Russel Vancamp Attorney in Spokane Washington Baby Ryan Case
'Baby Ryan' case puts lawyer Russell Van Army camp back in spotlight
Tue., December. 27, 1994
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Lawyer Russell Van Camp surveys the Spokane skyline and howls from his hilltop home. "Thank God for America." Van Camp, a superlative domestic dog amid media hounds, is dorsum in the spotlight. Fate has thrown him a bone in the form of Baby Ryan, eight pounds of public-relations joy. The infant considered too sick to live by Sacred Heart Medical Middle is in Portland now, off a breathing machine and loftier-tech surrogate kidneys. ABC's "20/twenty" is coming. "A Current Thing" just chosen. The New York Times only left. Later on years of low-profile cases, Van Camp is back. And Spokane'southward legal community is trying to concord downwardly its lunch. "It's enough to make you puke," says one attorney, who like a dozen others interviewed wasn't willing to put his proper noun behind his antipathy. The terminal time Van Camp hit the headlines this big was in the mid-1980s for his crusades against abortion, gays and pornography. "Some doctors recollect it'due south OK to kill babies inside the womb. At present it'due south subsequently they're born," the admitted rightwinger says. If Baby Ryan had been built-in to South Hill parents, he never would have made news, his attorney says from his Glass Street abode, a rancher overlooking his pool and the city beneath. Nghia and Darla Nguyen knew having a second kid was risky. Darla is diabetic. They expected a premature birth only not dead kidneys, a blocked bowel, possible encephalon harm, a weak heartbeat and poor apportionment. Sacred Heart Medical Eye, a Catholic hospital with a pro-life mission, was torn over what to do with Ryan, who was born Oct. 27. Spokane's biggest medical institution does non perform around-the-clock kidney dialysis on newborns. Fifty-fifty if it could, Ryan was doomed, doctors predicted. When Sacred Heart tried to withhold lifesaving dialysis and talk the family unit into letting the baby die a peaceful, inevitable expiry, the Nguyens found Van Military camp. A plaintiffs' attorney who specializes in personal injury and medical malpractice cases, Van Camp, 47, immediately got a temporary restraining gild against the infirmary. Baby Ryan became the focus of medical and legal battles and eventually was moved to Portland, where doctors forecast a 75 pct chance of survival. Van Camp, a longtime nemesis of Spokane's medical institution, has the floor again. "They tried to kill Baby Ryan only considering he didn't have blond hair and blue eyes, didn't have a perfect IQ and didn't have a lot of coin," he says. Nghia Nguyen (pronounced "Win") fled Saigon 19 years ago. Darla is a Native American. Welfare pays their medical bills. Merely more than one-half the babies born at Sacred Middle are on welfare. Many are members of minorities, the hospital says. Sacred Heart swallows $7.5 million a twelvemonth in charity care. About of Van Military camp's diatribes take gone unanswered by the hospital, however. Public relations experts say Sacred Centre was mum too long, repeatedly citing patient confidentiality laws when the baby's medical condition was anything but a cloak-and-dagger. Van Camp was fighting an unarmed enemy. Walter Russell Van Camp, a New Mexico native, landed at Spokane's Gonzaga University Constabulary School 25 years agone, the aggressive son of a soil scientist and a physical therapist. He inherited the will of his father, a World State of war II pw, but admittedly possibly not his booksmarts. The C student graduated in 1973 and began practicing constabulary. "A students brand wonderful professors. B students practise OK as attorneys, simply they get judges. The C students brand all the coin," he says. His left paw flashes a five-carat diamond, his right an amethyst the size of a Little Leaguer's wad of grape bubble gum. Twice a year, Van Army camp rolls dice in Vegas. His bathroom at dwelling house is marked "Lawyers Only." The wall is lined with a picture of a dice table and two license plates: "TORTS" and "CRAPS." His other interests are roses, beekeeping and food. At 400 pounds, Van Camp is bigger than life. "I got besides fat for my Corvette," he says. He now drives a $45,000 Lincoln Mark Viii. The license plate reads "TORTS." Van Camp is proud of his annual income, pegging it in the "hundreds of thousands of dollars." It'south the only question he won't answer with specifics. Van Camp says he doesn't want the Internal Revenue Service to know all of his business. The agency has dogged him for ten years for allegedly underpaying his taxes and says he owes several hundred 1000 dollars. Van Camp sued the IRS, and at present they're at an impasse. In 1988, IRS officials repossessed his cherry-red Corvette, towing it from the county courthouse at lunchtime. He bought it dorsum. "If they had taken my diamond rings, that would've made me mad," he quipped at the fourth dimension. To thumb his nose at the IRS and anyone else "who tin can't take a joke," Van Camp formed a meaningless visitor with a Spanish name: Besame Management Trust Inc. Besame means "kiss me." Van Army camp enjoys a practiced laugh, fifty-fifty at his own expense. Not known in Spokane legal circles for his bright mind, Van Campsite relies on his people skills. His histrionics play well to juries. "I have maximized the average intelligence I take," he says. "A skillful trial lawyer's an actor upon the stage. I'm just a glorified vacuum cleaner salesman." Several Spokane attorneys term Van Campsite's antics "buffoonery," but, they warn, never underestimate the lawyer. "Sometimes he has jury appeal on a case. Sometimes, he hits it," says one courtroom adversary. Van Camp took the Baby Ryan case for no coin. Sacred Middle lawyers wait he'll eventually file a malpractice accommodate. The chaser claims the hospital botched the birth by delaying commitment for several minutes when doctors knew from ultrasound the infant was in fetal distress. If no lawsuit, then the publicity from the Nguyen case will draw paying clients like moths to a lamp, other attorneys say. "He appears to be a self-promoter," says Seattle lawyer Frank Shoichet, who once squared off with Van Army camp in an abortion example. Van Camp's motto, according to insiders: The but bad publicity is no publicity. One of his daughters, who claims the Baby Ryan example is nothing more than a "publicity stunt," says her father oftentimes speaks of the media similar children speak of Santa. "He says, `The only reporters I don't want to see in my office are from `60 Minutes,"' she says. But another daughter says, despite her begetter'south reputation, his Babe Ryan crusade is 18-carat and born strictly from a love of children and a hatred of injustice. Van Army camp notes that reporters called him on the Babe Ryan story. Regardless, seeing Van Camp on the Tv news or in the newspaper turns Diane Pratt'due south tummy. She sued him for malpractice in the late 1980s, challenge Van Military camp took a 40 percent cut from a $20,000 insurance settlement he didn't even negotiate. Subsequently Pratt retained an attorney, Van Camp agreed to pay back some of the money. "He severely victimized me," Pratt says. "It'southward atrocious." Several other clients have sued Van Camp for malpractice and excessive fees. But with 250 personal injury cases a year and up to 10,000 clients in his career, a few less-than-satisfied customers autumn inside the "statistical norm" of any law practice, Van Camp says. The Washington State Bar Association censured Van Army camp in 1985 for overcharging by $29,000 a woman rendered an invalid in a automobile accident. He still collected $97,000 for representing her. "Your actions in this matter bring discredit upon yourself and the legal profession and show a disregard for the high traditions of laurels expected from members of this profession," wrote bar President F. Lee Campbell. Van Camp scoffs. The bar clan and other attorneys are cliquish, jealous of his exercise and bitter about oft losing to him, he says. "I make no apologies for the person I am. I yam what I yam," Van Camp says in a bad Popeye impression. "I'1000 winning and making money." Van Campsite, a Pat Robertson consul to the 1988 Republican National Convention, also believes he'due south unpopular because he's one of the country'southward few Christians who accept made lawyering a success. Successful attorneys make more than $40,000 a year and mostly are godless, the teetotaler says, adding that many lawyers are alcoholics. But fifty-fifty Van Campsite has stumbled while walking the loftier moral ground. The breakup of his first marriage is legendary among the legal community. Information technology took nearly v years to finalize the divorce. Get-go wife Cheryl Van Camp, an Oregon Mennonite, defenseless him in bed with a customer, well-known anti-abortion protester Teri Lindley. Van Army camp married her terminal year. "She slashed all viii tires on both of our cars," Van Army camp says. "I was making so much coin and having success but totally miserable at home. It was awful. I did not take the honey of a woman at home. "I have made mistakes. I promise I don't make whatever more." Teri Van Campsite said she couldn't help falling in love with Van Camp, a self-described pit bull in the courtroom only a teddy bear in the living room. "For myself, my (first) husband never deserved what I did to him," Teri Van Camp says. "He was a good homo. There's no mode to rationalize it. Christ does not require you lot to be perfect. "Only Russ and I are happy." Indeed, Van Camp enjoys life, ambling and blustering through information technology, he says, like his little bulldog, Sugar Ray Leonard. "He's gross. Anybody thinks Leonard is so ugly he'south cute. He just lays around and slobbers, slimes and passes gas, only does what he wants to do. "He doesn't hurt anybody. Only when he wants something, he will not quit."
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