MY CHANCE ENCOUNTER WITH FAUSTO YTURRIA, SR. IN 1967

Brownsville Observer Editor, 1966-67

I'd been in Brownsville about a year and met Tom Robinson. I think it was 1967.

Pulling away from Tom's house on Palm Boulevard, I failed to notice an International Scout traveling north on Palm and the front left tire of my '59 VW hit the driver's front right tire, puncturing it.

The driver of the Scout happened to be the owner of the Gulf station at the corner of Palm and Boca Chica Boulevards.

I admitted to being at fault and the station owner said he would settle for a new tire and new wheel cover.

I agreed.

Later in the day, I ran into an elderly friend of mine, Martin Jensen, an Iowa farmer, who'd been living in Brownsville several decades since his divorce. 

Yturria Bank Building

"I know just the person you need to see," said Jensen as we drove to downtown Brownsville, stopping in front of the Yturria Bank Building.

We walked up the stairs to the office of Fausto Yturria, Sr., who listened carefully to my description of the accident.

"No, no no!  That's not what happened!" exclaimed Mr. Yturria.

"That driver was distracted by a young girl in a miniskirt and rammed into your vehicle.  He needs to pay for your damages," explained Yturria.

"Tell you what.  I have a grandson who just finished law school and has set up his practice.  He could use a little experience.  Let me give you the address of his office.  Tell him his grandfather sent you.  Oh, and before you leave, let me give you a word of advice:  Buy all the land you can!"

As I walked down the stairs from the Yturria Building's second floor, my anxiety dissipated.  Although, I knew how the accident happened, it felt good to be supported by such an experienced legal professional.

We went to the new lawyer's office, the grandson's, described the accident, mentioning the grandfather's referral.

"Oh, that son of a bitch!" said the grandson when I mentioned his grandfather.

"That's your grandfather!" I replied.

"Yeah, I know, but he's still a son of a bitch," replied the grandson lawyer.

"Well, you can pay the man for his damages, pay the ticket, if there was one, or you can give me $800 and I'll throw a big barbecue, get the judge drunk and get you off." 

I told Yturria's grandson I would just pay the man's damages.

"That's what I'd recommend," he replied.

I paid the station owner for his damages in two payments.

He thanked me, stating he was glad to have met someone who was "a man of his word."