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
