Nick Jimenez

Sunday, January 9, 2000

There's no hope for this old lady

Inevitably, as I take visitors around town, showing them all the big sights, we will drive over the Harbor Bridge, and they will ooh and aah, and say, "Wow, what's that?"
   Have they caught sight of the Philip Johnson-designed South Texas Institute of the Arts? Or maybe the striking design of the Texas State Aquarium? Or maybe even a peek of what remains of the Columbus Fleet? Nope. It's the old Nueces County Courthouse.
   This aging example of neoclassical revival courthouse design still catches the eye, no matter that its exterior has badly deteriorated, its brick is missing in large gaps and just about all the glass has long since vanished. But there stands its Ionic colonnaded portal, just as impressive as ever.
   And inevitably, I get the second question: "What are they going to do with it?"
   Nothing, I say.
   What a waste, they say.
   Not that several well-intentioned owners haven't tried. Ever since the county government moved out, a succession of schemes has floated to try to renovate the old building. All have failed.
   There is a special curse on the old courthouse: It's called potential. Some thought it had the potential to be part of a hotel development (really); there have been thoughts that it would serve as a good place to have a downtown college campus. The latest plan would have it become a transportation museum.
   I have an affinity for the old courthouse. I spent years going up and down its stairs, sitting in its courtrooms reporting on trials. I have endured hours of commissioners' court meetings within its walls, and I've enjoyed its warren-like recesses where a reporter could evade the bothersome inquiries of a city editor. This was before beepers and cell phones, curse them.
   Whatever shortcomings the building had, and there were plenty, it was a building that fit its function. Like the county government it housed, the building was a throwback to an earlier era. Walking up its stone step entrance, one felt as if he were entering the halls of justice itself. Then, inside, the first sight was of a gaggle of county officials having their coffee breaks, exchanging rumors and greeting constituents. These were no faceless bureaucrats. This was government, up close and personal.
   Other reporters coveted reporting on City Hall instead. But while the story at City Hall was always about issues, the story at the courthouse was inevitably about people. No other building contained so many elected officials.
   The coziness of the old courthouse made it impossible for elected officials to hide behind closed doors. Its courtrooms, rather than looking like theaters, looked like courtrooms ought to look: impressive benches for the judges and a wooden rail separating the proceedings from the observers. One might think that an accused, if found guilty, would go straight from sentencing to the gallows.
   No one wants to see the old courthouse restored to its former glory more than myself. To see people fill its hallways and walk up and down its steps would make the old girl once again what it was meant to be, a place where people gathered. But I'd also like to see my old Volkswagen bus running, the return of 35-cent gasoline, and real people answering office phones. Not one of these is likely to happen again. And neither is the restoration of the old courthouse.
   (Nick Jimenez can be reached by phone at 886-3787 or by e-mail at jimenezn@caller.com.)
  

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