He describes it as “a saga,” and U.S. District Court Judge David Doty should know. For two decades, Doty has been involved in every chapter of the NFL labor wars.
During that time, a key plaintiff against the league, Reggie White, died. Lawyer Paul Tagliabue catapulted to the NFL commissioner job. Player salaries soared nearly 300 percent. Franchise values skyrocketed.
An affable but blunt ex-Marine, Doty threatened 15 years ago this month to drop an “atomic bomb” of a ruling if owners didn’t settle a class-action lawsuit with the NFL Players Association. The owners blinked, free agency was secured, and the salary cap was established through compromise, not judicial order.
“From an influence point of view, Doty is clearly in the top five in American history of judges with the greatest impact on sports,” said Stephen Ross, the director of Penn State’s Institute for Sports Law, Policy and Research.
Judge David Doty
Born: June 30, 1929, in Anoka, Minn.
Education: B.A., University of Minnesota, 1952; J.D., University of Minnesota Law School, 1961; LLD, William Mitchell College of Law (St. Paul), 1987
Military: Captain, U.S. Marine Corps, 1952-58
Career: Labor and corporate lawyer for 26 years in Minneapolis and St. Paul
Family: Married for 55 years to Mary Doty, three children, four grandchildren. One son is a lawyer.
In his chambers: An NFL football autographed by all the lawyers in the Reggie White case; a plaque naming him the 12th most powerful person in sports by the Sporting News in 1992.
Also presided over: 1990 case of Minnesota’s reputed drug kingpin, Ralph “Plukey” Duke. Doty received death threats during the trial. Metal detectors were used for the first time in Minnesota’s federal court house. Doty sentenced Duke to life in prison without parole, plus 40 years for good measure.
How he got NFL cases: Earlier NFL labor cases were filed in Minneapolis because former NFLPA Executive Director Ed Garvey had connections to the Twin Cities-based law firm Lindquist & Vennum. Doty got the Marvin Powell case, his first, by random selection.
Doty has owned a peculiar longevity, too. This month marks the 20th anniversary of his first major decision in the Marvin Powell case, the initial NFL antitrust matter in his Minneapolis courtroom. That’s where he encountered Tagliabue, who was then the NFL’s attorney. “A damn good lawyer,” Doty said of the future commissioner.
Doty’s Powell decision — a controversial ruling on exactly when labor negotiations reach “impasse” — was overturned by the U.S. Court of Appeals, but it sent a signal about his leanings toward players’ rights. Still troubling to NFL owners is Doty’s oversight role in labor scuffles a full 15 years after the judge helped forge the White class-action settlement. That deal, brokered by then-Commissioner Tagliabue and NFLPA head Gene Upshaw, ushered in free agency, the salary cap and the current period of economic vibrancy.
The settlement became legally hitched to the league’s collective-bargaining agreement, and because the White lawsuit concluded with a consent decree by Doty, the judge retains jurisdiction over the matter. Doty still must approve renewals of the CBA.
Jeffrey Pash, NFL executive vice president and counsel, wrote in an e-mail to SportsBusiness Journal that he doesn’t believe Doty’s continued oversight is “needed or appropriate,” adding that “No other industry has its labor relations supervised by a federal judge in the way we do.”
A few years back, the NFL sought to have Doty terminate his role. The NFLPA objected, successfully. “Any attempt [the NFL] might try to move the judge out, we’re going to resist,” Upshaw said.
Even after Doty retires, and he’s not ready yet, the White settlement requires the Minnesota federal court to supervise NFL labor matters. It’s possible that the league and union could negotiate an end to judicial oversight.
Isn’t it about time?
“Absolutely not,” Upshaw said. “We don’t trust [the owners] that much.”
There’s the rub. Upshaw doesn’t want to jettison Doty because, knowledge aside, the judge has consistently tilted toward the union. An odd thing, that, because among Minnesota’s legal community, Doty is generally considered to favor employers.
His black robe hanging in a closet nearby, wearing a red tie with a powder blue shirt, and sitting at the same conference table where he managed the White deal, Doty said recently: “[NFL owners] pretend they’re getting beaten around. Well, they did, initially, but they had a position that was not legally sound.”
Through a league spokesman, Tagliabue declined comment. Said Doty, though, “I think if you ask Tagliabue, he would say, ‘The whole thing has come out our way.’ Because, even though they complain about it … all they’ve done is make tons of money.”
Balding, white-haired, bespectacled and fit at 6 feet, 190 pounds, Doty will turn 79 this year. He admits there’s a pinch of ego involved in his retention of the NFL matters. “I could walk away from this case,” he said. “But there’s one problem: I know that I know too much. They know, including the NFL guys, that they don’t have to re-educate me every time they show up here.”
His most dramatic act as the NFL’s labor judge came in late December 1992. The league and the union were poised to settle years of litigation and make history by resolving the White case. Los Angeles Raiders owner Al Davis objected to the deal, though, and it was falling apart. Doty ordered both sides to Minneapolis for a last-ditch settlement conference on Jan. 3, 1993.
Davis, New York Giants owner Wellington Mara and Pittsburgh Steelers owner Dan Rooney were accompanied by Tagliabue. Upshaw was there with his legal team, including Jeffrey Kessler.
Al Davis (upper right), Paul Tagliabue (lower
right) and Gene Upshaw (right) were all
involved in settling a suit brought by NFL
great Reggie White.
“Judge Doty came in with a big stack of papers,” Kessler said. “He told us this was his decision. He looked at both parties and said, ‘You’re not going to be happy with this,’ and urged us to settle.”
Davis continued to disagree, enough to push the NFLPA lawyers toward walking out. At the last moment, Mara asked if the owners and their lawyers could talk privately. Soon, Doty decided to check in and deliver a calm warning.
“Let me tell a story,” Doty remembers saying. “I was a Marine. I was in command of an outfit that worked with eight-inch guns that could shoot a round of 10 ‘kt’ power, like the atomic bombs over Nagasaki and Hiroshima. I was always afraid I’d have to launch one of those. The responsibility was heavy on me because I knew it would knock the living hell out of a lot of things.”
As he spoke, Doty fiddled with the 105-page opinion he’d written.
“Now, I’m in a different job,” he said. “I have something more powerful than a 10 ‘kt’ bomb and it’s this order I’ve been holding off issuing. … It may destroy your whole fortune. I don’t know, but I’m in the business of doing what I think is fair. It’s up to you all whether you’d rather have control over your own future or have this judge issue an order that he believes is correct but that will control your future.”
Doty left the room, his ruling still sitting ominously on the table. Two minutes passed, then the door opened. Davis surrendered.
Fifteen years later, the contents of those 105 pages remain a mystery. The NFL labor saga continues. Doty still presides.
Jay Weiner is a writer in Minnesota.
