Читать книгу O'Brien's Desk - Ona Russell - Страница 5

1

Toledo, Ohio: November 23, 1923

It was getting late, nearly 8:30 and still no sign of him. Sarah glanced furtively down the hall. At least she had managed to restore a semblance of order. With the exception of a few diehards who would obviously not be satisfied until they could question O’Donnell himself, the reporters had gone—no doubt in search of someone less experienced with their methods.

She closed her door and for the third time this morning reviewed the judge’s schedule. Yes, he certainly should have been here by now. With vague apprehension, she reached for the phone and started to dial the familiar number. On the fourth digit she stopped. There, next to her prized, miniature portrait of Susan B. Anthony was her magazine, still opened seductively to where she had left off before attending to the press. No, she told herself. I shouldn’t. I can’t. There isn’t enough time. She reinserted her finger in the circular opening and turned it halfway around. Then again, the trial wasn’t until ten. And she had been interrupted at such a critical moment. She deserved just one more column. She hung up the phone, repositioned the wire-framed reading glasses dangling around her neck and, with god-like power, temporarily restored the beckoning characters to life.

“All right. Have your way.” He sat down at the table and scribbled a check, which he tore from the book, but he refrained from handing it to his companion. “After all, since we are to be on such terms, Mr. Altamont,” said he, “I don’t see why I should trust you any more than you trust me. Do you understand?” he added, looking back over his shoulder at the American. “There’s the check upon the table. I claim the right to examine that parcel before you pick the money up.”

The American passed it over without a word. A. von Bork undid a winding of string and two wrappers of paper. Then he sat gazing for a moment in silent amazement at a small blue book which lay before him. Across the cover was printed in golden letter Practical

Handbook of Bee Culture. Only for one instant did the master spy glare at this strangely irrelevant inscription. The next he was gripped at the back of his neck by a grasp of iron, and a chloroformed sponge was held in front of his writhing face.

“Another glass, Watson!” said Mr. Sherlock Holmes as he extended the bottle of Imperial Tokay.”

“I knew it!” Sarah beamed, although slightly ashamed of her own enthusiasm. Of course. Holmes was the American all along, his brilliant disguise once again halting the progress of evil. A little too predictably, perhaps. Much too tidily, she would have admitted. But in these uncertain times, indeed in the overall uncertainty of life, she found a measure of satisfaction in the mystery so unambiguously solved. She ear-marked the page and returned the tattered copy of the Strand to the shelf in the corner of her office. “Until tomorrow,” she said. Right now I need to call the judge. Where in the devil is he anyway?”

Seated at his desk, Judge O’Brien O’Donnell gazed through the French doors at the leafless oak tree that in the summer would shade the entire backyard with its thick green foliage. He had always loved autumn, and this year was no exception. The colors of this season were made especially vibrant from the unusual amount of rain in July and August. But the splendor had ended far too abruptly. By the first of November, the limbs were barren, winter convincingly on its way.

It should be spring! O’Brien picked up for the umpteenth time the telegram resting on the desktop. Today of all days buds should be on those branches. The tree’s skeleton, sharpened by the early morning sun, possessed its own austere beauty but simply didn’t fit the occasion. Glancing down at the rectangular, yellow piece of paper, he read again the message he had already put to memory: “Born to you a healthy, baby girl. Margaret Louise . . . stop . . . 7lbs. 6oz . . . stop . . . mother and child doing fine . . . Congratulations, Judge, Dr. Samuel Lathrop.”

Fingering the paper with his sturdy, weathered hands, O’Brien gave silent thanks for what he could only view as a miracle. A healthy, baby girl. An act of God that he vowed he would spend the remainder of his days repaying in any way he could. Inconceivable. He, a father, at fifty-nine. It was too much to hope for, and yet there it was, clearly stated in the certainty of bold Western Union type. The only regret he had was that he could not join Winifred and his new daughter immediately. How he would love to see that newborn face, one that even in its swollen infancy he imagined bore traces of his own. Under normal circumstances, he and his new family would, of course, be together. But theirs were anything but normal, and with the election only a year away, he had decided to wait until Christmas in order to arrange a vacation without arousing too much suspicion.

O’Brien gave the telegram one last look. He would have liked nothing better than to stay home and revel in his news, but he had an exceptionally busy schedule ahead of him and was already running late. Reluctantly, he folded the paper into a neat, small square, and slipped it into an envelope in the top drawer. He knew what he would do with it later.

“Western Union? I’d like to send a telegram. To Mrs. Winifred O’Donnell. Mother’s Hospital, Albuquerque, New Mexico. Yes, that’s right. Here’s the message: ‘Well done, my dear . . . stop . . . Very happy . . . stop . . . Will phone on Sunday . . . stop . . . Love, Obee. O-b-e-e-.’

Yes, that’s right. The bill? Send to Judge O’Brien O’Donnell. Thirty-four fifty-six Bancroft Street, Toledo, Ohio. Yes. Thank you very much.”

O’Brien hung up his new rotary dial telephone and patted it as if it were an obedient pet. Ever since the courthouse had installed this technological marvel a few months ago, he was determined to own one himself. To make a call without the need of an operator, directly from one end of the country to the other. Amazing! And so stylish. The latest model became available in a variety of colors just as the forest green paint was being applied to the hall of his still unfinished new home, which, as he walked toward the stairs, he eyed with immense satisfaction.

The brick and mortar structure, crafted in the Tudor style, befitted someone of O’Brien’s stature. How strange the way things worked out. He never thought he would own his own home, let alone have one built from the ground up. Nor did he ever think he would live outside the city, thriving as he had in its pace and energy. But, he’d gotten a good price on the lot in Old Orchard, and had come to believe that a rural setting would be a better place to raise a family. He wasn’t alone in this idea. Since he relocated to Toledo from Point Huron in 1906, most of his colleagues had moved to the suburbs, too, lured by subdivisions bearing such nostalgic names as Old Orchard. O’Brien smirked. The pamphlet on the area had promised an escape from escalating urban congestion and crime. So, too, did an accompanying photograph, replete with cows grazing on abundant, sunlit grass. He was suspicious of such advertising ploys, but over time had nevertheless come to agree with the premise underlying them.

Although construction on his home was not complete, most of the work yet to be done was cosmetic, and so O’Brien took early residency. Aesthetic details were important to him, much more so than to his wife. As he started up the stairs, noting the fineness of the darkly stained, oak hand rail, listening carefully for any creaking he may have missed on his way down, he remembered that today the carpenter was coming to install the mantel in the study, the one room that would retain the independent character of his former bachelor’s quarters. With his books, desk, and other treasured belongings carefully placed, this would be a refined but cozy, personal retreat, and the Victorian mantel, which he helped design, would be the perfect finishing touch.

The only room left completely to Winifred was the nursery, which he passed on his way to the bedroom. While only mildly interested in the rest of the house, his wife had expressed a strong desire to decorate this room, and O’Brien wanted to honor her wishes. Besides, reserving it for storage for the time being would avoid the inevitable questions of friends and family who would certainly want to take a tour.

O’Brien quickly performed his toilet and began to dress. Normally, he prolonged this latter activity, treating it as a serious study in color and form. Today, he sacrificed art to time and hurriedly selected his grey wool suit and fashionable collarless white cotton shirt. The only item that he pondered with anything approaching his usual scrutiny were his socks, choosing, after limiting the possibilities to three, the dark grey French imports with pink silk thread.

The telephone rang. Heaving a deep sigh, he glanced at the clock on the night stand and hesitated. No, he wasn’t going to get it. The ringing continued. It might be a call from the hospital. He ran down the stairs, his left sock still wrinkled around the ankle. “Hello?” O’Brien answered, with a note of concern. “Good morning, Obee.”

Immediately he relaxed. Though not part of her official duties as Chief Probation Officer of Women, Sarah had taken it upon herself years ago to provide O’Brien regularly with any information she thought would prepare him for his day ahead. She expected in return only the courtesy of being informed of any delays. After all, she was one of his closest friends, and he knew how much she worried about him. “Morning, Sarah. How are you, my dear?”

“Fine, Obee. I’m a little surprised you’re still there, though. I was just taking a chance. Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine, I’m wonderful, in fact. Just overslept a bit.”

“Hmm . . .”

“Now, Sarah, don’t you worry. I’m not tired in that way. I was just up late working on the house, nothing more.”

“Nonetheless, I’m glad there’s a holiday approaching,” Sarah said. “You’ve had more than your share of tough cases lately. You could use a rest. I’m rather tired myself, you know.”

He heard slight irritation in her voice. “Well, perhaps you’re right. I, uh, was thinking, in fact, that I might go away this year, maybe down south, look over the new training site for the Mud Hens, or perhaps do some fishing in Michigan, I don’t know.” “You’re not going to visit Winifred?”

Thankfully Sarah could not see him. She would have recognized his sudden rapid blinking as his characteristic sign of distress.

“No, I don’t think so. We’ve already talked about it. She’s so enjoying her time with her family, and I’d like to wait until the baby’s born, you know.”

“But Obee, that won’t be for three months. Surely, you’ll want to see her before then?”

O’Brien wished at that moment he could tell Sarah the truth. She, of all people, would have understood. But, even with his trusted confidante, he simply couldn’t take the risk.

“Look Sarah, Winifred’s even encouraged me to go off by myself. She says I might as well enjoy what’s left of my freedom. But, listen,” he said, “what’s really on your mind this morning?”

“Well, Judge, I’ve called to warn you that Emanuel Cavender and his attorney are already here. They’re both being rather gregarious with the press, too. I tried to fend them off, but Cavender’s boasting that you’ll give him a light sentence, you know, considering his official status.”

“Humph. We’ll see about that.” O’Brien shook his head in disgust. Cavender was a police officer found guilty of contributing to the delinquency of a minor. That was bad enough. But the man had also been reck-less. He knew the police department had been under public scrutiny for months. And, yet, there he was, found with an under-aged girl in the Secor Hotel, the very place several officers were accused of turning a blind eye on mob members holed up there. A relatively minor offense, perhaps, but along with the department’s history of criminal collusion—dramatically exacerbated by Volstead, that scourge of legislation O’Brien regretted ever supporting—he knew the public would want him to make an example of Cavender. And he would have to balance that desire against the pressure of his friends on the Force to give their comrade the minimum sentence.

“Is that all?” O’Brien asked, with uncustomary shortness.

“Unfortunately, no. Dr. Miller is also waiting, rather impatiently, I might add. He’s interviewed Lulu Carey in jail, and wants to talk to you about the possibility of an insanity commitment.”

“I thought he’d come to that conclusion. I told you, Sarah, those letters show extreme mental imbalance. Miss Carey would be much better off in the hospital. Still, there will be those who won’t be so easily convinced, even with Miller’s recommendation. What else?”

“There’s also word this morning that Judge Martin overturned your Ann Arbor Railroad ruling. They might very well lay those tracks on Summit unless Charley Northrup can accomplish something in the Court of Appeals. He’ll be here later to talk strategy with you.”

O’Brien ran his fingers through his thinning hair. Today there would be no contested wills, no property to settle. Concurrent Jurisdiction. He could recite the definition of the term in his sleep. A murky legal category requiring the Probate Court to make judgments along with the Common Pleas Court “in all misdemeanors and all proceedings to prevent crime.” All. The ruling had turned the Probate Court into a judicial dumping ground. And it was particularly annoying when his decisions in such matters were overturned.

“Judge?”

“Dammit, Sarah, that crossing in the North End will be nothing but a hazard. What’s wrong with that idiot Martin anyway? Grade separation’s the only guarantee of safety. It’s technically out of my hands now, of course, but I’ll continue to support Charley’s efforts. That’s all, I hope?” “For the time being, Judge.”

“Good. As always, I don’t know what I would do without you, my dear. You’ll be there for the Cavender sentencing?”

“Of course, with the victim’s parents by my side. They’ve been waiting for this day for a long time now, you know.” O’Brien groaned. “Yes, I know. They and everyone else.”

2

“All rise, the Probate Court of Lucas County is now in session, the Honorable Judge O’Brien O’Donnell presiding.”

Sarah exhaled. The judge had made it just in time. She had anticipated a full court room for the Cavender sentencing, but nothing like the standing room only crowd that greeted her boss as the bailiff announced his entrance. Only half as many people attended when Cavender’s verdict was read, and then it seemed as if all of Toledo was there. She was afraid that the unexpected sight would rattle his nerves, but, if it did, he didn’t show it. Officially cloaked in his immaculately pressed black robe, he took the bench with all the confidence and solemnity the occasion required.

Sarah noticed O’Brien glancing around the room, briefly holding the gaze of a number of individuals in attendance: Chief of Police Martin Dodd; County Commissioner George Hoffman; Democratic party head John O’Dwyer, whose presence here was puzzling to say the least; and, of course, the defendant, who, sitting quietly in the front row with his hands folded on his lap, appeared calm and subdued. The judge’s bespeckled grey-blue eyes then drifted further down the same row where they looked encouragingly at the young victim, Marie Harrison, her parents, and at Sarah herself, who nodded at him reassuringly. As usual, Sarah had swept her thick, dark hair into a loose French twist; a style easy for her to manage, but one that also revealed her heart shaped face, deep-set brown eyes, full lips, and clear, olive complexion. Although already in her forties, an age by which most women had long since lost their feminine allure, Sarah was unusual. Neither her figure nor her skin bore more than scant traces of deterioration, and her straight, if slightly gapped teeth, were a brilliant white. Time had been kind to her, adding through a few gentle lines and an occasional grey strand of hair, a depth to her features that while not beautiful in the conventional sense, produced an overall pleasing effect.

It wasn’t any of her physical attributes that the judge was currently admiring, however. Of this Sarah was certain. What had captured his attention, she knew, was her dress. He was relieved that she had selected an appropriate outfit, a respectable, if flapper inspired, crepe black frock. She had considered something more modern. In fact, she had come close to eschewing tradition entirely and wearing the bloomers he so violently opposed. But she decided that this was not the day to make a statement. His parting, grateful smile indicated that she had made the right decision.

Silencing the court with one sharp tap of his gavel, O’Brien began by asking the defendant to rise and followed with a few preliminary words of recrimination. “Mr. Cavender, I must tell you that I find your actions particularly deplorable. The youth of today are in desperate need of moral guidance, of role models they can respect and trust. What are they to think when they are victimized by someone whose job it is to protect them?”

Even though the question was clearly rhetorical, an audible reaction came from several people in the room, including the police chief who shifted uncomfortably in his seat and John O’Dwyer who grunted out an epithet louder than he must have intended. Cavender himself didn’t budge.

O’Brien continued,“A police officer taking advantage of a young girl is no better than a druggist selling dope, and everyone knows how I feel about that.”

This comment also caused a stir, but from exactly where or whom was uncertain.

“Now, Mr. Cavender, I know that this is a first-time offense, and you have said you are remorseful. Do you have anything else to add before I sentence you?”

Cavender looked up at O’Brien and then over at Marie Harrison, who was pressing a handkerchief to her wet eyes. He then cleared his throat. “I only want to state again, your Honor, that I am truly sorry for any pain I have caused Miss Harrison and her family. I take full responsibility for my behavior and promise, that if you would be so kind as to let me return to my job, I will carry it out for the rest of my life with integrity.”

The court room was now hushed, waiting to hear O’Brien’s response to Cavender’s attempt to get off the hook without any real punishment; a hook on which a great deal was hanging. O’Brien glanced around the room again, and then fixed his gaze directly on the defendant.

“Emanuel Cavender, I appreciate your apology. Nevertheless, I cannot in good conscience heed your wishes. You have seriously violated the code to which you swore allegiance and are therefore from here on out barred from serving on the police force. And, and,” O’Brien continued, quieting the crowd with a severe look, “pursuant to section ten of the Ohio Criminal Code, you are hereby sentenced to six months in prison, beginning today November twenty-third, nineteen twenty-three.”

Gasps and whispers erupted, prompting O’Brien to forcefully tap his gavel once more. “Order . . . I’ll have order in this court! I am not quite done yet.” O’Brien waited for the noise to settle down before proceeding. “Mr. Cavender, you are furthermore ordered to pay a one hundred dollar fine.” This time there was little response from the crowd. “The people must know that there are consequences for any official who abuses the public trust. The defendant is now remanded to the custody of the Ohio Bureau of Prisons. Court is dismissed.”

As the bailiff commanded the court to rise, freeing reporters to run to the phones and everyone else to simultaneously voice their opinions, Sarah offered O’Brien an appreciative smile. The sentence, though not undeserved, was a bold move, and she knew that he would take some heat for it. Already she could see the disappointment in Chief Dodd and hear outright anger from several individuals inching out of the room. O’Brien had stood firm today, and she was proud of him for it, especially as she observed the relief on Marie’s face. But, as usual, she was also worried about the added strain this could place on him. Her boss didn’t take pressure of this sort well, even though he would never admit it.

I must catch him before his next appointment, she thought. After I offer my congratulations to the Harrisons, I’ll ask him to lunch. Then I’ll really be able to tell how he’s doing.

Assuming a much practiced, neutral expression, Sarah approached the formidable set of closed double-doors that led to O’Brien’s chambers. She was just about to knock when the judge’s secretary, Elaine Marsh, appeared alongside her, balancing three cups of steaming coffee. Having only been on the job for a couple of months, Elaine had already proved herself to be an invaluable employee. Sarah had taken to her immediately, especially because in spite of O’Brien’s protests, she had recently cut her hair in the new bob fashion. “A woman after my own heart,” Sarah had told her in approval. “I’d do it myself if I were younger.” Elaine shook her head. “He’s got visitors, Sarah. Two men.”

“Already? Court just let out. Do you know them?”

“Can’t say as I do. But then, I don’t recognize many faces yet. They followed the judge in here. I don’t think either of them had appointments.”

Just what he needed, unexpected guests.

“I guess I’ll just have to come back later,” Sarah said. But instead of leaving, she remained standing next to Elaine, staring at the coffee. “Hmm, tell you what, Miss Marsh. It just occurred to me that you might need some assistance. You look a little unsteady there. How ‘bout if I help carry that heavy load?”

“Sure, Miss Kaufman,” Elaine replied, with a knowing wink.

“So kind of you to offer.”

Sarah winked back as Elaine passed her two of the cups, and deferentially pushed open the doors.

Guests indeed. There with O’Brien were two of the most unlikely Sarah could have imagined, engaged in what appeared to be a surprisingly good-humored conversation. First to catch her eye was John Augustus O’Dwyer, Napoleonic leader of the Democratic party whose influence, like that of his Republican counterpart, Walter F. Brown, extended far beyond Toledo. She had spotted the portly, ruddy-faced man in court, but still couldn’t fathom why he would be there. Finding him in this room was even more confusing, for, as far as she knew, he and O’Brien were barely on speaking terms. Currently, O’Dwyer was chairman of the Democratic Executive Committee, but for many years he served as president of the Lucas County Board of Elections, and while in that capacity, during the election of 1912, a deep rift between him and O’Brien occurred.

The puzzling incident was never really resolved. In short, O’Dwyer was accused of putting the lean on one of his precinct judges to vote and stuff ballot boxes for, ironically enough, Walter F. Brown. This was particularly strange because O’Dwyer, in addition to being known for his strict allegiance to the Democratic party, had always been notoriously hostile to Brown and all he stood for. Nevertheless, the case went to trial and the presiding judge was O’Brien, who, despite eventually dropping it for insufficient evidence, strongly believed in O’Dwyer’s guilt. When O’Dwyer became aware of this, he immediately put into practice the philosophy for which he would eventually become known: “never forget an insult, or never forgive an enemy.” Severing all but the most necessary communications with O’Brien, O’Dwyer even went so far as to try through innuendo and rumor to turn fellow Democrats against him. But now, there he stood, in seemingly excellent spirits, laughing along with the judge as if they were the best of chums.

Joining in the fun was Kenneth Ballard, whose presence was equally baffling. Kenneth, a tallish, slender, and fastidiously well-dressed man, had been O’Brien’s roommate at the Monticello, the hotel where the judge lived when Sarah first started working for him and where he continued to live for many years thereafter. She knew Kenneth well, but had not seen him since O’Brien’s wedding reception last May. The sight of the three of them together in such a jovial state was simply bizarre. As far as Sarah knew, Kenneth didn’t even know O’Dwyer. An engineer who worked for the Ohio Gas Company, Kenneth didn’t travel in the same circles as O’Brien. He had never held public office nor had he ever been seriously interested in politics, two of the chief reasons O’Brien had found him so appealing as a roommate. In fact, during the entire ten years they had lived together, Sarah couldn’t recall even one visit to the courthouse from Kenneth, something she had always attributed to his lack of interest as well as his confessed uneasiness with, as he had put it, the “unsavory characters” who steadily streamed through its doors.

As Sarah stood contemplating this unlikely trio, O’Brien said, “Sarah, my dear, for goodness sake, you look positively mesmerized. Put those cups down before you drop them.”

“Oh, of course . . . certainly, Obee,” Sarah said, and placed them carefully on the end table next to the one Elaine had already placed there before leaving the room unnoticed. “Sorry, Judge,” she added, apologizing as much for the lapse of formal address as the near disaster. Sarah was among the handful of friends who were close enough to O’Brien to call him Obee, the moniker he had acquired in his youth. The problem being that she was not always successful in remembering to observe his title in an official setting, a faux pas that some saw as a consequence of the judge’s failure to assert his authority over the weaker sex.

“I was supposed to be helping Elaine, wasn’t I? Seems as if she really could’ve done the job better without me . . . even though, as you know, Judge, a broken cup is a sign of good luck.”

“You know better than I that it is a broken glass which is said to have such properties. But, never mind that. Let’s have it. You didn’t come here just to aid my more than competent secretary. Come on. What are you up to?”

“Well, actually,” Sarah admitted, “there are a few things I’d like to discuss with you. I was hoping we might have lunch and go over them, but . . .” she added, turning from one visitor to the other, “I didn’t expect you to have company so soon after the trial. Hello, Mr. O’Dwyer. Good to see you, Kenneth.”

“Humph, yes, well of course you’d want to talk, Sarah,” O’Brien said. “And, I suppose you have a right to wonder. Gentlemen, do you mind if Sarah joins us?”

Neither man objected so Sarah moved closer, reshaping the triangular group into a perfect square.

John O’Dwyer greeted her with a stiff handshake, a gesture befitting his general distrust of women who ventured beyond what he thought to be their rightful sphere. Sarah could never figure out why O’Dwyer was considered a Progressive, for he was certainly not progressive in this sense. Kenneth, on the other hand, gave her an affectionate hug and seemed genuinely happy to see her. “Hello Sarah. How are you, my love? You look wonderful. Really, just wonderful. Not like our friend here, however, I’m afraid,” Kenneth said, pointing in O’Brien’s direction. “Marriage must be wearing him out. Looks a bit drawn, doesn’t he? Yes, I think you better keep a closer eye on him. Winifred doesn’t seem to be doing such a good job.”

“I try, God knows I try, Kenneth,” Sarah answered, “and I’m sure, when Winifred returns—”

“Winifred gone?” Kenneth frowned in mocked concern. “Left him already? Well, where is she, my good man?”

“Winifred is visiting relatives, if you must know, Ken,” O’Brien snapped. “But I must say if there’s anything I dislike, it’s being talked about in the third person. Everyone is so worried about how I look these days, but the truth is I feel great. In fact, I’ve never felt better. So, please, let’s put that topic to rest. Anyway, Sarah, aren’t you interested in knowing what these men are doing here? You seemed to be exceptionally so a minute ago.”

For the second time today, O’Brien had purposefully steered the conversation away from himself . . . and from his wife. Although she and Kenneth had only been half teasing, Sarah knew better than to push any further. Nevertheless, she registered the move as yet another sign that the judge did indeed bear watching.

“Well, yes, I am a bit curious,” she conceded.

“Actually, it’s not as mysterious as it seems, at least from my perspective.” O’Dwyer’s raspy voice startled all of them, but each seemed willing to let him do the explaining.

“I came to see the trial like so many other Toledoans, Miss Kaufman; it’s as simple as that. And from what I understand, Mr.

Ballard came for the same reason.” Kenneth nodded.

“And, like myself, Ballard sought out the judge after the trial to commend him on the courage of his decision. Of course, I have to admit, I was initially taken aback by it. Uh, perhaps you even heard me in court, uh, express my, uh, surprise,” he added with an embarrassed grin.

They all exchanged knowing glances, and O’Dwyer continued. “Well, after court, Ballard and I caught up with O’Brien at the same time, and got to talking about the November election. Now, what I’ve told the judge is that I’m ready to let bygones be bygones. More than that, I want to work for his campaign. I like what he’s done for this city, and I think he has shown himself to be a real man today. And Ballard here said that if someone such as myself can undergo such a radical change, why he might even become more political and do a bit of work for the campaign as well.” Kenneth smiled broadly.

“And, that’s where you came in, Sarah,” O’Brien said, gently rocking on his stocky legs.

Sarah nodded but was anything but convinced. She would have been delighted if O’Dwyer had really had a change of heart, but she didn’t believe it. At the very least, he would want something from Obee in return for his forgiveness and support. And Kenneth would ultimately renege on his offer. He had been inspired to work for Obee’s campaign before, but had never followed through because he just didn’t have the interest or the personality that such work required. His intentions were good, and he was certainly one of Obee’s most devoted friends. But his enthusiasm would soon wane. Furthermore, why had either man come to the sentencing in the first place? Even though it was an important case for the city, O’Dwyer usually only appeared at events of a much grander scale, and Kenneth had just never cared enough. Of course, O’Brien wouldn’t be thinking of any of these things now. No, now he would be reveling in the comradery of the moment. Later, he would come to his senses and remember O’Dwyer’s cutthroat reputation and Kenneth’s fickleness, but for now he would be enjoying the bond between men caught up in a common cause. And the fact that the cause was O’Brien himself would make the experience all the better.

For the time being, Sarah would do nothing to spoil O’Brien’s pleasure. A positive attitude would help the judge through the challenging meetings scheduled for the afternoon. Besides, any warning she might offer would pale in comparison to his own eventual self-recriminations. All too aware of his gullible nature, in the light of day O’Brien would realize he had fallen prey to it again. Therefore, during lunch, which he agreed to have with her once his guests took their leave, Sarah restricted the conversation to mostly glowing remarks about his handling of the Cavender case. The only exception came with the topic of Lulu Carey. Initially, Sarah, too, simply thought the woman was mad. All those obscene letters to city and state officials. Including the Governor! But she now thought differently and felt compelled to speak her mind.

“Obee, before you and Dr. Miller decide to commit Miss Carey, I must tell you that if the Housewives League ever discovers your failure to act on the content of some of those letters, you’ll never hear the end of it. They’ll have your head before the election.”

O’Brien blinked and started to respond, but Sarah stopped him. She knew what he was going to say. A few years earlier the League had charged him with railroading persons into the insane asylum, calling his commitment proceedings as “nothing less than a farce.” The accusation had deeply wounded him. Occasionally, he might have been a bit over-zealous, but nothing was more important to him than improving conditions for the mentally ill. He was the only Progressive— indeed, nearly the only person—in town who advocated the building of a new psychiatric clinic and who tirelessly argued for patient rehabilitation. Still, the League was powerful, and Sarah sensed that the morning’s events had put the judge in a receptive mood. She needed to take advantage of it.

“Please Obee, please let me finish.”

“All right, Sarah. Go ahead, my dear.”

“Thank you. Now, I agree that some of what is in those letters sounds a little crazy. But, the ones where Lulu writes about her husband repeatedly striking her have got to be taken seriously. It may very well be that this abuse she describes has significantly contributed to her illness, if not caused it entirely. At the very least, I think you should find a way to have the husband questioned; this would satisfy the League and perhaps help this young woman more than long walks on the hospital’s grounds. I’m not saying she doesn’t need help or even confinement, Obee, but wouldn’t it be better if you at least investigated these allegations before locking her up?”

O’Brien took the remaining bite of his Roquefort salad. Judging by the agonizingly long time he took to chew it, she surmised that he was probably carefully considering how to phrase a dismissive retort. But, when finally he put down his fork, placed his napkin neatly back on his lap, and slowly raised his large, kindly eyes, his expression told her before he uttered a word that she had made an impression. “Sarah, Sarah, Sarah. You are certainly getting feisty these days.” O’Brien paused, repositioned his glasses, and stared at her in a somewhat bemused fashion, as would a father who suddenly realized his young daughter had grown up.

“But of course, you’re right,” he conceded. “I do think you have something there. I sometimes can’t see the forest for the trees, you know. Maybe I need a new prescription for these old things,” he added with a laugh, removing his glasses altogether. He paused and stared at her again. Drumming softly on the table, he leaned in close. “Listen, Sarah, I’ll tell you what. I’ll suggest to Miller that we hold off on commitment until we can find out what’s going on with that husband of hers. In the meantime, you might want to visit Miss Carey yourself. She could probably use a sympathetic female ear about now, and you may be able to discover something the police can’t.”

“I’d be happy to” Sarah said, careful not to appear too smug.

“It’s good that you’re taking this seriously, Obee. I really think you’re doing the right thing for your career, not to mention Miss Carey and possibly other women like her. Now, let’s finish our lunch, shall we? Your meeting with Miller is in twenty minutes.”

“Quite right, my dear,” he said, checking his pocket watch.

“I’m glad one of us is keeping track of the time.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Sarah said. But as she sliced into her roasted chicken that had long since grown cold, she silently replaced “what” with “all” and was momentarily saddened that the remark was now closer to the truth.

Carrying off his remaining business successfully, O’Brien’s spirits remained uplifted throughout the afternoon. Things had gone especially well with Dr. Miller. Once O’Brien brought to Miller’s attention Lulu’s references to her husband’s brutality, the doctor 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 started to settle her stomach, which she also realized was painfully empty. She had never before read about his exploits in the evening. But she had never been here alone before either. One rare event surely deserved another.

Sarah couldn’t remember precisely when her flirtation with the master detective had become an habitual affair. She did know that beginning the day with him and the trusty Dr. Watson was good for her. Not only did the practice sharpen her mind, but it made her more empathetic. If the order, the logic, the impeccable deciphering of clues in the story encouraged her to think more analytically, the problems surmounted by the fictional cast made her better understand those faced by the real people she encountered at court. Not that her reading was limited to the works of the popular Arthur Conan Doyle. Not by a long shot. But more demanding literature she saved for the privacy of her living room. There she had tackled everything from Milton to Austen, Dostoevsky to some of the recently published poems by Emily Dickinson. Last month she had even made it through, although not entirely comprehended, the new translation of Emile Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past. But it was Doyle’s larger-than-life, eccentric protagonist who inspired her in the quotidian present.

Over the years she had become fascinated with Doyle, too, a man whose complexity nearly matched that of his most celebrated character. A physician turned writer, Doyle possessed both the logic and imagination necessary for each of those professions. He even claimed to believe in the paranormal, and while Sarah didn’t go quite that far herself (her rather embarrassing participation in the telepathist performance last fall notwithstanding), she admired someone of his intelligence admitting that things existed that reason alone could not explain.

It was, however, Doyle’s acute sense of justice that Sarah found the most compelling. Like the time he demonstrated that a man convicted of having slashed a number of horses and cows couldn’t have committed the crime because of poor eyesight. Or the incident involving Sir Roger Casement. Though adventure fantasy wasn’t her type of story, she had read Doyle’s The Lost World because the character of Lord John Roxton was based on Casement, an Irish diplomat accused of trying to get Germany’s support for the Irish independence movement. Casement had previously alerted Doyle to the terrible injustices committed against blacks in the Congo, and when Doyle felt that Casement had become the victim of injustice himself, he offered his support. Convicted of being a traitor in 1916, Casement was eventually put to death, but not before Doyle almost succeeded in sparing his life.

Sarah reached into her emergency candy jar with one hand and turned to the final paragraph of The Last Bow with the other. She had read the story once before, and therefore already knew that Holmes averts the death of thousands by infiltrating a German spy ring. But the plot was only part of the pleasure. Words themselves were comforting. As were the familiar characters. If they were interesting enough, what did it matter that they repeated themselves?

Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a changing age. There’s an east wind coming all the same, such wind as never blew on England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But it’s God’s own wind none the less and a cleaner, better stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared. Start her up, Watson, for it’s time that we were on our way. I have a check for five hundred pounds which should be cashed early, for the drawer is quite capable of stopping it if he can.

“Done.” She closed the magazine and sighed with a familiar mixture of satisfaction and loss. Finishing a story was always like a little death, no matter how many times one had read it. Best to begin another immediately. Next on her list, The Valley of Fear, the only full-length Holmes novel she hadn’t yet read. She would start it bright and early tomorrow.

She slipped on her outfit, exchanged her tortoise shell comb for one with pearl studs, and added a pair of matching drop earrings. She sighed again and frowned. What was bothering her? She couldn’t place the feeling. Too much chocolate? The disruption to her pattern? Perhaps the story’s not quite-so-happy ending. Generally, of course, it was optimistic. But, as Holmes had rightly predicted through his metaphor of the east wind, bad had to precede the good. For the story was published in 1914, when England’s worst days of the Great War still lay ahead.

Sarah walked rapidly down the long corridor that led to the stairs. With the building empty, her Cuban heeled, brown patent leather shoes echoed loudly, drawing her gaze momentarily toward the floor, where once again she saw her reflection. The marble here was duller than upstairs, her image fuzzier, the outline of her more formally attired shape blurred. And that gave her pause. If the same tortured soul she had conjured up earlier had been waiting down here instead, he might have very well decided to stick with his lie, the entire course of his life altered by something as minor as a slight shift in location. She gave a departing look around the court’s hallowed halls and exited feeling queasier than ever. Chilled rather than refreshed by the cool breeze that was starting to gather force, she headed quickly for the theater, wondering when the approaching storm would touch ground.

Ironically, it was on a balmy Friday evening, about one week later.

Celebrating a break in the oppressive humidity that lasted nearly the whole month of July, Sarah had decided to walk rather than take the streetcar home. The courthouse gradually disappeared as she strolled past Adams, Monroe and Madison to Summit, where she had an unobstructed view of the Maumee, the deep ribbon of water that wound its way through the industrialized southeast section of Toledo and emptied gracefully into vast Lake Erie. Framing the city skyline— a cluster of domes and uneven box-like structures—the Maumee served as the harbor of Toledo and a major port of the Midwest. In recent years several new draw bridges had been constructed over it, including the steel and concrete Cherry Street Bridge with a lift span to accommodate large ships. As in much of the country, these were booming years in Toledo, and the Maumee, though only navigable for about twelve miles from its mouth on lake Erie, contributed greatly to the city’s economic prosperity.

When Sarah looked out and observed the relentless flow northward, she felt a sense of continuity, a belonging to something larger than herself. Gazing out at the water’s soft swells she was temporarily transported in time and space. At moments like this, the inner workings of the city, the quest for money, and particularly the corruption that accompanied it faded from view, and she could almost imagine turning around to find the buildings replaced with the lush primeval marshland upon which they were originally built.

She sighed. But, of course, the river had its dark side, too. Flooding had repeatedly occurred during spring thaws, steamers had broken away from their moorings while docked on its shores, and people in despair had used it as their last resort.

Sarah continued walking, past her beloved Madison bookstore with the scandalous new work by F. Scott Fitzgerald in the window, past Steton’s Shoe Shop, past the full stock of Victrolas on display in Grinnell’s. A Citizen’s Ice truck, parked in the street for a delivery and lilting like the Tower of Pisa, halted the elegant glide of a jet black Paige Fairfield “Six-46” and momentarily blocked her own path. After maneuvering around it, she picked up speed. The exercise and fresh air had sparked her appetite for the home-cooked meal she knew would be awaiting her. A relaxing dinner and perhaps a game of cards with her brother and sister with whom she shared a small house on Fulton Street was just what she needed after a long week in court.

First she would light the Sabbath candles, since the sun had already begun to set. Sarah partook in this weekly ritual not because she was devout, but rather to honor her parents who had long ago passed away. God, she felt, was subject to interpretation, Judaism no more or less correct than any other religion. But, as German-Jewish immigrants, her parents had experienced episodes of vicious antisemitism, and Sarah felt that if she abandoned her traditions entirely, their suffering would have been in vain. Besides, the history of her people served as a continual cautionary tale. As someone born a Jew, she could never become complacent. Although she had found a level of acceptance in Toledo, many in the city were vehemently antisemitic. As others had done in the past, they would seize any opportunity to blame the Jews for the ills of the world.

As head of the Women’s Probate Court and now probation officer of the Juvenile Court as well, Sarah had followed the lead of other Jews at the time, who, while discouraged from serving in medicine, law, and other professions, were welcomed and often rose to power in local government. For a woman of her background, she had accomplished a great deal, certainly much more than either of her siblings. Her older brother, Harry, was at one time department manager of Lamson Brothers, a retailer of dry goods, clothes, and millinery, but he lost his job several years ago due to illness. Her younger sister, Tillie, never held a job. Lacking Sarah’s ambition and burdened with a slight limp from a bout with polio, she was designated the family’s domestic, a role with which she was content.

The three appeared to live a rather odd life; none had married, and all were in their forties. But in the main, they functioned as normally as any other family, perhaps even more so because despite variances in personality and intelligence, they enjoyed each other’s company immensely. To be sure, they had their conflicts. Harry and Tillie demanded a great deal both financially and emotionally from their sister, and at times Sarah tired of the responsibility, at times she resented her siblings’ dependence on her. She always hoped, in fact, that she would one day have a different kind of life, one that would involve a husband and perhaps children of her own. But as the years passed, the suitors who were once plentiful became scarce. Many had been put off by her commitment to her work, especially when she told them that if she ever were to marry, she would want to keep her job. Others found her political activism—her support of suffrage, membership in the NAACP and the like—unfeminine, and still others, even those who considered themselves open-minded, saw her religion as a stumbling block to the development of a long-term relationship. Yet it really wouldn’t have mattered anyway, because none of her gentlemen callers had been what she sought either. To be more exact, none had quite matched the fantasy that she had secretly held since the time she had met O’Brien O’Donnell. And when word eventually got around that Miss Sarah Kaufman was too hard to please, they simply stopped trying.

Sarah pushed open the rusty, wrought iron gate. She was happy to be home. Any hope of sharing in domestic pleasures, however, was dashed soon after she entered her front door. For long before the food was served and the cards were dealt, even before the candles were lit, she learned that O’Brien had been admitted to the Toledo State Hospital. Her shorter and fuller-figured sister gave her the news as she was removing her coat and inhaling the rich aroma of stewed beef. Tillie had become a skilled cook since their mother died, and for this Sarah was grateful because she herself could do little more than boil water.

“Sarah, dear, I hate to break this to you before dinner, but the doctor sounded very concerned.”

“Doctor? What doctor?” Sarah asked, hanging her coat. It needed a good cleaning.

“The doctor from the hospital, dear . . . from the state hospital. Seems the judge has taken ill again, Sarah. It’s pretty bad this time; the doctor said he’s been asking for you.”

Sarah stopped in her tracks. Hunched over, with one shoe perilously perched on the end of her foot, she felt as if she’d been turned to stone.

“The judge? Obee, ill? What do you mean?” Tillie’s dark eyes were troubled. “I mean the doctor just called, Sarah. Obee’s very sick.”

“I don’t believe it,” Sarah said, just as gravity got the best of her shoe. “It can’t be true, Til. He’s been looking so much better lately; everything’s been going so well. Why, we just spoke this morning. He was absolutely fine. Tillie, are you sure? This isn’t some sort of joke, is it?”

“The doctor’s name is on the note pad by the telephone Sarah, along with the hospital phone number. Call him. Maybe it’s a mistake.” Tillie pursed her thin lips and turned away.

Sarah reached over and touched her sister’s arm affectionately. “Tillie, dear, I’m sorry if it sounded like I was accusing you. I know you wouldn’t make something like this up. I’m just shocked, that’s all. Did the doctor say anything else?”

“No, not really. I think he was hesitant to give me any more details.”

“Yes, yes, of course, he would be. I’d better call him immediately. You and Harry go ahead and eat. It sounds as if this may be a long night.”

“I knew I should’ve waited until after dinner to tell you,” Tillie said frowning. “If I say so myself, the stew is particularly good tonight.”

“Well, just make sure to save some for me then. Your meals are always just as good if not better the next day.”

Tillie offered an appreciative smile. “All right, I’ll set aside a platter for you. You just better hope Harry doesn’t get a hold of it before you return.”

Sarah responded with a knowing sigh, straightened her dress and headed toward the telephone.

“Unit two, Dr. Miller’s office.”

Sarah thought she recognized the voice on the other end of the line.

“Hello . . . Jan?”

“Yes?”

“Hi Jan. This is Sarah Kaufman. May I speak to Dr. Miller, please?”

“Yes, of course, Sarah. The doctor has been waiting for your call. I’ll put you right through.”

Thank God Dr. Miller was attending Obee. No matter what had happened, the doctor would keep it to himself and would admonish his staff to do the same. Miller was a compassionate man who impressed Sarah during the Lulu Carey case by admitting that he had overlooked crucial evidence. He was also a friend of Obee’s, and, fortunately, a Democrat.

“Ah, Miss Kaufman. Good of you to call back so quickly.” The doctor’s voice was calm but somber. Sarah took in a deep breath before responding. “What’s happened, Doctor? Why is the judge in the hospital?”

“Miss Kaufman . . . Sarah, may I call you Sarah?”

“Certainly.”

“Sarah, I don’t know quite how to tell you this, so I’ll just say it outright. Normally, I would only reveal such sensitive information to the immediate family, but knowing your closeness to O’Brien and seeing as though he seems so desperate to see you. Look, Sarah, here it is. The judge took an overdose of laudanum today. We don’t know yet if it was intentional or accidental. His wife found him unconscious on the floor of his library. She’d been calling him, and when he didn’t respond, she tried without success to open the door. It was locked and, believe it or not Sarah, she didn’t possess a key.”

Dr. Miller uttered this last statement with a note of incredulity. He hesitated for a moment. Was he looking for some reaction? When Sarah offered none, he continued. “Fortunately, however, Mrs. O’Donnell remembered that the carpenter who had done some of the work in the house still had a key to the room. She called him, and he immediately came over. It was lucky that he was home, Sarah. An hour longer and the judge would have been gone.”

Sarah stood pale and mute. How could this be? Her brain felt numb. In the past such news might have been less perplexing. There were times when she’d almost expected it. Last fall, for instance.

But now, at the height of O’Brien’s popularity, with the election in his pocket and Winifred and the baby finally home, it simply didn’t make any sense. That he had taken that despicable drug again after all these years was confounding enough. But the possibility that he had tried to take his own life was beyond belief. If true, there must be something wrong, something terribly wrong.

This last thought brought Sarah back to her senses enough to realize that Dr. Miller was speaking to her.

“Sarah, Sarah . . . hello, Sarah, are you all right?”

“No, Doctor. To tell you the truth, I’m not. How could I be?”

“Yes, I imagine this comes as quite a shock. I was stunned myself when the judge was admitted. But then, we must be grateful that he’s alive. And I will of course do anything I can to help him. Tell me though, Sarah, do you think you feel strong enough to come to the hospital? As I’ve said, O’Brien is quite determined to see you. And, Sarah, I would like a few minutes to speak with you privately as well.

Mrs. O’Donnell is quite out of her mind over this, and there are, well, some questions you might be able to answer better than she.”

Both comfort and alarm ricocheted through her. The doctor certainly made Sarah feel that Obee would pull through. But his desire to involve her in the matter was something else again. Of course, Miller was a psychiatrist; he would need as many personal details as possible to adequately perform his job. But, for her to be the one to provide them would be stepping into dangerous waters. She would divulge anything if it meant saving Obee’s life. But what about Winifred? After she recovered from the shock of it all, how would she feel if she learned that Sarah knew more, much more perhaps, about her husband than she did?

“If the judge wants me there, of course I’ll come,” Sarah replied.

“And I’ll be happy to be of any service to you, just so long as you don’t ask me to . . . to . . . well, to betray any unnecessary confidences.”

“I guarantee you that whatever I ask of you will only be in O’Brien’s best interest.” “I believe you, Doctor Miller.”

“Well, then, how long do you think it’ll take you to get here?” Sarah hesitated. Fewer streetcars went out that way this late in the evening.

“I guess about an hour. I live on the other end of town, and the line to the hospital is indirect. I’ll have to change cars. It could take a little longer than that, but at any rate I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Fine. I’ll be waiting for you. Oh, by the way,” Dr. Miller added,

“I should warn you. O’Brien has been extremely agitated. We’ve got him mildly sedated, but his anxiety level is so high that it is overriding the effect of the medication. I’m hoping you’ll be able to calm him down, but be prepared, Sarah. He’s quite a different man from the one you’re used to.”

You mean different from the one you’re used to, Sarah thought. Unfortunately, this is a man I no doubt will recognize all too well.

4

The Toledo State Hospital was located five miles from the business center of Toledo to the south. From a distance, the main two-story colonial brick building situated on five hundred and eighty-eight acres of agricultural land, appeared more like an elegant plantation mansion than an institution for the mentally ill. An additional four hundred and eighty-three surrounding acres of land, leased by the Welfare Department for crop cultivation, six small lakes, more than a thousand trees and shrubs, as well as the small patient cottages that peppered the landscape greatly contributed to that effect. But the pastoral image quickly evaporated as one approached the structure and saw the heavy steel bars fixed immovably over the windows. Especially at night. Then, the mind conjured something more akin to the slaves’ quarters that hovered on the margins of the plantation’s genteel facade.

Walking briskly across the hospital’s dewy, immaculately manicured lawn, breathing heavily as she approached the imposing, front locked doors, Sarah again noted with greater irony than usual the discrepancy between the benign appearance and what she knew to be the reality within. She had been here many times before, mostly to counsel women such as Lulu Carey, who had come through the courts and for one reason or another were sent here for treatment. Similar to the general probate court, the women’s division handled a range of cases, from the delegation of property to criminal charges of rape, white slavery, and even murder. Technically, Sarah’s job was to oversee officially the filings of all cases involving women, but she often served as confidant and friend.

Sarah knew the routine well. In order to gain entrance, she would have to ring the outside bell and wait for the attendant to escort her into the front office. Then she would sign her name on a guest sheet and specify the reason for her visit. Despite such familiarity, however, she hesitated. Even in the most official of circumstances, one had to prepare for the sights and sounds found behind those doors. But to know that this time it was O’Brien who awaited her there, required a bit more preparation than usual.

On paper, the Toledo State Hospital was a model facility. A pioneer in developing more humane treatment for the insane, it had, in the late 1800s, gained a worldwide reputation for its innovative practices and attempts to make, through the so-called “Cottage Plan,” a more habitable living environment for its patients. But, conditions had greatly deteriorated since that time. Though a pioneer in the last century, in this one the hospital was the last frontier of the reform movement. Inside those walls behavior was unpredictable and every human function and frailty brutally exposed. Indeed, the rules that governed the treatment of patients in other medical facilities seem to hold little sway here, allowing for neglect, psychological cruelty, and in some instances, physical abuse. There simply weren’t enough professionals like Dr. Miller, who cared deeply enough about the patient’s welfare. Every time Sarah was there she witnessed something that convinced her all the more of the urgent need for action, beginning with the building of a new psychiatric clinic.

Ironically, O’Brien himself proposed such a facility, although his reasoning for doing so was something Sarah had questioned. In a recent lecture to the Toledo Chamber of Commerce, O’Brien had argued for the need of “weeding out” humanity, so that the society might be bettered. “Hundreds of citizens,” he claimed, “are running at large not knowing that they themselves are mentally ill, a condition which certainly is not known to the average person.”

Obee’s heart was surely in the right place. He genuinely wanted to provide an environment where these patients would be treated decently and also where they would not pose a threat to others. But, as she told him after the lecture, “when people think of weeds, they think of something that requires permanent removal. Weeds overtake the healthy plants, and there’s nothing that can be done to rehabilitate them. Now, I know that’s not the kind of analogy you meant to draw, is it Judge?”

He didn’t answer her then, but Sarah believed he would eventually see her point, especially considering his own rather . . . how should she say it . . . uneven psychological history. And no doubt his current situation would convince him all the more. Yes, I’m sure he would agree with me now, Sarah thought as she rang the bell, now that he very well might be numbered among those who would have to be plucked from the garden.

Dr. Ethan Miller rather than the attendant greeted Sarah on the other side of the entrance. Heavy-bearded, pipe-smoking, and somewhat disheveled, the Freudian-trained Miller looked the part of one who spent his days delving into the hidden recesses of the unconscious. His thickly lensed wire-rimmed glasses completed the image, suggesting the physical consequences of dedicating oneself to such deep psychological labor.

“Hello, Sarah,” Dr. Miller said, warmly shaking her hand. “You made it here rather quickly and look none the worse for wear, I might add.”

“Thank you,” Sarah replied, tucking a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear. “Fortunately, all the connecting cars were on time. The speakeasies must have shut down early tonight!”

Dr. Miller smiled. A soothing smile, despite his crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. “Ha, that’s good,” he said. “You didn’t need that headache this evening.”

“No, indeed, perhaps the gods are with us after all.”

“I sincerely hope so, my dear. They are certainly needed here.” Dr. Miller smiled again, took Sarah’s arm, and swiftly escorted her down the hall, barely permitting her to glimpse the hollow looks and indecipherable gesticulations of those they passed along the way. Ordinarily, she would stop and offer a word of encouragement to as many of these patients as she could, even to those who didn’t seemed to desire it. But tonight she was glad not to have the opportunity, for she sensed O’Brien would require all the energy and compassion she had in reserve.

“Sarah, I’d like to take you directly to O’Brien’s room. He’s in the main building here. No need to sign in since I’m with you. I’ll let you speak with him privately first, and then we can talk, all right?”

“All right.” Sarah huffed, trying to keep step with Dr. Miller’s quick pace. “By the way, Doctor, does the judge have his own room? I mean, I do hope we can be alone.”

“Yes, of course. The ward is full, but, you know, we always keep a private space open for patients of O’Brien’s stature.”

“Good, that’s very good indeed.” For once Obee’s notoriety is a blessing.

“The privileges of class!” Sarah said mockingly, as she entered the room. “My, my, look at this place! The epitome of luxury!”

The small eight by ten room was in actuality cramped and dank. The tiny window on the south wall was locked and barred, offering little relief. Aside from the bed, there was no other furniture except a requisite table and lamp, the light from which cast a sickening glow over O’Brien, who responded instantly to the sound of Sarah’s voice. “Sarah, Sarah, oh Sarah, my dear.”

Sarah immediately abandoned her meager attempt to lighten his spirits. In truth, she had made those trifling remarks about the room as much to calm herself as to ease his suffering. When Dr. Miller had left her at the threshold of the door, she experienced a surge of anxiety so intense that she worried at her own ability to cope. She even briefly considered turning around to purchase some cigarettes, something she hadn’t done in several years. Finding humor in difficult times had helped her before, so why not try it? But she had clearly made a mistake: there was no way to view this as a joking matter.

That became even more evident as she approached the judge and witnessed the physical signs of his torment. The thin, white hair matted with perspiration, the drawn and pale face stained with tears, the usually soft grey-blue eyes dehumanized by frighteningly constricted pupils. Worst of all, although O’Brien was extremely restless, he couldn’t really move because his arms and legs were cinched tightly to the bed. My God, they have him in some kind of strait jacket. Miller said nothing about this.

“Sarah, Sarah.”

“Yes, Obee, it’s me.”

O’Brien gazed up at her. “Sarah, I’m so ashamed. So ashamed.” He began weeping.

“Ashamed? Ashamed of what, Obee? What’s happened? Try to calm yourself and tell me what exactly has happened.”

Without hesitation, Sarah untied O’Brien’s right hand and held it comfortingly in her own. Generous and strong, this was a hand that had reached out to those in need and commanded entire court rooms. Today it was clammy and weak, barely able to return her grasp. “Obee, now please, you wanted me here. Talk to me.” O’Brien moaned. “Yes, I did want you here. I wanted you here so badly, Sarah. I need your help. All is lost unless you can help me . . . you’re the only one who can help me!”

Sarah’s heart skipped, but she showed no sign of such a response when she answered. “You know I’ll do anything I can. But I first need to know what the problem is, Obee. And, I need to know now.”

O’Brien stopped crying, stared straight ahead, and in a hoarse, detached voice began.

“This afternoon, after I returned to my office from lunch, I noticed a letter under my door. There was no postmark, no return address, only my name on the envelope. I went to my desk, opened the letter, and in an instant witnessed my entire world coming to an end. The letter was a threat, Sarah, a threat of such magnitude that I thought I might do myself in right then and there.”

If Sarah had not witnessed Obee’s condition, she would wonder if he had not invented this story. The whole thing sounded like something out of a bad novel. But seeing him . . . she simply said,“go on.”

“The letter was typed on plain white paper. The words were few. It stated that if I did not withdraw from the coming election, that everything would be revealed. The person who wrote the letter knows all, Sarah. They know about Winifred, they know about the drugs, and they know about . . . about . . .” “About what, Obee?”

“My God, Sarah, they know about Westfall, about Frank Westfall!”

This last statement caused O’Brien to weep again, and move his head about so fitfully that Sarah thought he might never regain his composure. Nevertheless, she needed a few questions answered to ever make sense out of any of this.

“Obee, try to hold yourself together. Let’s take this slowly. Now first, what does this person claim to know about Winifred?”

“Oh, Sarah, please don’t judge me too harshly.”

“I won’t, you know I won’t. Now tell me, what is it?”

“Sarah, my friend, I should have told you long ago.” O’Brien’s expression became even more pained. His face contorted into deep rivulets. “No, no, I can’t!”

“Obee!”

“All right! Winifred was pregnant before we were married! Do you hear me?” he nearly screamed. “I got my wife pregnant before we said our vows, months before! And now someone, someone horribly evil is trying to use it against me!” He reluctantly glanced at Sarah.

Calmly, she nodded. When the idea had first occurred to her months ago, she dismissed it as utterly fanciful, first, because she had what she believed at the time to be convincing evidence to the contrary, and secondly, because she was so hurt by the possibility. Since then, however, circumstances, particularly the hastiness of the wedding and Winifred’s extended holiday, had forced her to suspect that Obee had indeed married the young woman out of necessity. But for someone else to actually have proof and use it so viciously was another matter entirely. That this blackmailer—for that was clearly what they were dealing with—also knew about and was willing to expose Obee’s drug problem was even more disturbing. As far as Sarah knew, she was the only one, outside of the doctors who attended him, who possessed that information.

There would be time enough to ponder the identity of this dangerous individual, however, let alone figure out what to do if she were to actually discover it. But the ominous reference to Frank Westfall took the air from her lungs. Because according to the extremity of Obee’s reaction when he mentioned the former county commissioner, the worst was yet to come.

“All right, Obee, I admit that this situation looks a bit hard. But, really, you must know that you haven’t actually done anything that wrong. You’ve done right by Winifred in marrying her, and people will understand about the drugs. It’s not as if you’re an addict, and no one can prove that your current lapse is anything more than overwork. I mean, that’s what it’s always been due to anyway, hasn’t it, Obee?”

“Yes, yes my dear. Of course.”

Sarah chose for the moment to ignore Obee’s unconvincing tone in responding to this question and proceeded on.

“Okay, then, all we need to really be concerned with is Frank Westfall. I hardly remember him, Obee. What could anyone possibly know about him that would be injurious to you?”

Obee looked away with such an odd, far off expression, that Sarah feared he might stop talking altogether. When he remained silent after she repeated the question, she tried a different tact.

“Obee, tell me more about the letter. Do you have it here?” O’Brien shook his head. “Where is it?”

O’Brien now did turn to her, but with deranged eyes. “I burned it. I tore the letter up and burned it! I couldn’t let anyone see it, Sarah. Not anyone, especially Winifred. She knows nothing of the drugs, nothing of Westfall, and if she thought the pregnancy might be exposed, why, why . . . it would be too horrible to imagine!”

Very foolish, Sarah thought. Very foolish. But of course he wasn’t aware of what he was doing.

“Obee, tell me about Frank Westfall. If I’m really the only person who can help you, then I must know what—”

“I can’t tell you, Sarah. No, I refuse to tell you that!” O’Brien started to weep again.

“Obee, Obee, you’re being irrational. How am I supposed to help you if I don’t have all the facts? You must tell me. Obee, do you hear me?”

Sarah took O’Brien’s face in her hand and tried to force him to look at her. But his eyes were closed now, and even when she shook him a little, he lay there listless and limp.

Frustrated, confused and exhausted, Sarah retied Obee’s arm. Perhaps it was just as well. What he had told her so far was disturbing enough. Better to digest these terrible facts first than become surfeited with any more. She stood up, walked toward the door, and turned off the light.

“Sleep well, my friend,” she whispered, and headed shakily toward Dr. Miller’s office.

5

Scribbling some notes to himself, Mitchell Dobrinski, a lone figure in The Blade’s still empty newsroom attempted to map out his coverage of the upcoming election. It was only 5 a.m., but as one of the paper’s most dedicated and insomnia-prone reporters, Mitchell was already considering what new angle he could use to breathe life into what was undoubtedly going to be a stale campaign. The fact that he was selected to exclusively cover O’Brien O’Donnell, the Democratic candidate for probate judge, made this task especially difficult. Not because O’Donnell wasn’t newsworthy or even interesting. The man was undeniably both. But his reelection was a foregone conclusion. After all, although he was a Democrat, O’Donnell managed in his previous five terms to attract voters from both parties, and there was no reason to believe he wouldn’t do the same thing again. He was still known for his unique ability to strike a compromise, still considered one of the most intelligent and eloquent men in Toledo, and he still worked tirelessly for social reform. And, especially important to the majority of Toledo’s citizens fed up with the city’s corruption, he was still thought to possess the highest moral standards of any public official. Naturally, he had his share of detractors. That movement several years ago by the Housewives League to remove him from office, for example. And John O’Dwyer’s failed but nevertheless persistent attempts to defame his character. But even those situations had changed in his favor, making O’Donnell currently one of the most popular and trusted men in the city.

Nevertheless, as a seasoned reporter, Mitchell knew that some careful investigating would bear fruit. Having worked for The Blade for over twelve years, the tough forty-five year old had enough experience to know that no one was beyond reproach. There was always a crack, something overlooked, forgotten, or simply not taken far enough. Not that he enjoyed digging up dirt for its own sake. On the contrary, he considered himself a man of journalistic integrity who believed in giving his readers as unbiased and serious an account as possible. This was why he worked for The Blade rather than The Bee, that noisy gossip rag that passed itself off as a newspaper. But a commitment to objective reporting also meant providing readers with as much information as possible, the good and the bad, and in this case, the possible flaws of a candidate even his own paper was supporting.

Lighting his fifth Lucky Strike of the morning, Mitchell leaned back on his well-worn swivel chair and tried to refocus, a strategy he often employed when faced with a topic that offered no clear point of entry. Once he had ruled out the most obvious approach, his brain seemed to require some brief diversion before a more subtle route would present itself. Drawing on his cigarette deeply, he glanced aimlessly around the room, registering with relative indifference all the objects that signified it as a place where events became news and the “scoop” was a hallowed word. Typewriters, telephones, paper, and pens, of course, but also prize-winning articles hanging on the walls which announced The Blade’s rich history and respected place among the country’s most notable newspapers. With only slightly more interest, Mitchell recalled how intimately tied to the development of Toledo the paper was, that it was established even before the city was incorporated in 1835. And he remembered too, how it had come to wield a great deal of political influence, as evidenced most strikingly by the fact that almost every candidate it supported not only had won, but done so handily.

But really, the employees made the whole engine work: news creation, execution, and even consumption. Remove them—the reporters, printers, and Newsies—and most of the things that happened in Toledo, not to mention the world at large, would go unnoticed . . . and unprofited by. Mitchell had often taken solace in this idea, especially when his boss was dissatisfied with something he had written or when rumors surfaced of a change in ownership. He and all those who would shortly take their seats at the line of desks next to his own were needed, and would continue to be so until people lost their insatiable appetite to make sense of the world and their place in it.

Adrenalin surging, he looked around again at his surroundings. Those telephones and typewriters were not just the machinery of the news, but the tangible objects that connected him to his fellow workers. Of course they assisted reporters technically in carrying out their tasks, but they also symbolically joined them in a common purpose.

Yet, even as he was reading a kind of brotherly union in the sameness of those objects, Mitchell also noticed just as many items that served to distinguish one employee from another. On each desk sat coffee cups and figurines, flowers, stuffed animals and other such trinkets whose designs reflected something of the distinct personality that occupied the space. What might his own unadorned, functional-looking collection say about him? Frugal, efficient, and undoubtedly a bachelor, for in all of that linearity and absence of color was no sign of the softening influence of a woman. Steady, quiet, and perhaps possessing difficulty with relationships, because unlike nearly everyone else’s, Mitchell’s desk lacked even a single photograph, an absence made even more striking because he considered himself a serious amateur photographer. One of the most common and yet distinguishing objects of all, with their frames of varying shapes, sizes and materials, the photographs were indeed the most visible marker of individuality. They were also, then, the greatest symbolic intrusion into the utopian work life he had been envisioning, because what they brought into that public setting were the cherished loved ones of private life.

“Private life . . . private life . . . private . . .,” Mitchell repeated excitedly, grateful to leave his vaguely disturbing, philosophical musings behind. Yes, of course. How obvious! The place to begin was not with O’Donnell’s all too consistent record of public service, but with the recent change in his private status—namely his marriage. Certainly marriage in and of itself was never a political liability, but certain details about this particular union were extremely unusual. First, it was surprising that O’Donnell had married at all, seeing that he was fifty-nine and a self-avowed bachelor. Moreover, his wife was thirty years his junior. Marrying someone so young was shocking to say the least, and certainly out of character. Second, the woman he married, Winifred Jackson, had been a clerk in the hotel in which he had lived for several years, not the sort of intellectual or social match one had imagined for such an esteemed individual. Third, O’Donnell invited only his closest friends to the ceremony and told no one else about the event until it was over, strange for a man who over the years had publicly revealed so much of himself. Finally, and perhaps most intriguing of all, was that although a good deal of private speculation occurred, no one had officially pursued the topic. An implicit agreement seemed to have existed that any real exploration was forbidden. Newspapers reported on the marriage, but, as Mitchell recalled, even The Bee treated the subject with kid gloves. Perhaps the time had come to take off those gloves. Yes, this might very well lead to something.

Halfway through another cigarette, he glanced up at one of the room’s three disproportionally large clocks. Soon his comrades would steal the silence against whose backdrop he had once again circuitously found the beginnings of a path. Before then, he at least wanted to get to the archives to pull his own paper’s articles on the judge’s marriage. They would lack any probing commentary, and if a clue existed, he would have to find it by quite literally reading between the lines. But he needed to start somewhere, and this seemed the most logical place. Besides, this sort of challenge revved his blood. It was for him what made life worth living. Adding one more butt onto the ashtray’s smoldering heap, he rose with his mind on fire, even though his lanky, unfit body had grown cramped and numb. With a fleeting pang of envy, he took one further quick look around the room and headed for the archives.

A half hour later, he was back at his desk with a thick stack of papers. The articles on O’Donnell’s marriage were his chief objective. However, he decided that it might be worthwhile to review the overall coverage of the judge for a few months preceding and following his betrothal. Refreshing his memory on other matters in O’Donnell’s life, however clear-cut they might appear, would allow him to see the event in a larger context and thus perhaps provide him with some bit of information he could bring to bear on the marriage, at least as it was represented in his paper. The possibility of turning discrete incidents into dramatic narrative stirred his journalistic juices. Something in him instinctively searched for the general in the particulars, and in the context of a developing story, even the most seemingly extraneous particular had the potential of becoming an important link in the general chain of events.

This kind of literary sensibility in fact prompted Mitchell to save his examination of the marriage articles for last, going so far as to initially read nothing beyond the headlines. This way he would enhance his anticipatory experience, much as an author who has ordered the pages of a book to achieve a maximum, emotional effect. Indeed, in the spirit of a novelist, he began to peruse these other pieces with the certain belief that some intriguing plot would emerge that would ultimately lead him to formulating an equally intriguing denouement.

Starting with January of 1923, six months prior to the marriage, he thus began the task of combing the papers for anything regarding Judge O’Brien O’Donnell. Articles on the judge would be easy to come by, as his activities had been recorded in the papers nearly every day for years. Much of the coverage naturally involved his court cases, but during this specific period, only a couple of these struck Mitchell as having any possible significance for the election. The first was the Ann Arbor Railroad case, which, though opening in February of 1923, only recently was decided in favor of the railroad:

Grade Crossing Case in Court: Ann Arbor Railway Sues City for Right to Lay Tracks. “The case of the Ann Arbor Railroad Company against the city of Toledo, seeking permission to lay a new track in the North End was opened in probate Judge O’Donnell’s court yesterday,”

Mitchell read.

After O’Donnell ruled against the railroad, the case had been relegated to the Court of Appeals where his decision was overturned. This came as a blow to O’Donnell and all those who believed the crossing would be a safety hazard. The potentially interesting aspect of this case, however, was that O’Donnell had remained vocal in his opposition to the railroad, and had received criticism from some members of the business community for being so. Whether those same individuals had forgiven him now that the crossing was a certainty remained to be seen. One thing was for sure, however, the attorney with whom O’Donnell had formed an alliance on this issue, his former law partner Charles Northrop, was seen as an enemy of business. A Progressive’s Progressive, Northrop’s litigative reform efforts had cost many companies a fortune. Though O’Donnell was also a reformer, he typically stated his cause, the railroad case notwithstanding, in such a way as not to alienate the business community. Mitchell opened a fresh pack of cigarettes. Political grudges could surely rear their ugly heads at any time, and especially during elections. Perhaps, he thought, turning his attention to another set of articles, I have been a bit hasty in my assessment of the judge’s base of support.

The articles on which Mitchell now focused, dated several months later, followed a case which came to be known as the “Love Cottage Cult,” so-called because it involved groups of young people who regularly rendezvoused in vacant cottages in the Harbor View area. Depending on to whom one listened, what took place there was anything from simple petting to out and out sexual orgies. O’Donnell, the presiding judge, strongly believed in the latter characterization, as the quotation from him that Mitchell now read indicated:

“I fear that before I complete my investigation the public will be shocked and ashamed by the facts and confessions I now possess . . .” “In many of the cottages there have been found shocking aftermath of all night parties. Cigarette stubs, whiskey bottles, tattered and torn clothing, face powder, underclothing and the like have been left by members of these parties.”

Everyone in Toledo was, of course, morally outraged over the discovery, but what caught Mitchell’s eye was that in making his final decision, O’Donnell set a new precedent by blaming and ultimately fining the parents of the youths involved. Justifying this move by invoking the law against contributing to the delinquency of minors, he later, in one of his many talks on the subject, boldly asked: “What right have parents to sleep when their children are out until two and three in the morning? It is the duty of the parents to watch over their children.”

Many in the city agreed with the judge. But most of the parents who were charged not surprisingly felt that he had overstepped his bounds, trying to dictate how they should raise their children. In fact, if Mitchell remembered correctly, some were so incensed that they briefly attempted to join forces with the Housewives League in their efforts to oust the judge from office. Asserting that in both cases O’Donnell was abusing his power, the two groups for a time made quite a noise, providing fodder as well for John O’Dwyer, who had been hell bent on bringing O’Donnell down.

Since then, O’Dwyer had inexplicably become one of O’Donnell’s most ardent supporters. And, the Housewives League had tempered their attacks, somewhat appeased by the judge’s inquiry into the allegations by that poor, young woman, Lulu Carey, that her husband had been physically abusing her. Although Mrs. Carey was ultimately committed to the psychiatric hospital, the allegations were proven to be true, and her husband was currently on trial, which the League viewed as a minor victory in their efforts to stiffen commitment criteria. Yet, it was nevertheless becoming clear that any of these individuals might still harbor resentment toward O’Donnell, that these were avenues to explore, and that others may exist about which Mitchell had simply forgotten.

As it turned out, details surfaced about the judge that the articles helped him to remember, but most of them only seemed to confirm O’Donnell’s high moral character and commitment to the Toledo citizenry. For instance, the judge’s abiding and endearing support for the Toledo Mud Hens. Every year the papers chronicled his trip to spring training, where, sporting a team uniform, he would assess their chances and sometimes even serve as umpire. As a former minor leaguer himself and a close friend of Roger Bresnahan and Casey Stengel, his opinions on this matter were completely trusted. If he said, as he did in the article Mitchell had before him, that the team looked good, then by God the people of Toledo expected a good season. Then there were O’Donnell’s continuous contributions to underprivileged groups such as the Newsies. The judge gave an endless amount of time and energy to these young boys, organizing and overseeing the annual picnics among other things.

As Mitchell continued to thumb through the newspapers, he was, in fact, above all else reminded of the outstanding accomplishments of this singular individual. On one page was a description of O’Donnell’s efforts to form an intrawall correspondence course at the Ohio State Penitentiary; on another his proposal for an opportunity farm, a place where homeless boys and girls would learn skills to enable them to enter the workforce. If a social cause that would benefit the city existed, rest assured O’Donnell would be a central figure in the promotion of it. And whether the venue was the Rotary Club, the site of a newly erected building, a lake, ballfield or church, the press would be there to record his every word.

The next paper contained one such example that though high-lighting the judge’s dedication to social justice, suggested another group perhaps not so eager to reelect him.

Holier Than Thou Reformers Rapped by Probate Judge. “Women of the holier than thou type of reformer are a menace to Toledo, Probate Judge O’Brien O’Donnell told members of the Civics and Philanthropy Department of the Women’s Educational Club at a luncheon in the women’s building on Thursday noon: ‘If you go in for social work in needy homes, as a lot of Toledo women do, treat the people as your equal, or for God’s sake stay out of their homes,’ he said. ‘There is no place in social work for the self-satisfied woman who says to some overworked mother: Your floors must be scrubbed. Why don’t you wash your windows?, the minute she enters that house.’”

Mitchell smirked. He knew exactly the kind of self-righteous individuals to whom O’Donnell was referring, and he admired the judge for taking them to task, especially because many of them came from his own social circle. But surely, some of these women would be indignant over the judge’s reprimand, so much so that they might very well seek revenge in the ballot box. So too, no doubt, would some members of the community do the same in response to other strong stands O’Brien had taken, such as his support, reported on the following page, of a ban on the showing of a bigoted film entitled Nigger. That, as Mitchell himself wrote in a piece last week, would at least cost him the vote of the Ku Klux Klan, which was ominously gaining power in Ohio as well as in other states around the nation.

The slant of light streaming in the office windows, in addition to Mitchell’s audible hunger pains, signaled the noon hour. As was his custom, he reached in his desk drawer and retrieved the boxed meal he had packed for himself. Unlike most of the employees at The Blade who went out for lunch, Mitchell usually ate quietly at his desk. Although he appreciated a good restaurant as much as anyone else, he long ago realized that he was especially susceptible to the lure of alcohol at that time of day. And Volstead offered little comfort. He had overcome much greater obstacles than a silly law when he really wanted a drink. On more than one occasion early in his career, his propensity for noontime drinking had resulted in his failure to return to work. Years had passed since any of these incidents had occurred, but still he didn’t quite trust himself in the congenial atmosphere of Toledo’s lunch rooms. So as others made their way to Jake’s or Betty’s or Reed’s Chop House, a particular favorite of the press, Mitchell munched on his ham sandwich, apple, and cookie and continued to read.

When only crumbs remained, he wiped his mouth, tossed the garbage into an already overfull container, and took note of one further point before turning to the articles on the marriage. With few exceptions, O’Donnell’s leisure activities were scrupulously, if not obsessively, recorded by the press. Mitchell couldn’t recall any other official, or for that matter, any person at all, who received such attention. Fishing trips, hotel stays, even a simple night on the town instantly became public property. Such as the night of November 23rd, when the telepathist, Eugene de Rubini, came to Toledo. Although the pieces on this subject indicated that many of Toledo’s elite were in attendance, O’Donnell’s participation in the event received top billing. Quoted as saying that he had a “keen interest in the program,” it was the judge who was pictured with Rubini, and he whom reporters sycophantically followed both entering and exiting the theater. The only reference to other notables in the crowd that night indirectly related to O’Donnell as well. Charles Northrop, was mentioned, for example, but only with respect to his participation in an act O’Donnell had suggested, asking Rubini to find a hidden coin that ultimately wound up in Mr. Northrop’s coat pocket. Sarah Kaufman, the head of the Women’s Probate Court and frequently in O’Donnell’s company, was likewise mentioned in relationship to a telepathic episode the judge had proposed. O’Donnell asked Rubini to guess what was on Miss Kaufman’s mind. When he responded that it was the judge himself who occupied her thoughts, everyone applauded when, as the article reported, “Miss Kaufman somewhat reluctantly confirmed that this was indeed true.”

Exactly why everyone was so interested in these activities and why O’Donnell so willingly divulged such information had always been a mystery to Mitchell. But what this long-standing tradition did underscore was the curiousness of the rare instances when the judge resolutely denied the press such access. According to the date of this specific paper, Mitchell determined that one of these times oddly enough occurred on the same day as Rubini’s performance.

“After responding to a number of questions about his ruling a few hours earlier on the Emanuel Cavender case, Judge O’Donnell refused for the second time that day to reveal the location of his Christmas holiday.”

Stating that the judge was “Sphinx-like” when asked about his plans, the reporter furthermore suggested a willful inscrutability on O’Donnell’s part, an attitude so uncharacteristic, that it should have aroused suspicion in any Toledoan who was even remotely familiar with the man.