Agonizing farewell for a true public servant

On Jan. 14, 1998, the House of Delegates chamber crackled as if it might explode. Republican victories in three special elections left the 100-member body deadlocked with neither party holding a majority.

Delegates roared and slammed their desktops in frustration. Much of their rage was hurled at a pale, thin man standing at the dais. It fell to House Clerk Bruce Jamerson to rule on a technical matter, one that on any other day would have been inconsequential. On this day, it would determine who would be speaker of the House.

Delegates shouted up to him, "Don't do this."

Jamerson did not want to choose. It wasn't his job. His job was to take care of every one of them, Democrats and Republicans, the most senior committee chairman and the youngest freshman.

Later, some Republicans who resented the decision he made that day tried to remove him from his post, but other GOP delegates rallied to his defense. They needed him.

Jamerson came to work at the state Capitol as a high school student in 1974 and never left. By the time he rose to clerk in 1991, he knew everything there was to know about the House of Delegates. It was his job to shepherd thousands of bills through the legislature, some into law and others to the trash can.

He caught and repaired potentially disastrous legislative blunders as well as minor mistakes. If a delegate got the winning score wrong on a commending resolution for his hometown's champion basketball team, no one ever had to know. Bruce would fix it.

He sent delegates thousands of birthday and Christmas cards. When their sons and daughters married, he was there for the weddings. When their wives and husbands died, he attended the funerals. It was comforting to know that he'd be there for their funerals, too.

Although the 100 delegates were his primary responsibility, Jamerson's sphere was much larger. Parents sent him their children to be pages, knowing he wouldn't let them get into too much trouble. Capitol staffers practically worshipped their mild-mannered boss. Even reporters squabbling over cubicles in the press room looked to Jamerson to smooth things out.

It was Jamerson's job to try to make everyone happy. He did it so well that no one knew he was terribly sad.

On Monday, Jamerson was once again the focus of attention in the House chamber. But he wasn't there. A black cloth was draped over the dais.

One by one, delegates stood to eulogize their caretaker and friend, and to try to understand why he would take his own life on the banks of the James River.

"It may be, in the end, that he didn't have enough left for himself," said Del. Todd Gilbert.

"I don't know why we couldn't hug him enough," added Del. Vivian Watts.

Jamerson did so much for each one of them. They would have gladly returned the favor if he had only asked. Thousands of people across the commonwealth who knew and loved him would have been honored to receive that phone call. And every one of them would have said the same thing.

Please, Bruce. Don't do this.

Christina Nuckols is an editorial writer for The Virginian-Pilot. Email: christina.nuckols@pilotonline.com.