Kent McKeever, fabulous law librarian and far greater friend to those who were lucky enough to know him, died on 20 February.
A man of true goodness, kindness, friendship, warmth and too many other good words for my thesaurus.
Our friendship goes back to 1986. Columbia Law School sent Kent to Lausanne as part of an exchange with the Swiss Institute of Comparative Law where I worked at the time. As the official resident anglophone there, someone wrongly thought that I ought to be able to answer Kent’s big questions like “where is the nearest racetrack?” and “where is the nearest bookie?”. I bought Kent a couple of beers. It was one of the best decisions I have ever made.
I took Kent at his word about being able to stay at his place when I was next in New York, the following year. So, began my education about the City, past and present. After the traditional Indian meal that began most trips, Kent led me to explore his city, his world, of Tommy Makem, most types of music, the Village Voice before its decline and, on that first trip, the strange world of NYC academia.
I was writing my first book at the time. Kent became my unofficial reference librarian which he remained for the rest of his working life and occasionally beyond that. He could make any legal concept appear surprisingly clear, like any great teacher and understood the law librarian’s role as not just finding things but making sense of them and sparking interest in other things.
Kent was almost absurdly modest about his huge talents. During his time as head of the Law School Library, he told me that, in the library, he was really pretty useless since everyone knew how to do their jobs without him. I had great difficulty persuading him that he had just defined great management. His library had to be usable by readers, preferably those who loved books the way he did. On my one trip involving using Columbia, the respect of the other librarians for him was palpable.
In 1989-1990, my year in the US, Kent gave me the keys to the apartment just after Christmas and more crucially for the following summer. I essentially rented the scullery room off the kitchen while studying for the New York Bar. I couldn’t imagine a more supportive flatmate. Kent taught me about the whole range of New York things. Friday nights were spent studying baseball (the Mets in the decline phase after the 1986 World Series) under Ralph Kiner and Tim McCarver amidst the occasional beer. Kent taught me about the strange wear and tear on pitchers well before I explained Tommy John surgery to my ex-doctor father during the pandemic.
Kent discovered and cured my strange addiction to collecting other people’s newspapers to read by pointing out the low price of the original. He encouraged me to read like I probably never have before. I devoured the Edward Majoribanks biography of E Marshall Hall at weekends and became convinced that this depiction was actually the real origin of Horace Rumpole. We shared cricket stories, including the famous one of Kent taking a cab back to the hotel on the basis of an inevitable draw in Barbados, only to hear Curtley Ambrose destroying the English batting while still in the taxi. We looked at cricket videos, discussed batting techniques and immersed ourselves in each other’s rather odd collection of knowledge, particularly of West Indian cricket.
When I left, we gave each other books, without thinking or discussing it with each other. I gave Kent Tennessee Williams’ collected short stories (to reflect his literary and Louisiana side – I can still do a decent impersonation of his “He lied” in what I assume is a New Orleans accent!). He gave me Tim McCarver’s “Oh Baby, I Love It!” which I will be re-reading this weekend along with his inscription on the inside. At a time when men hugging wasn’t a mainstream activity, we instinctively did so when we said goodbye in 1990. It said much more than this.
After that, my memories of New York visits rather folded into each other. I stayed with Kent on all but one occasion (and even then we did a Yankee Stadium trip together then).
We had so many joyous occasions in Indian restaurants, pizzerias, Yankee and Citifield stadia and countless other venues. We talked about everything, books above all else but also music, politics, law, things we shared in common. It was just so lovely to spend time with Kent and to introduce friends of mine to him. His consistency and steadfastness gave every visit a pleasurable sameness, interspersed with highlights. I always remember arriving just after moving into Fitzrovia and finding by the scullery bed a copy of an excellent book on the 1947 Fitzrovia Antiquis murder. On my next trip to New York, I will buy some bottles of selzer just to put them in Kent’s fridge and then I will find someone to give them to in his memory.
In my lifetime, I will not see his like again. Karin Sinniger and I used to joke that he was Le grand McKeever and le McKeever grand (the great McKeever and the large one!). We just called him “Uncle Kenty” usually behind his back. One of the “greats” has gone. Last night, Rachael who Kent rather adored texted me eight times in about an hour (something she never does singly) to express her sadness at his death and the fact that we would not be able to continue enjoying his company. As with all who knew Kent well, the lights are dimmer today. The glorious memories, though, remain, as I hope they will more than anything else of the consistency of his warm friendship and enormous kindness.