Jerry Richardson is a self-styled good old boy, and dang if that isn’t a persistent type.
He ambled about his football complex as though he, rather than taxpayers, had footed most of the bill for the joint; he rode his golf court like Nero on wheels; and he instructed his employees, black and white, to call him “Mister.” And like the courtly old goat that he reportedly was, maybe he slipped a hand up a female employee’s leg or brushed against her breast — oops! — or called a black employee that most unspeakable one-word insult.
It was as if the last 200 years of American history never happened.