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For attorney David Gross, 'conceal-and-carry law' came none too soon
Jon Tevlin, Star Tribune
Published May 31, 2003 GROS31
A major player and legal consultant on Minnesota's new gun-permit law is a former board member of the National Rifle Association who was fired from the Minneapolis city attorney's office for opposing gun buy-back programs and carrying a gun to work.
He also acknowledges shooting a deer in his back yard in St. Louis Park with a .357-caliber Magnum handgun for eating his raspberries, pointing a rifle at a neighbor many years ago who he claimed was harassing his wife, and attending his synagogue armed with a handgun in case of trouble.
David Gross, the self-described "right-hand man" to Hamline law Prof. Joe Olson, worked with Sen. Pat Pariseau, R-Farmington, and Rep. Lynda Boudreau, R-Faribault, to create the bill, which makes it easier for Minnesotans to obtain a permit to carry a gun in public places.
Gross said he put in "countless" hours over the past four years advising on the bill, including writing the section that says Minnesota "recognizes and declares that the second amendment of the U.S. Constitution guarantees the fundamental, individual right to bear and keep arms."
Gross also said he helped Olson write the section that allows employers and universities to ban guns from their buildings but not from their parking lots. Gross has a national reputation as a gun law expert.
Sitting in his home in St. Louis Park shortly after the bill passed, Gross was ebullient as he discussed the legislative victory. One of the first things he did was show his prized possession: a high-powered Browning 9-millimeter pistol with German markings, given to him by a dying friend.
"He said that every good Jewish boy should have a gun taken off a dead Nazi," Gross said. "The National Social Democratic Party started gun bans so they could kill the Jews. Well, this Jew isn't going into any gas chambers."
The quotes are vintage Gross. Those who have worked with or against him say he is a razor-sharp lawyer, a "junk-yard dog" who is passionate about guns, but even more passionate about civil rights and his interpretation of the U.S. Constitution.
Although Gross didn't play a huge part in drafting the actual bill, "he was one of many people that assisted with certain knowledge of current gun laws and background information," Boudreau said. "He was an advocate and an interested party."
Gross, said Olson, "was involved with me very heavily from three years ago when we wrote the first bill. He's been at a number of meetings this year, principally because of his experience in the city attorney's office. He knows the nuts and bolts of how the law is applied, and he's offered a tremendous amount of legal help."
Passionate and smart, Gross can also be abrupt, cantankerous and loud, say colleagues and friends.
By his own admission, psychologists who tested him when he was in the city attorney's office have "found indications of paranoia, but also admitted it was justified." There is ample evidence in court files that at least one man he dealt with as a prosecutor wanted to kill him.
"I have a problem with authority, OK?" he said.
For Gross, now in private law practice in a St. Louis Park, passage of the law has been somewhat of a crusade. He insists it has little to do with guns and everything to do with the Constitution. "Does my right to defend myself end at my front door? I don't think so."
The fight has cost Gross financially and professionally. He estimates that his battle has cost him $1 million in lost salary and benefits. He also lost the stature he had in the city attorney's office.
But among some gun enthusiasts, Gross is much admired. "He's a knight," said friend and client Joel Rosenberg. "This is a guy who really operates from principle."
Gross was raised by a liberal antigun father who couldn't understand his son's fascination with them. Gross solidified his position after a camping trip in which a bear entered their camp and terrorized them. His father didn't allow guns on the trip.
"I said, 'Dad, I know how you feel about things, and I feel differently. But I'm not willing to die for your principles,' " Gross said. "It was a turning point."
He has been target-shooting since 1982. A Distinguished Rifleman Badge, one of the sport's highest honors, hangs on a wall of his home. He says he can hit a quarter from 300 yards. He teaches private classes on firearm safety and regulations.
Although he lives in a virtually crime-free neighborhood, Gross' house is filled with guns, an alarm system and two dogs. But don't dare ask him what he's afraid of.
"Why do you value free speech?" he said, raising his voice. "Why do you need the U.S. Constitution?
"You are asking the wrong question," he screamed. "Ask the guy who wants to rob my house if there's anything in here he's willing to die for!"
Gross' dog starts to whimper. "I'm sorry I got so loud," he said. "I don't want to be arrogant, but I don't suffer fools gladly."
Court records show that while Gross worked in the city attorney's office, he served as a translator for an immigrant who ended up in prison and blamed Gross. The man told several people he planned "to get" Gross.
So Gross applied for, and received, a gun permit in 1991. It was renewed twice. But during that time, Gross voiced opposition to the city's gun buy-back program. He was fired, but he sued and won back his job. Then his superiors told him he couldn't come to work with a gun.
Gross decided it was a choice between his job and his life, and he picked the latter. "I just didn't feel safe," he said. "You wouldn't believe the anxiety."
After Gross lost his job, the St. Louis Park police chief denied his carry permit, arguing that he no longer needed it. Gross sued again and won. He now has a permit from Florida and says he carries a gun "whenever I feel it necessary."
It's sometimes necessary at home, he said.
A check of police calls to Gross' current residence shows several reports of damaged property and one report where Gross said he received more than 60 hang-up phone calls.
As for his admission that he shot a deer several years ago in his back yard, St. Louis Park Police Chief John Luse said that would violate city ordinances.
Gross, who said he reported it (although St. Louis Park police have no record), disagrees. "You are allowed to dispose of pests doing damage in a safe manner, which I did. He was eating my raspberries."
Pointing a gun at a neighbor could have led to an aggravated-assault charge, Gross admits, but the statute of limitations had run out. "I had the right to defend my [ex-] wife," he said. "She was especially vulnerable at the time [she had multiple sclerosis]. It worked -- they moved."
Gross said he has also carried a gun to his synagogue, Bet Shalom in Minnetonka, because of ample evidence that synagogues have been attacked around the world, often during the High Holidays. His rabbi, Norman Cohen, said last week that he disagrees with Gross' actions.
Gross said he sits at the back of the synagogue in case of trouble. "If they go by me, their backs are to me," he said. "Is it going to happen? I don't know. But at least I've thought it through."
He looked around his cluttered home.
"Freedom at last," he said. "That's what this bill is all about. Freedom at last."
http://www.startribune.com/stories/462/3911400.html
Jon Tevlin, Star Tribune
Published May 31, 2003 GROS31
A major player and legal consultant on Minnesota's new gun-permit law is a former board member of the National Rifle Association who was fired from the Minneapolis city attorney's office for opposing gun buy-back programs and carrying a gun to work.
He also acknowledges shooting a deer in his back yard in St. Louis Park with a .357-caliber Magnum handgun for eating his raspberries, pointing a rifle at a neighbor many years ago who he claimed was harassing his wife, and attending his synagogue armed with a handgun in case of trouble.
David Gross, the self-described "right-hand man" to Hamline law Prof. Joe Olson, worked with Sen. Pat Pariseau, R-Farmington, and Rep. Lynda Boudreau, R-Faribault, to create the bill, which makes it easier for Minnesotans to obtain a permit to carry a gun in public places.
Gross said he put in "countless" hours over the past four years advising on the bill, including writing the section that says Minnesota "recognizes and declares that the second amendment of the U.S. Constitution guarantees the fundamental, individual right to bear and keep arms."
Gross also said he helped Olson write the section that allows employers and universities to ban guns from their buildings but not from their parking lots. Gross has a national reputation as a gun law expert.
Sitting in his home in St. Louis Park shortly after the bill passed, Gross was ebullient as he discussed the legislative victory. One of the first things he did was show his prized possession: a high-powered Browning 9-millimeter pistol with German markings, given to him by a dying friend.
"He said that every good Jewish boy should have a gun taken off a dead Nazi," Gross said. "The National Social Democratic Party started gun bans so they could kill the Jews. Well, this Jew isn't going into any gas chambers."
The quotes are vintage Gross. Those who have worked with or against him say he is a razor-sharp lawyer, a "junk-yard dog" who is passionate about guns, but even more passionate about civil rights and his interpretation of the U.S. Constitution.
Although Gross didn't play a huge part in drafting the actual bill, "he was one of many people that assisted with certain knowledge of current gun laws and background information," Boudreau said. "He was an advocate and an interested party."
Gross, said Olson, "was involved with me very heavily from three years ago when we wrote the first bill. He's been at a number of meetings this year, principally because of his experience in the city attorney's office. He knows the nuts and bolts of how the law is applied, and he's offered a tremendous amount of legal help."
Passionate and smart, Gross can also be abrupt, cantankerous and loud, say colleagues and friends.
By his own admission, psychologists who tested him when he was in the city attorney's office have "found indications of paranoia, but also admitted it was justified." There is ample evidence in court files that at least one man he dealt with as a prosecutor wanted to kill him.
"I have a problem with authority, OK?" he said.
For Gross, now in private law practice in a St. Louis Park, passage of the law has been somewhat of a crusade. He insists it has little to do with guns and everything to do with the Constitution. "Does my right to defend myself end at my front door? I don't think so."
The fight has cost Gross financially and professionally. He estimates that his battle has cost him $1 million in lost salary and benefits. He also lost the stature he had in the city attorney's office.
But among some gun enthusiasts, Gross is much admired. "He's a knight," said friend and client Joel Rosenberg. "This is a guy who really operates from principle."
Gross was raised by a liberal antigun father who couldn't understand his son's fascination with them. Gross solidified his position after a camping trip in which a bear entered their camp and terrorized them. His father didn't allow guns on the trip.
"I said, 'Dad, I know how you feel about things, and I feel differently. But I'm not willing to die for your principles,' " Gross said. "It was a turning point."
He has been target-shooting since 1982. A Distinguished Rifleman Badge, one of the sport's highest honors, hangs on a wall of his home. He says he can hit a quarter from 300 yards. He teaches private classes on firearm safety and regulations.
Although he lives in a virtually crime-free neighborhood, Gross' house is filled with guns, an alarm system and two dogs. But don't dare ask him what he's afraid of.
"Why do you value free speech?" he said, raising his voice. "Why do you need the U.S. Constitution?
"You are asking the wrong question," he screamed. "Ask the guy who wants to rob my house if there's anything in here he's willing to die for!"
Gross' dog starts to whimper. "I'm sorry I got so loud," he said. "I don't want to be arrogant, but I don't suffer fools gladly."
Court records show that while Gross worked in the city attorney's office, he served as a translator for an immigrant who ended up in prison and blamed Gross. The man told several people he planned "to get" Gross.
So Gross applied for, and received, a gun permit in 1991. It was renewed twice. But during that time, Gross voiced opposition to the city's gun buy-back program. He was fired, but he sued and won back his job. Then his superiors told him he couldn't come to work with a gun.
Gross decided it was a choice between his job and his life, and he picked the latter. "I just didn't feel safe," he said. "You wouldn't believe the anxiety."
After Gross lost his job, the St. Louis Park police chief denied his carry permit, arguing that he no longer needed it. Gross sued again and won. He now has a permit from Florida and says he carries a gun "whenever I feel it necessary."
It's sometimes necessary at home, he said.
A check of police calls to Gross' current residence shows several reports of damaged property and one report where Gross said he received more than 60 hang-up phone calls.
As for his admission that he shot a deer several years ago in his back yard, St. Louis Park Police Chief John Luse said that would violate city ordinances.
Gross, who said he reported it (although St. Louis Park police have no record), disagrees. "You are allowed to dispose of pests doing damage in a safe manner, which I did. He was eating my raspberries."
Pointing a gun at a neighbor could have led to an aggravated-assault charge, Gross admits, but the statute of limitations had run out. "I had the right to defend my [ex-] wife," he said. "She was especially vulnerable at the time [she had multiple sclerosis]. It worked -- they moved."
Gross said he has also carried a gun to his synagogue, Bet Shalom in Minnetonka, because of ample evidence that synagogues have been attacked around the world, often during the High Holidays. His rabbi, Norman Cohen, said last week that he disagrees with Gross' actions.
Gross said he sits at the back of the synagogue in case of trouble. "If they go by me, their backs are to me," he said. "Is it going to happen? I don't know. But at least I've thought it through."
He looked around his cluttered home.
"Freedom at last," he said. "That's what this bill is all about. Freedom at last."
http://www.startribune.com/stories/462/3911400.html