LITMIR.BIZ

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agreed they should delay commitment. Miller was an intelligent man with an impressive list of credentials. But, similar to O’Brien, he had, in his reading of the letters, assumed those passages to be simply the ravings of a mad woman.

      “I begin to see your point, Judge,” he said, when O’Brien presented him with Sarah’s theory. “I thought I examined those letters pretty finely. But I suppose even my well-trained mind has its limits. Cause and effect may very well be at work here. You’ve got quite a sharp officer there.” “Don’t I know it,” O’Brien replied, his chest puffing out slightly.

      “Sarah’s an invaluable employee, and a great friend, too, I must tell you. I’d trust her with my life.”

      As for the railroad case, O’Brien really could do little more then lend his support to Charles Northrop in the legal battle for safer crossing conditions. His own judicial authority had been officially superseded by Judge Martin in the Common Pleas Court, although he really couldn’t figure out why Martin would overturn such a rational decision unless, of course, he had incurred political pressure similar to his own. The thought triggered a wave of nausea. He breathed in and out quickly, forcing from his mind a familiar rain-swollen image of the river. No, that was unlikely. In any case, what could he do? His hands were officially tied. Still, with O’Dwyer now apparently on his side, he did feel somewhat emboldened, free to lend his name to the cause without seriously impairing his chances for reelection. And he was happy Charley was counsel in this matter, for he had the utmost respect and liking for the man. Before O’Brien made his bid for the judiciary, he and Charley had practiced law together, and O’Brien had come to know him intimately as a man of principle and integrity. Over the years, his admiration only grew, and the two became good friends as well as trusted colleagues.

      Several weeks had passed since O’Brien had talked to Charley, and so after discussing the best approach for taking the case to the Court of Appeals—which was primarily offering testimonies of those whose lives had been tragically affected by the absence of grades— they caught up on some long-neglected personal business and made a promise to see each other more often, a promise Charley attempted to follow up on immediately.

      “By the way,” he asked, as he was leaving O’Brien’s chambers,

      “you’re going to the telepathist performance tonight, aren’t you?”

      “Well, I don’t know about myself, but I sense you’ll be there, Charley,” O’Brien said, smirking at his own joke.

      “No, really, my man, this is supposed to be quite the show. You do have a seat don’t you?”

      “Yes, of course I do. I’m just not sure I can make it. There’s so much to do in the house right now, you know . . . we’ll see.”

      “Do try, Obee, a bit of entertainment would do you good. You look a little tired.”

      “Perhaps, Charley, perhaps. I’ll see how it goes.”

      “Good, I’ll look for you there,” Charley said with a nod and closed the doors solidly behind him.

      O’Brien stood lost in thought. Despite being slightly vexed that once again someone had criticized his appearance, he thought that all in all it had been an extraordinary day. Beginning with the birth of his daughter, everything that followed was an implicit affirmation of that event. That he should, on this momentous occasion, be reunited with one of his bitterest enemies as well as two of his dearest friends, imbued the event with mystical significance. John O’Dwyer, Ken Ballard, and Charley Northrup; the exchanges he’d had with each of these men would have been special by themselves. Add to that Dr. Miller’s approval of Sarah’s astute advice as well as his own courageous performance in the Cavender case, and the day was extraordinary indeed, one that perhaps signaled God’s forgiveness in those other matters on which O’Brien preferred not to dwell.

      Out of habit, he walked over to the full-length mirror that hung in the corner of his chambers. He always gave himself a quick look before heading for home, and despite all the excitement, today was no exception. As usual, he lifted his chin, straightened his tie, and dusted off his coat sleeves. Then he moved closer to the mirror and subjected his face to his own intense scrutiny. Did he look tired? Were there signs of strain? Yes, he had to admit he noticed it, too. The image reflected back at him even appeared older somehow; the lines around the large, grey-blue eyes deeper, the heavy jowls a bit droopier, the thinning hair whiter. He had never been a handsome man, but had always—well, almost always—exuded a vitality of spirit that made him attractive nevertheless, and now that quality seemed somehow diminished. Perhaps the horn-rimmed glasses. He removed them from the end of his nose where they frequently ended up. A new style as well as a new prescription. Or perhaps it was his posture. He should stand more erect. That would make him look taller than his five feet, nine inches and thinner than his one hundred and eighty-six pounds. Now, that was better, wasn’t it? Perhaps this was all he needed; some minor adjustments, and he would be back to normal in no time. Why, in just a few weeks, they’d be complimenting him on the improvement.

      Having managed to quell his concern, O’Brien turned from the mirror, gathered his belongings and headed down the stairs. If he were going to go to that performance tonight, he needed to hasten his pace; it was already 6 p.m. and the performance was scheduled for 8. Hurrying toward the exit, however, he neglected to carry out his evening ritual of stepping on the frog. An inlaid design on the court’s terrazzo, lobby floor, the bespeckled, emerald green creature with bulging black eyes was a reminder to all that encountered it that the site of the courthouse had once been a muddy swamp. To the judge, it had become a symbol of good luck, and he soon regretted having not taken advantage of its power. Because though he had completely forgotten about the press, the vulturous gathering on the courthouse steps told him that they most assuredly had not forgotten about him.

      3

      August, 1924

      Sarah had guessed right. No time remained to go home before the movie. Ponjola, a controversial film about a woman whose wearing of men’s clothing inspires her to live as a man, was on at the Princess.

      She had been wanting to see it ever since Obee told her it wasn’t worth the bother. As she filed away the last docket, she congratulated herself for bringing her own change of clothes: a tan, silk bloomer outfit she had ordered from the Sears catalog. Just as smart as the one she had seen in the Lion Store window and half the price.

      Absent the usual bustle, the building felt a little eerie. Even the judge had gone, unusual for a man who often stayed long enough to greet the cleaning crew at 10. But then again, he was a family man now.

      Quiet, still, cold. The Lucas County Courthouse. An imposing structure, built in the Italian Renaissance design when the style was first becoming popular here, it was faced in sandstone, with alternating columns and arches and an intricate frontal fraise. Venturing out of her office into the massive vestibule, the emptiness covered her, the strangeness of seeing a familiar object from a different vantage point. Concrete, wood, and glass, usually fading into the backdrop of human activity, were suddenly brought to the fore, striking in their material indifference. Even the floor beneath her seemed altered. Odd that she had never noticed it before, but in the gleaming, polished marble she could see her reflection clearly. Appropriate perhaps for a place of justice. She envisioned some tortured soul waiting to plead his case. Intending to skirt the truth, he rehearses his lines with downcast eyes. But in the process, he encounters his own image, comes face to face with himself, and changes his mind. Truth prevails. Justice is served.

      Truth and justice. Words that Sarah took for granted. Ideas that she breathed in like air. But what of those ideas? Were they eternal principles, outside the bounds of human history, or man’s invention and therefore subject to interpretation? In court she had heard convincing arguments for each point of view. But this was one of those questions to which she herself didn’t have a definitive answer. What she did have, however, was a remedy for the queasy feeling to which it gave rise: Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Just thinking about the magazine

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