Small town law — Jay County: Deeply rooted in rural justice

Inside the Jay County Courthouse in Portland.

The only sound is the hum of a radiator and muffled laughter floating down the stairs from longtime co-workers. Soft light shines through the Jay County Courthouse’s stained-glass ceiling. Its dim hues of blue and orange dapple the marble walls and floor. Elaborate wrought-iron rails, ornamental details and lunette murals adorn the 1916 courthouse. A grand, sloping staircase meets at a central platform, arching upward to the second and third floors. The wooden handrails are worn smooth from decades of use. A law library sits quietly to one side, its chandeliers offering meager light to bookshelves packed with aging texts. There’s no security guarding the building, and it’s quiet. Not in a “walk on your tip toes” way; rather, a comfortable silence. Outside, an inmate heads to court in handcuffs, wearing a faded striped jumpsuit. A group of women meanders by, glancing at a bulletin board on the first-floor wall. As the brief rustle of activity subsides to a quiet hum, a passerby glances up toward the light. With a smile, she says, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Older attorneys advised him not to come back. He ignored their advice. Forty years later, Judge Max Ludy leans back in his office chair adjacent to the Jay Superior courtroom, his black robe on a hook nearby. He started his career by doing public defense work and bankruptcy law at the age of 25. Now, looking toward the coming end of his judicial career, Ludy isn’t sure who will replace him once the spot opens. The judge admits it’s tough for younger attorneys to make headway in small counties. Ludy managed, but he wonders if those who come after he’s gone will be able to say the same. “There’s not a lot of incentive for the attorneys to come back here, and that’s a problem,” he said. “It really is.”

Not once in 17 years of practice has Greg LeMaster had to advertise his legal services. He’s never needed to. “Just a one-liner in the Yellow Pages. That’s the most I’ve ever done,” LeMaster said. “If you’re out there willing to do the work, they’ll come to you in places like this.” LeMaster is a solo practitioner who also serves as one of Jay County’s five public defenders. He’s so busy with criminal defense cases that he doesn’t have time to handle much else. Drug use has skyrocketed. Caseloads are hefty. But if something tugs at his heart, sometimes he can’t say no. “A lot of times I’ll jump in on a case I really don’t have time to, and they may not be able to hire me,” LeMaster said. Oftentimes, small towns seem to lack hope, he said. People have little drive to make something of themselves. But that wasn’t how it used to be. He’s never abandoned his Jay County roots. “We all took pride in this place, and we all felt that this was home, and we all had a duty to make it a great place,” LeMaster said.

When Bill Hinkle (top row, right) started practicing law, Portland, Indiana, was a thriving community. That was 1971. He was 25 years old. Now closer to 73, he’s seen a significant change in Jay County’s legal scene since his first day on the job. “We’re an aging community. We don’t have as many young professionals coming back as we did when I started practicing,” he observed.“We had many more opportunities than they have now.” To practice in a small town, lawyers must be flexible and provide as many legal services as possible, Hinkle said. That’s because the law has become more specialized. “You have to be able to pick the areas you feel comfortable in and maintain proficiency in those fields,” he said. The few attorneys still practicing in the county are also aging. Their numbers have dwindled since 1971, Hinkle said. Most are retiring, and he’s considering it, too. More young lawyers, like his two children, have chosen careers in cities such as Indianapolis. But Hinkle has been happy to stay put. “I certainly have no regrets in staying here and practicing here,” he said.