” says O’Reilly, who now is on the other side of the bench as a court master. “Then there was one child who died when the mama was beaten into labor.”
The images get even grimmer. One woman was shot to death while holding her infant in her arms. Children were physically and sexually abused. The first case O’Reilly ever handled as a licensed attorney involved the rape and murder of a 7-year-old girl.
Although most attorneys had neither the stomach nor the inclination to practice poverty law, O’Reilly was drawn by the idea of serving as an advocate for those who found the legal system as inaccessible as a Caribbean vacation. For O’Reilly, family law became the vehicle that allowed her to fulfill a commitment she’d made nearly a decade earlier as a nun in the Catholic church.
To virtually everyone but O’Reilly, the drama of the courtroom and the solitude of the convent are worlds apart. A century ago, nuns might have lived sequestered lives, but the sisters of the new generation find themselves on the front lines in a battle that religious zealots have fought for centuries. Society may be comfortable with the antiquated notion that sisters belong in churches, schools and hospitals, but for O’Reilly, who occasionally wears a button “Another Nun for ERA,” those stereotypes make about as much sense as wearing a heavy, floor-length black habit during the summer. For O’Reilly, her lifestyle and her profession are as logical as the fine-tuned legal rebuttals that have won her respect and a high profile in Fort Worth.
“The Catholic Church has always expressed the value of the dignity and rights of each person,” says O’Reilly, who joined the religious order 17 years ago. “When I was younger, I thought it would be great to make a religious commitment to help people and still be able to practice law instead of teaching, as sisters traditionally have done.”
O’Reilly’s ministry, says her friend, Sister Donna Ferguson, is consistent with the beliefs of the Catholic Church and the Sisters of St. Mary. “Where no one else would go,” says Ferguson, “that has been where our order went. Our goal has been to be of service to the Lord through people. That’s what Sean has tried to do through law. She selected this, I imagine, because, like myself, she honestly believes there is more to life than what’s on the surface. She sees a bigger picture.”
At 36, O’Reilly is now firmly cemented into a lifestyle that gives her considerable freedom without allowing her to cross the boundaries of the religious life she has selected. It is a paradox that O’Reilly is too comfortable with to change. Her commitment to the church came when she was 19 and a student at the University of Dallas. Law school, her views on women’s rights and her commitment to the victims of family violence have been artfully arranged into a lifestyle that may puzzle her co-workers but certainly fits O’Reilly.
O’Reilly may clench and tug at the legal system much like a bulldog with a piece of meat in his jaws, but after-hours there is a different side to her. Her friend and co-worker, Marguerite Lane, describes O’Reilly as an “extremely warm, spiritual person who’s far more disciplined than most people and totally unselfish. I’ve never met anyone more in tune with who they are or what they wanted to be than Sean,” says Lane, a conservative Catholic. Lane’s husband, Calvin, agrees. “She’s so well-tuned to her religious life that Sean, I believe, could be a nun without the Catholic Church.”
THE SECOND IN a family of 11 children, O’Reilly learned the value of helping others at an early age. After her father, a country club manager, died and her mother returned to work as a nurse educator, O’Reilly became a substitute parent to her younger siblings. Although she had already joined the convent by then, she still found time to play catch with her youngest brother Patrick. When family finances were shaky, she put everyone on a penny-pinching diet.
Patrick, who now lives in Arlington, remembers Sean as a sympathetic sister who was always willing to help him with his problems. “Even now, everyone in our family looks to my sister as the cornerstone of our family,” says Patrick, who is studying to be a nurse. “She’s the one we can always count on, whether it’s for monetary support, emotional support or just some sound logical advice.”
When she was 16, O’Reilly wanted to be a veterinarian, but her passion for animals cooled when she realized veterinary medicine was not synonymous with living on a large ranch and owning a lot of cattle.
In retrospect, O’Reilly says her interest in law began when she was still in grade school. But as a Catholic schoolgirl, O’Reilly was also attracted to a religious life. By becoming a nun and taking a vow of poverty, celibacy and obedience, O’Reilly could do a type of work she admired and respected. She decided to join the Sisters of St. Mary, a conservative Belgium-based order, because the St. Mary’s nuns she knew in Texas were progressive, personable and well-educated -all traits that O’Reilly admired.
While studying English and political philosophy at the University of Dallas, O’Reilly began her novitiate training. With four years between graduation and law school, she figured she had just enough time to convince her superiors to allow her to become an attorney.
After graduation, O Reilly began what she calls an “intuitive journey,” taking her on a dozen different job paths without straying from her Christian commitment. During a two-year period she worked as a social worker, janitor, teacher and interviewer. She drove a pick-up truck and delivered food, clothing and medicine to the poor in rural Texas. She went into areas lew other dared to enter. When she finally got around to asking her superiors if she could study law they were cautious, but accepting.
Her request came at a good time, and O’Reilly knew it. During the Seventies, the climate of the church was progressive, she says, and people were more willing to break from the tradition of serving people through schools and hospitals. And a career in law dovetailed with the church’s commitment to be with and help people. Several months and many volumes of paper work later, O’Reilly became the first nun in Texas (and one of four nationwide), to enter law school.
With the church’s financial support, the 27-year-old O’Reilly entered the University of Houston Law School, selected because several nuns were already living in the area. There, O’Reilly fulfilled her religious obligations in addition to attending law school. After graduating and saying her vows, O’Reilly threw the biggest beer and hamburger bash a convent has ever seen. Her guest list included attorneys and maids, friends and family, nuns and priests.
After graduation in 1977, she returned to Fort Worth and went to work for West Texas Legal Services. During her three and a half years there, another attorney nicknamed her “Mad Dog.” The nickname, etched forever in a small name plate, followed her into private practice.
A staggering case load – 600 family law cases in three years – followed her from legal aid to private practice. Along with the case load came a reputation that few attorneys could match.
“By then everyone knew that you didn’t walk into a courtroom unprepared and expect to oppose Sean O’Reilly, because she’d be sure to bury you,” says Lane. “She’s one of the best attorneys in this area, even though she represents people who can only pay her $5. There’s no doubt that she’s not in law for the money or the power; she’s in it to do the best job she can for the people.”
IF THERE WAS a time when the two worlds of O’Reilly seemed to clash, it was during the months when she lived in the order’s mother house, a massive, old building flanked by yards of immaculate lawns and used primarily as a home and infirmary for elderly sisters. Ferguson, the youngest nun living there, describes the atmosphere as “calm -like living with a lot of grandmothers.” Although Sean was still vocal in the convent, a gentle and sensitive side was more commonly seen.
Initially, convent life was comfortable for O’Reilly, whojokes that she grew up in a commune of 13 people with 10 of them women. But eventually the strain began to show. On the bus ride to and from work each day, O’Reilly was transformed from the obedient nun to the suit-clad bantering attorney, and then back again. At the convent she attended Mass, started and ended every day with prayer and devoted much time to carrying for the other residents. In the courtroom, Ferguson says, Sean put up with all the garbage people handed her and she still kept plugging away. Although she drew a monthly salary, all but $10 and the price of a bus ticket was turned over to the sisters.
The balancing act between her two worlds grew more difficult, and eventually O’Reilly moved out of the convent and into the North Side Fort Worth home she now shares with another nun. But her ties to the mother house haven’t been weakened by the move. She still handles much of the order’s legal work, picks out cars for sisters in need of transportation, and is never more than a phone call away from the convent.
Her lifestyle now, she insists, is much like most working people’s lives, with a few exceptions. Like most working adults, she often goes home to leftovers, television and her dog, Clancy. But her surroundings are purposely sparse, in keeping with her vow of poverty, and one room serves as a meditation or prayer room. Religion, she says, is built into her days, with time earmarked for community and individual prayer. Unlike other women her age, she has more time to herself, since she isn’t tied by a commitment to a family.
“I can go out after work and eat pizza because I don’t have kids at home to worry about,” she says, adding that her close family ties make up for the children she will never have. A band on her finger symbolizes her commitment to the church, and although unsuspecting men occasionally ignore that band, O’Reilly’s message comes across firmly: She is no more available to men than a happily married woman.
FOR MOST OF her life, O’Reilly’s goal has simply been to help people. While her work as an attorney involves divorce, custody cases and adoptions, she sees no conflict with Catholic values. Her work with low-income women is the real issue at hand.
“I’m advocating for people who otherwise might not be able to negotiate in the court system,” she says. “That position is consistent with the teachings of the Catholic Church in terms of dealing with social issues.”
When someone questions her feelings about handling divorce cases, she has a pat answer: The church, she says, is against remarriage, not divorce. In addition, most of her caseload involves non-Catholics, and most of those are battered wives and children. The large number of battered women she sees in her work has strengthened her support of the ERA and economic justice.
“I’m a feminist in the sense that I think women are entitled to have the same opportunities in every arena of life that men have,” she says. “What made a feminist out of me was working with abused women who didn’t have the economic base to raise their kids by themselves. Seeing the plight of a woman with a sixth-grade education, four kids and a husband who physically abused her, I can’t help but wonder where she’s going and where those kids are going.”
As an attorney, O’Reilly has served her community and her church by working as an advocate for the poor. Her practice undoubtedly will continue, but in December 1983, she decided to accept a $40,000 position as a court master, a job that carries many of the responsibilities of a judge. In her new 9-to-5 job she presides at hearings involving temporary orders on property, child support and visitation rights. She also issues protective orders involving violent behavior between divorcing spouses, in custody and divorce hearings. It’s a different way of serving the cause she has dedicated her life to, but with less pressure and fewer time demands.
Although the position of court master often serves as a springboard to a political career, O’Reilly says she’s not interested. Eventually she plans to return to private practice, but for now she fits comfortably into the job. Her wit is still sharp, her dressing style as casual as ever -usually pant suits with flat-heeled shoes.
Although O’Reilly has won many cases, she recognizes that her judgment is not infallible. One case in particular illustrates the frustration that she dealt with almost daily.
The case involved a 19-year old mother with three children, all under the age of 3. After one child suffered bruises from a spanking, he was removed from the home by Child Welfare authorities. For two years, O’Reilly fought the termination of the mother’s rights, using videotapes and parent-training classes to show that her client was a good parent. The trial was set and dismissed nine times; meanwhile, the young mother had a fourth child.
Finally, O’Reilly managed to have custody transferred to a paternal grandmother, a move that allowed frequent visitation for the mother. All seemed equitable until one day when the mother took all four children and vanished for six months.
When the mother was located, one of the children had suffered a severe burn. The mother said that he pulled a pot of boiling water onto himself, but the court sentenced her to eight years in jail for child abuse.
Only one other time was she wrong about a client, but the scenario still haunts O’Reilly when she recalls her law career.
Some of her friends suspect O’Reilly needed a breather from the demands of private practice. The suicides and deaths took a toll on O’Reilly, according to Sister Ferguson, who remembers how O’Reilly was so numbed that she barely reacted after a client was killed.
But Lane sees a different O’Reilly, one who never shows despair and “thrives on being able to get into a dirty situation and make a decision.
“Whatever real life is,” says Lane, “Seanis there helping.”
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