O'Brien's Desk. Ona Russell
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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