I had to scroll through Rob Wells’ obituary to recall how we got connected. Mutual friends who attended the Gerry Spence Trial Lawyers College virtually introduced us. Years ago, I accepted his friend request on Facebook and I have followed his astonishing and poignant life ever since that fortuitous and ephemeral meeting.

Rob never knew the most ironic factoid about our dubious link. Both he and the people we knew in common had intensely positive feelings about the famous Gerry Spence, once oft-lauded advocate for the likes of Willie Nelson and Karen Silkwood. They studied his techniques and perhaps basked in the glory of his heralded light. I, on the other hand, knew him in a different time and place. I had a lesser view of the man. I never shared that with Rob, though; I never had or took the chance.

Instead, like many folks who knew him twice or thrice removed, I merely marveled at his unblemished but human persona. I read posts about his courtroom conduct, the meetings that he had with clients, his view of the law whom we and so many of our sisters and brothers at the bar hold dear. I watched clips of him playing the guitar and singing which he offered as gifts to anyone online late or early, anyone in need of something in which to lose themselves.

I found myself replaying these musical gems time and time again. I knew the small smiles he made at slight stumbles, and the little gleam in his eye when he finessed a complicated bridge. I anticipated the heartwarming glow at the end, when he closed with a gentle comment. I felt his warmth penetrating the vastness of the space between us.

Of his prowess as counsel, I have not one tiny shred of doubt though I’ve never seen him argue in a court of law. His posts convinced me that he knew of what he spoke. The zeal shone through the monitor. I know quality legal representation when I read about it. As a forty-plus year attorney myself, I envied his relentless dedication and the deftness that I could discern between the lines of his accounts. Though I never sat in the courtroom where he practiced, or heard a recording, I have no doubt that he commanded the respect of any jurist before whom he rose to assume the podium.

Years ago, I sat in my parents’ living room talking about law school with my uncle Bob, an attorney himself and my father’s baby brother. A final exam in my Contracts class loomed, posing me a bit of stress. My uncle smiled and linked his hands around his knees. Contracts are easy, he opined. Offer, acceptance, consideration, bargained-for exchange, capacity to contract, and adherence to the requirements of the statute of frauds. As I struggled to repeat the litany, he laughed. Once you get beyond this simple stuff, you’ll ascend to glory, he assured me. Trial advocacy, that’s the thing! That’s the real heart of the law.

Rob Wells understood that. He stayed true to the purpose of our profession: Representation of those who cannot adequately speak for themselves. For that, though I did not know him in person, I much admired everything I knew of him. Most of us strain to make our mark as guardians of democracy now and again; Rob Wells personified that mandate.

But wait; there’s more. In addition to his obvious prowess in his chosen vocation, Rob Wells also appeared to be an amazing husband and a truly astounding father. His photographs of himself and his beloved Ceil; his proud boasts about the accomplishments of his adult children; and the stories that he told of his life with the whole lot mesmerized me. If his wife set a pretty table or sewed a lovely curtain, Rob posted snapshots taken from every angle. The dogs cavorted; the mother-in-law visited; the children and he organized glorious vacations. All of it deserved to be documented and catalogued, then shared with his friends in the virtual world.

We hung on every word. I don’t know how others responded, but from the other side of my laptop, I gravitated between delight and jealousy. But I could see the virtue of his life, the connection among the members of his inner circle, and the deep devotion that they all held for one another. It rang true. I never doubted; I never once thought, Ah, but what about when there’s no camera? What am I not seeing? What Rob Wells felt for his family, and they for him, cannot be easily faked even in this day of dazzling artificial intelligence.

Rob Wells died three days ago. I did not know he had been sick, nor had I noticed a dearth of posts from his page. My life gets busy and I spend less time on social media. In retrospect, I realize that his name had not appeared in my feed of late. His son posted about his death and the illness which he deliberately hid from the outside world. I chuckled when I read that, for such self-effacing modesty seems entirely consistent with what I knew of him.

His wife and children will miss him with an excruciating pain that I can only imagine. His pets will pace in the hallway, looking to the doors, awaiting his step. His pen will lay motionless upon his desk. Clients will let their hands drop to their sides, forlorn without their champion. There is now, and will ever be, a Rob-Wells-shaped hole in the universe. A much-loved man has passed from this world, to what ever reward the universe holds for him. Rest well, my friend. Though I never met you in real time, I mourn your passing even as I stand immeasurably grateful for the gift of knowing you.