A Legacy for the Godfather of Gonzo

Family and friends of Hunter S. Thompson build a foundation to honor the late journalist

A year ago, here in the shadow of red cliffs amid the Rocky Mountains, Hunter S. Thompson, the gonzo journalist and author, sat in the kitchen of his home with his wife, Anita, and Ralph Steadman, an artist who had illustrated some of his most memorable stories. The three gathered to discuss Mr. Thompson’s inchoate plans for his Web site. But as the fall night wore on, Mr. Steadman steered the conversation even more deeply into the future: “What about the Hunter S. Thompson Foundation?” he asked.

The subject had been broached before. The bristly Mr. Thompson, at first predictably resistant to the idea, began to warm to it when Mr. Steadman mentioned that the 67-year-old writer, known for such incisive and sometimes outlandish works as Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and Songs of the Doomed, would probably die before his 32-year-old wife, and that the Thompsons’ compound, Owl Farm, would need to be protected as a monument to his literary legacy.

“I told him that he was a living institution and he should set up a foundation if he could while he was still here,” says Mr. Steadman. “He came around to the idea.”

When Mr. Thompson took his life last February, the foundation was still little more than a topic of conversation. But shortly after his death, Mr. Thompson’s widow, his son, Juan Fitzgerald Thompson, his lawyers, and a host of friends decided to file papers with the state of Colorado and develop plans for a philanthropy that would mirror the more high-minded of Mr. Thompson’s interests. Along with football, high-stakes gambling, illegal drugs, politics, powerful weaponry, and a steady stream of strong drink, Mr. Thompson’s passions included championing people whom he believed had been wrongfully imprisoned.

After being arrested for sexual assault and drug offenses in 1990 — charges that were later dropped — he had tried to start a nonprofit group called the Fourth Amendment Foundation, which would seek to bolster constitutional protections against unlawful searches and seizures by the police.

And, of course, Mr. Thompson — called the 20th century’s answer to Mark Twain by the author Tom Wolfe — prized great literature. “He was very concerned about being a good writer and about how he could change the world by doing it. And he lived that,” says Mr. Steadman.

Now, the hopes of Mr. Thompson, his family, and friends are being challenged by the hard work of starting a foundation from scratch. As his widow and others have tried to construct a legally and financially sound foundation in the name of a man who had, as he half-jokingly put it, “a very strong background in the criminal-justice system,” they have run up against a series of obstacles that have slowed their progress. Not the least of them is the inexperience of those putting it together.

“I’m in way over my head on this,” admits Ms. Thompson.

Other issues have contributed to her feeling overwhelmed: The foundation has no endowment. (“Hunter wasn’t rich with money, but he was rich with friends,” Ms. Thompson says.) Its prospective mission has also become a point of contention, some insiders say, with more ideas for how to spend money that has not yet been raised than energy to put plans for them into force. And the time and care put into Mr. Thompson’s memorial in August — a multimillion-dollar affair underwritten by the actor Johnny Depp, which featured the blasting of Mr. Thompson’s ashes from a cannon 150 feet above the scrub of Owl Farm — slowed down the foundation’s development.

“We’re all kind of worn out these days,” says Ms. Thompson.

Crafting a Mission

Experts say the growing pains initially felt by small foundations can be daunting, particularly if they have to raise money to get started.

Thirty-nine states require foundations to register before soliciting donations, which can mean headaches for would-be grant makers. Many smaller organizations are overly optimistic about their finances, says Janne G. Gallagher, vice president of the Council on Foundations, a Washington organization that represents 2,000 grant makers. “The usual issue I see is foundations that overestimate how much money they can raise,” she says.

For small grant makers, carefully crafting a solid mission statement early on is paramount, adds Susan C. Price, managing director of family foundation services at the Council on Foundations.

“Making things crystal clear at the outset can help you avoid a lot of problems down the road,” Ms. Price says.

Other issues, such as how a foundation is to be governed, a succession plan for leaders, and the geographical distance between board leaders should also be discussed before a foundation makes its first series of grants. Such a process can take years, she adds.

Ms. Thompson says her husband’s family and friends are moving forward — albeit at a halting pace — with plans to craft a solid mission statement that would also echo the controversial writer’s life. They hope to support the foundation’s work by raising money — perhaps millions of dollars — by selling Mr. Thompson’s unpublished notes and letters.

‘He Couldn’t Stand Injustice’

As befitting Mr. Thompson’s life, ideas for the foundation’s work spin around two axes: literature and the law. One possibility is turning Owl Farm into a literary shrine, as has been done with the homes of William Faulkner, in Oxford, Miss., and John Steinbeck, in Salinas, Calif., with the help of foundations set up explicitly for the purpose of guaranteeing a writer’s legacy.

“Up in the Aspen area, which is very much in demand, his house could be torn down for condominiums or new housing,” says Douglas Brinkley, a history professor at Tulane University, in New Orleans, and the Thompson estate’s literary executor. “We’re determined not to lose the house at Owl Farm.” Ms. Thompson adds that the home could become a place for writers to visit or work, or, in the long term, a place for the public to visit.

Foundation officials are also kicking around the idea of setting up a scholarship program for promising writers, Mr. Steadman says, or a prize for provocative writing.

Mr. Thompson’s interest in legal issues and the equal application of justice led him to dream up a plan to help young men on the wrong side of the law learn to write. On the night of his high-school graduation, Mr. Thompson had been arrested for rape. Even though charges were later dismissed, “it had a huge effect on him,” says Ms. Thompson. “He wanted to take a kid in a position similar to his and help him.” One idea is to help wayward teens and young men learn sportswriting — Mr. Thompson’s first vocation — then help them find jobs working for small-town newspapers.

Foundation organizers are also looking to start an annual symposium of lawyers, politicians, and writers that would “provide a channel for Hunter’s lifetime interest in the intersection between the three areas they work in,” says Gerald H. Goldstein, the San Antonio lawyer who is acting as the foundation’s first president.

Despite his use of illicit drugs and a penchant for discharging firearms, “Hunter didn’t mind lawyers,” says George Stranahan, a neighbor and drinking buddy. “I think he knew he needed them, but he also believed that they could have a constructive role in society.”

The symposium, which may start as soon as next summer, could be held at Owl Farm or near a large city, such as New York or San Francisco. “We want it to be accessible,” Ms. Thompson says. “There are many, many good professors who teach Hunter’s works, including many who have never met him. So, we could have different people discuss his work each year.”

Other ideas include working on behalf of people who are imprisoned although they are innocent, or have been saddled with lengthy jail sentences for relatively minor offenses, and advocating for changes in laws that favor expanded police powers. The Hunter S. Thompson Foundation might make grants to groups that want to ensure that police follow Fourth Amendment procedures regarding search and seizure.

Mr. Thompson’s own brushes with the law persuaded him to help others in similar situations, his friends say. After his arrest in 1990, Mr. Thompson made what Mr. Goldstein calls “bold, courageous statements” on constitutional rights in court, then flew to California to give a series of lectures on journalism and the law. Although the speaking junket was organized by bookmakers to whom Mr. Thompson owed large sums of money, his widow says, “The tour meant a lot to him because he couldn’t stand injustice.”

The Fourth Amendment Foundation — Mr. Thompson’s attempt at forming an organization devoted to confronting what he perceived to be injustice — never got off the ground, only partly because of a lack of money. “He wanted to find lawyers for people who were illegally locked up, but as it turns out, they didn’t need them because they were home-run cases that drew plenty of lawyers anyway,” says Ms. Thompson.

This time around, she says, the idea may be expanded to include helping groups that work on First Amendment issues, such as video surveillance by government agencies. “Bitching about your government is a First Amendment issue,” says Mr. Goldstein, who defended Mr. Thompson in the 1990 case. “That’s what Hunter was all about.”

A ‘Miscarriage of Justice’

Those forming the foundation might look to Mr. Thompson’s actions and writings for guidance in picking which areas the grant maker will work in.

During the last three years of his life, Mr. Thompson had publicized the case of Lisl Auman, a Denver woman who was sentenced in 1998, at age 20, to life in prison without parole for murder. While being held on suspicion of robbery, Ms. Auman had been seated and handcuffed in the rear of a police cruiser as her boyfriend killed a policeman in a nearby building.

Mr. Thompson began to advocate for Ms. Auman after he received a note from her thanking him for writing Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. “She sent him a note saying, ‘I’ve been in prison for three years. Thanks for making me laugh,’” says Don M. Auman, Ms. Auman’s father.

By all accounts, her plight deeply and immediately affected Mr. Thompson. When his friends visited Owl Farm to watch the Super Bowl in 2001, “He told us we were going to free Lisl Auman,” recalls Mr. Stranahan.

Mr. Thompson began working details about Ms. Auman’s case into his sports columns on the ESPN Web site (in which he called the case “the Worst & most Reprehensible miscarriage of ‘Justice’ I’ve ever encountered”) and wrote about it in a 2004 article in Vanity Fair. He also organized a demonstration on the steps of the Colorado Supreme Court along with the musician Warren Zevon and Mr. Brinkley, and won her the support of the National Association of Criminal Defense Lawyers, a professional group in Washington.

Ms. Auman’s family says Mr. Thompson’s efforts persuaded the Colorado Supreme Court to review her case. She was released to a halfway house last month, where she will serve the last six months of her revised sentence.

“His input made all the difference in the world,” says Mr. Auman. “The wave of publicity he generated cast this case in the worst possible light. The public finding out about this injustice was a huge factor.”

Finances and Leadership

While the nascent foundation’s leaders debate its course, they are also trying to fill its board. Although Ms. Thompson once worked as a fund raiser at the Sierra Club chapter in Los Angeles, and as a chapter chairwoman for the advocacy group CalPIRG while she was attending the University of California at Los Angeles, she says the developing foundation needs some qualified expertise.

So far, Mr. Brinkley, Mr. Goldstein, and two other lawyers who provided counsel to Mr. Thompson — Harold Haddon, of Denver, and George Tobia, of Boston — will probably make up the core of the board.

Ms. Thompson says she will ask some old friends, including Mr. Stranahan and Ed Bradley, of the television newsmagazine 60 Minutes, to join as well, possibly by the end of this year. Both of them, she notes, have nonprofit experience she can tap: Mr. Stranahan served as the board chairman of his family’s philanthropy, the Needmor Fund, in Toledo, Ohio, from 2001 to 2004, and is now chairman of the Manaus Fund, a foundation in Woody Creek that supports programs for poor people. Mr. Bradley has served as a trustee of numerous organizations, including Jazz at Lincoln Center, in New York.

But even a veteran board of philanthropists needs money to give. While Mr. Thompson is well regarded by many literary critics, teachers, and writers, he was hardly a best-selling author. His personal habits prevented him from amassing wealth.

“Hunter thought that money was like blood — it needed to remain in circulation,” says Mr. Steadman.

As a way to start raising money for the foundation, Mr. Steadman is reprising an old art print from a series he had created over the years while working with Mr. Thompson. The print in question, done in Mr. Steadman’s trademark blotchy, garish pen-and-ink style, is a caricature of Mr. Thompson ascending into heaven, and has been signed by Mr. Bradley, Mr. Depp, the actor Bill Murray (who, like Mr. Depp, has portrayed Mr. Thompson in a film), Mr. Steadman, and others. The artist has made more than 150 prints available for $2,000 each. So far, he has sold a little more than half of them, raising about $180,000.

But the foundation’s financial future lies in the unpublished letters and papers Mr. Thompson amassed during his 47-year career. An obsessive letter writer, Mr. Thompson kept everything he wrote. “I never saved anything he sent me because he made carbon copies of everything,” says Mr. Stranahan.

Nearly 1,200 boxes of materials were moved from Owl Farm’s basement to a bank vault in Denver this summer for safekeeping. Within the next two years, Ms. Thompson hopes, the contents of many of them will be sold to a university that will guard, promote, and teach her husband’s works. She says the University of Louisville (in Mr. Thompson’s Kentucky hometown) and the University of Texas at Austin are among several colleges that have expressed interest in acquiring a Hunter S. Thompson library.

As Mr. Thompson’s literary executor, Mr. Brinkley will try to turn the writings into cash for both Mr. Thompson’s heirs and a low seven-figure foundation endowment by getting unpublished novels and letters into print, as well as getting his already-published works translated into other languages. The effort will take several years, he says. “My job is to keep him relevant and read,” says Mr. Brinkley.

Along with all of the concerns about a board, missions, and money, honoring Hunter S. Thompson’s memory is foremost in the minds of those with whom he shared his life, says Ms. Thompson. She hopes that within the next two years, the foundation will be supporting good works while safeguarding the work of its namesake.

“My hope is that we do Hunter proud,” she says. “We’re all doing this out of love.”