It began before I had any idea of becoming a lawyer. In 1974 or 1975, while on the way home from high school, I noticed a tenement building on the corner of 14th Street and Second Avenue with the words "The U.S. Senate" engraved above the doorway. I had not yet taken A.P. American History, but was pretty sure Congress had never convened in the East Village. I did not at the time notice the name engraved above the door of the adjacent, companion building. While I was intrigued by this "U.S. Senate" engraving, I was a teenager, and other events somehow crowded it out of my thoughts. I certainly did not think that over 40 years later it would cause me to wade into the maelstrom of political correctness.

Fast forward to 2016: As a sideline to my career as a lawyer, I was writing a book on New York City legal history covering not just historic courthouses, but also a nearly extinct breed, New York City lawyers who held high government office. Through my research for that book, I learned why the tenement was named the "U.S. Senate" and the one next to it, "The W.M. Evarts."

William Maxwell Evarts, one of the most prominent lawyers of the Gilded Age, also served as U.S. Attorney General, U.S. Secretary of State and U.S. Senator from New York. For the last 30 years of his life, he lived in a mansion on the northwest corner of Second Avenue and 14th Street. When the mansion was replaced by a couple of tenement buildings shortly after Evarts' death in 1901, the developer named the two buildings "The U.S. Senate" and "The W.M. Evarts" in Evarts' honor.

Evarts was perfect for my book. His palpable connection to New York City's built environment—the cryptic inscriptions above the two tenements—inspired me to write an article about him for a legal history periodical, which led to an interview on a CUNY TV talk show. Evarts was becoming something of a cottage industry for me. I got the idea of pursuing a street co-naming for him and learned that the City approval process was multi-layered, beginning with the Transportation Committee of the local Community Board and culminating with the City Council.

I was mindful that, as just another old (indeed, long-deceased) white guy, Evarts would be at a disadvantage in today's zeitgeist. So I decided that, when before the Committee, I would lead off with Evarts' role in the Lemmon Slave Case, in which he represented a former slave who had been brought to New York. The case was a New York analog to the Dred Scott Case that, thanks to Evarts' advocacy, was decided the other way.

The day of the Transportation Committee meeting arrived. After sitting through presentations on bus lanes and unsuccessful applications for permits to operate corner newsstands, I made my presentation and nailed it. The vote was 10 in favor, none opposed and one abstention.

When I received a copy of the Community Board Resolution approving my proposal, I was surprised that the recitation of "Notable achievements of Evarts' legal career" began with his representation of President Andrew Johnson in the 1868 impeachment trial in the U.S. Senate. I had not hid this—it is discussed in my Evarts article, which I had included with my submission—but I hadn't played it up. And in writing up a Community Board Resolution in 2019, it's not what I would have led with. But the vote at the Community Board level was 31 in favor, 3 opposed and 2 abstentions. I was on my way.

Several months later, I unexpectedly received an ominous e-mail from the Community Board informing me that the Board's Executive Committee had "recommended that the proposed street co-naming for William Evarts get sent back to the Full Board for further discussion and possible rescinding in September." However, I was invited to make a further presentation at the September meeting.

I suspected that the reason for this change-of-heart was Evarts' two connections to Andrew Johnson: serving as one of his lawyers in the impeachment trial and as Attorney General for the last eight months of the Johnson administration. My suspicion was confirmed when I telephoned the Community Board office. I said I would attend the full Community Board meeting to defend the prior approval.

I recognized that I would be entering dangerous territory. I have always regarded myself as left-of-center, but had perceived in recent years a gradual drift to the right, caused in large part by my work as general counsel representing the interests of a large employer and landlord, albeit an admirable, nonprofit one. Accepting that I may not be seen as at all woke, I have aimed to be an essentially fair, well-intentioned person of good faith. In my increasing defensiveness, I often will, at the drop of a hat, show a photograph of my father and Eleanor Roosevelt at a 1950s political dinner to anyone lacking a means of egress.

I haven't worked primarily as a litigator in over 20 years, but I was feeling like Evarts had become my client. As Evarts himself would have done, I was going to give my "client" the best defense I could, without regard to how others might feel about him.

In preparing my written defense of Evarts' civil rights record, I, of course, led off with the Lemmon Slave Case. Next, I tried to establish my credibility, stating that if Evarts, to any degree, shared Andrew Johnson's repugnant views on race, it should instantly disqualify him for the honor of a street co-naming. I then illustrated how Evarts had never served to advance and, to the contrary, had condemned Johnson's policies on race in several ways.

I sent my written statement to the Community Board in advance so that it could be distributed to the Board members. But when I showed up to make my presentation, I had the sense that the fix was in. My written statement had apparently not been distributed to the Board members.

My presentation elicited only one question, from a Board member who seemed completely unaware that there had even been a prior approval. When I got home, I told my wife that I was certain the approval would be rescinded, and it didn't take long for that to be confirmed. The next day, I received by e-mail a nice note from a member of the City Councilmember's staff, who informed me that the Community Board had voted that evening to rescind the resolution in favor of the street co-naming. She added that the Office of the General Counsel of City Council "did flag the name for ineligibility due to an 1879 attempt to prevent Mormons from immigrating to America."

I couldn't believe it. Mormons? A wave of relief wafted over me. It shouldn't have made a difference, but it felt infinitely preferable to be seen as championing someone who might be perceived as anti-Mormon as opposed to someone who might be (misguidedly) perceived as in league with a white supremacist. I could live with Mitt Romney's scorn.

While I had put a fair amount of work into my Evarts' proposal, I was not greatly disappointed. Nor was I resentful. I did not vow to make it my life mission to expose the skeletons in the closet of every single person the Community Board had ever approved for an honorary street co-naming. (However, I may not be above making a Freedom of Information Law request to find out what scholarly books and articles the City Council General Counsel and the Community Board relied upon.)

I recognized that a street co-naming was a discretionary honor. Negative information from the 19th century that might not necessarily be a fair basis for condemning someone today might nonetheless be sufficient to disqualify that person from an extraordinary honor conferred by politicians courting public favor. Why should the City go out on a limb for William Evarts?

My foray into City politics and the contemporary ethos had certainly been fascinating, but had I learned anything from it—had it made me a better person? I realize now that it was a mistake to have proposed that the intersection where Evarts' mansion had stood be co-named William Evarts Way. William Evarts Corner would have been more apt.

Robert Pigott is the general counsel of a nonprofit corporation that develops affordable housing in New York City and a former Section Chief and Bureau Chief of the New York Attorney General's Charities Bureau. He is also the author of New York's Legal Landmarks.