Justice Griffen looked like a golf pro in tan slacks, a navy-blue Izod shirt and loafers. His long brown hair fell casually across his forehead. When she opened the rear door and tossed her attach case in the back seat, he smiled. Abbie saw the sparkle in his clear blue eyes and almost forgot why she had walked out on him.
"How'd the argument go?" Griffen asked.
"What are you doing in my car?" Abbie answered sharply as she slid behind the wheel. His smile wavered.
"I missed you. I thought we could talk."
"You thought wrong, Robert. Maybe one of the women you were fucking behind my back has time for a chat." Griffen flinched. "Can't you spare a minute?"
"I have a meeting in Portland and I don't want to be late," Abbie said as she turned on the engine. "Besides, Robert, I know what you want and the bank is closed. I suggest you either find a rich mistress or change your lifestyle."
"You don't know what you're saying. I was never interested in your money, and those other women ... God, I don't know what got into me.
But that's all behind me. I swear. It's you I love, Abbie."
"Was reversing the Deems case the way you show your love?"
Griffen paled. "What are you talking about?"
"You reversed Deems to embarrass me."
"That's nonsense. I decided that case on the law. So did the justices who joined the majority. Even Arnold Pope voted with me, for Christ's sake."
"I'm not stupid, Robert. You adopted a rule that only three other states follow to reverse the conviction of a dangerous psychopath."
"The rule made sense. We felt . . ." Griffen paused. "This is ridiculous. I'm not going to sit here and justify my decision in Deems."
"That's right, Robert. You're not going to sit here. You're going to get out of my car."
"Abbie . . ."
Abigail Griffen turned in her seat and stared directly at her estranged husband. "If you're not out of my car in ten seconds, I'm going to call the police."
Griffen flushed with anger. He started to say something, then he just shook his head, opened the door and got out.
"I should have known I couldn't reason with you."
"Please shut the door."
Griffen slammed the car door and Abbie peeled out of the parking space.
When Griffen walked back toward the court he was so angry that he did not notice Matthew Reynolds watching from the doorway of the Justice building.
In 1845, two Yankee settlers staked a claim to a spot on the Willamette River in the Oregon Territory and flipped a coin to decide if their proposed town would be called Portland or Boston.
Portland was established in the most idyllic setting imaginable.
Forest stood all around, backing up onto two high hills on the west side of the river. From the west bank you could look across the Willamette past the faraway foothills of the Cascade mountain range and see snow-covered Mount Hood, Mount Adams and Mount St. Helens pointing toward heaven.
The town had started on the water's edge at Front Street and slowly moved away from the river as it became a city. Old buildings were torn down and replaced by steel and glass. But just below Washington Park, on the outskirts of downtown Portland, there were still beautiful Victorian mansions that now served as office space for architects, doctors and attorneys.
At 10 P. M. on the day he argued before the Oregon Supreme Court, the lights were off in the law offices and library on the first two floors of Matthew Reynolds's spacious Victorian home, but they still shone in the living quarters on the third floor. The argument had been hard on Reynolds. So much time had passed since the shooting that Reynolds's experts were no longer sure of the value of examining the Franklin home.
No matter what the Supreme Court decided, Abigail Griffen's legal ploy might have cost his client the evidence that could win his case.
But that was not the only thing disturbing Reynolds. He was still shaken by his meeting with Abbie Griffen. Reynolds was captivated by Griffen's intellect. He considered her to be one of the few people who were his equal in the courtroom. But more than that, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Though he had spoken to her before in court as an adversary, it had taken all his nerve to approach Abbie in the Supreme Court chambers to thank her for standing up to Justice Pope, but her defense of his honor thrilled him and had given him the courage to speak.
Reynolds was dressed for bed, but he was not tired. On his dresser were two photographs of his father and a framed newspaper article that showed his father outside a county courthouse in South Carolina. The article was old and the paper was starting to yellow. Matthew looked at the article briefly, then stared lovingly at the photographs.
Over the dresser was a mirror. Reynolds stared at himself.
There was no way of getting around the way he looked. Time had been charitable when the magazine described him as homely. As a boy, he had been the object of a million taunts. How many times had he returned home from school in tears? How many times had he hidden in his room because of the cruelty of the children in his neighborhood?
Matthew wondered what Abigail Griffen saw when she looked at him. Could she see past his looks? Did she have any idea how often he thought of her? Did she ever think of him? He shook his head at the temerity of this last idea. A man who looked like he did in the thoughts of someone like Abigail Griffen? The notion was ridiculous.
Matthew left his bedroom and walked down the hall. The law offices and his quarters were decorated with antiques. The rolltop desk in Matthew's study once belonged to a railroad lawyer who passed on in 1897. A nineteenth-century judge famous for handing down death sentences used to sit on Matthew's slat-back wooden chair. Reynolds took a perverse pleasure in crafting his arguments against death while ensconced in it.
Next to the rolltop was a chess table composed of green and white marble squares supported by a white marble base. Reynolds had no social life.
Chess had been a refuge for Reynolds as a child and he continued to play it as an adult. He was involved in ten correspondence games with opponents in the United States and overseas. The pieces on the chessboard represented the position in his game with a Norwegian professor he had met when he spoke at an international symposium on the death penalty. The position was complicated and it was the only one of his games in which Reynolds did not have a superior position.
Reynolds bent over the board. His move could be crucial, but he was too on edge to concentrate. After a few minutes he turned off the ceiling light and seated himself at the rolltop desk. The only light in the study now came from a Tiffany lamp perched on a corner of the rolltop.
Reynolds opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a large manila envelope. Not another soul knew it existed. Inside the envelope were several newspaper articles and many photographs. He took the articles and photographs out of the envelope and laid them on the desk.
The first article was a profile of Abigail Griffen that was featured in The Oregonian after her victory in State v. Deems. Reynolds had read the article so often, he knew it word for word. A black-and-white picture of Abbie took up a third of the first page of the profile. On the inside page, there was a picture of Abbie and Justice Griffen. The judge had his arm around her shoulder.
Abbie, her silken hair held back by a headband, snuggled against her husband as if she did not have a care in the world.
The other articles were about other cases Abbie had won.
They all contained pictures of the deputy district attorney. Reynolds pushed the articles aside and spread the photographs before him. He studied them. Then he reached forward and picked up one of his favorites, a black-and-white shot of Abbie in the park across from the courthouse, resting on a bench, her head back, face to the sun.
Chapter FOUR
When Alice Sherzer graduated from law school in 1958, she was one of three women in her class. Her job search in Portland consisted of interviews with one befuddled male after another, none of whom knew what to make of this lea
n, rawboned woman who insisted she wanted to be a trial lawyer. When one large firm offered her a position in its probate department, she politely declined. It was the courtroom or nothing. The partners explained that their clients would never accept a woman trial lawyer, not to mention the reactions they anticipated from judges and jurors.
Alice Sherzer would not bend. She wanted to try cases. If that meant going into practice for herself, so be it. Alice hung out her shingle.
Four years later, a Greyhound bus totaled a decrepit Chevy driven by one of Alice's clients, a father of three who had lost his job in a sawmill.
Now he was a quadriplegic. Alice sued Greyhound, which happened to be represented by the law firm that had offered her the position in probate.
Greyhound's lawyers would probably have advised the company to make a reasonable settlement offer if Alice's client was not represented by a woman, but the boys at the firm figured being represented by Alice was like not being represented at all.
In court they ignored her, and when they spoke among themselves they made fun of her. The case was one big lark until the jury awarded four million dollars to the plaintiff, an award which stood up in the Supreme Court because the trial judge had ruled for his male buddies whenever he had the chance, leaving them nothing to appeal.
Money talks and four million dollars was a great deal of money in 1962.
Alice was no longer a cute curiosity. Several firms, including the firm she had vanquished, made her offers.
No, thank you, Alice answered politely. With her fee, which was a percentage of the verdict, and the new clients the verdict attracted, she did not need an associate's salary. She needed associates.
By 1975, Sherzer, Randolph and Picard was one of the top law firms in the state, Alice was married and the mother of two, and a seat opened on the Oregon Court of Appeals. In a private meeting, Alice told the governor that no woman had ever been appointed to an Oregon appellate court. When the governor explained the political problems inherent in making such an appointment, Alice reminded him of the large campaign contributions he had been willing to accept from a woman and the larger sums she had at her disposal for the campaign she would definitely run against any male he appointed. Seven years after her appointment to the Court of Appeals, Alice Sherzer became Oregon's first woman Supreme Court justice. She was now sixty-five.
Every year brought new rumors of her retirement, but Alice Sherzer's mind was still in overdrive and she never gave a thought to leaving the bench.
Justice Sherzer had a corner office with a view of the Capitol and the red-brick buildings and rolling lawns of Willamette University. When Tracy knocked on her doorjamb on the day after Matthew Reynolds's argument at the court, the judge was sitting at a large desk that once belonged to Charles L. McNary, one of the first justices to sit in the Supreme Court building and the running mate of Wendell Willkie in the Republican's unsuccessful 1940 bid to unseat Franklin Delano Roosevelt.
The antique desk contrasted sharply with the abstract sculpture and paintings Justice Sherzer used to decorate her chambers.
"Your clerkship is almost over, isn't it?" the judge asked when Tracy was seated in a chair across the desk from her. "Yes."
"Do you have a job lined up?"
"I have several offers, but I'm not certain which one I'm taking."
"Justice Forbes asked me to find out if you're interested in something that's opened up."
"What is it?"
"Matthew Reynolds is looking for an associate."
"You're kidding!"
"One of his associates just went to the Parish firm and he needs someone right away."
"I don't believe this. Working with Matthew Reynolds is my dream job."
"It won't be easy, Tracy. Reynolds works his associates like dogs."
"You know I don't mind hard work."
"That's true, but with Reynolds we're talking slave labor. Most of his associates quit in less than two years."
"Thanks for the warning, but nothing can stop me from giving it a try, if Reynolds takes me on."
"I just want you to know what you're getting into. Reynolds lives at his law office. All he does is try cases and prepare for trial.
He works fourteen-hour days, seven days a week. I know that sounds improbable, but I'm not exaggerating. Reynolds has no social life. He doesn't even understand the concept. He'll expect you to be at his beck and call and that can be at any hour of the night and weekends. I've been told Matt can exist on four hours' sleep and they say you can cruise by his office at almost any hour and see a light burning."
"I'm still interested."
"There's another thing. He's never had a woman associate.
Quite frankly," the judge said with a bemused grin, "I'm not certain he knows what a woman is."
"Pardon?"
"I don't know why, but he seems to shun women as if they were carrying the plague."
"If he's never had a woman associate, why is he interested in me?"
The judge laughed. "He's not. Reynolds has hired several clerks from our court because he went to school with Justice Forbes and trusts his recommendations. Reynolds called Stuart in a dither when he heard we wanted to send him a woman, but Stuart assured him you wouldn't bite. So he's willing to talk to you. This is his office number. His secretary will set up the interview."
Tracy took the slip of paper. "This is fantastic. I don't know how to thank you."
"If it works out you can thank me by doing such a good job that Reynolds will hire another woman."
The library occupied most of the second floor of the Supreme Court building. The entrance was across from the marble staircase. A small glassed-in area with the checkout desk and an office for the librarians was directly in front of the doors. There were carrels on either side of the office. Behind the carrels, the stacks holding the law books stood two deep. A balcony overhung the stacks, casting shadows over the rows of bound volumes.
Laura Rizzatti was seated at a carrel surrounded by law books and writing feverishly on a yellow pad. When Tracy touched her on the shoulder, Laura jumped.
"You up for a coffee break?" Tracy asked. "I've got something fantastic to tell you."
"I can't now," Laura said, quickly turning over the pad so Tracy could not see what she was writing.
"Come on. A fifteen-minute break won't kill you."
"I really can't. The judge needs this right away."
"What are you working on?"
"Nothing exciting," Laura answered, trying to appear casual, but sounding ill at ease. "What did you want to tell me?"
"I've got an interview with Matthew Reynolds. He needs an associate and Justice Forbes recommended me."
"That's great," Laura said, but the enthusiasm seemed forced.
"I'd give my right arm to work with Reynolds. I just hope I make a good impression. Justice Sherzer says he's never had a woman associate and it sounds like he doesn't have much use for females."
"He hasn't met you yet." Laura smiled. "I'm sure you'll knock him dead."
"I hope so. If you change your mind about coffee, I'm going in about twenty minutes. I'll even buy."
"I really can't. And congratulations."
Tracy walked across the library and located the volume of the New York University Law Review she needed. She took it to her carrel and started making notes. Half an hour later, she walked over to Laura's carrel to try to convince her to go for coffee. She was really excited about the job interview and wanted to talk about it.
Laura wasn't at her desk. Tracy noticed the yellow pad on which Laura had been writing. There was a list of three criminal cases on it. Tracy studied the list, but could see nothing unusual about the cases. She wondered why Laura had turned over the pad to hide the list, then shrugged and went to look for her friend.
Tracy searched the long rows of books until she came to the section that held the Oregon Court of Appeals reporters. Laura was at the far end of the stacks near the wall and Tracy was surprised to s
ee that she was talking with Justice Pope. She and Laura had discussed Pope on several occasions and Tracy knew that Laura despised him. Tracy's initial impulse was to walk up to her friend and the judge, but there was something about the attitude of their bodies that stopped her.
The space between the stacks was narrow and Laura and Pope were almost chest to chest. Laura looked upset. She moved her hands in an agitated manner when she spoke. Pope flushed and said something. Tracy could not hear what he said, because they were whispering, but the angry tone carried. Tracy saw Laura move away from the stocky judge until her back was against a bookshelf. Pope said something else. Laura shook her head. Then Pope reached up and touched Laura's shoulder. She tried to push his hand away, but the judge held her firmly. Tracy stepped into the aisle so Pope could see her. "Ready for coffee?" Tracy asked loudly.
Pope looked startled and dropped his hand from Laura's shoulder.
"Laura and I have to discuss a case. I hope you don't mind, Judge,"
Tracy said, in a tone that let Pope know she had seen everything. Pope flushed. His eyes darted to Laura, then back to Tracy.
"That's the," he said, stepping around Tracy.
"Are you okay?" Tracy asked, as soon as Pope was out of sight.
"What did you hear.>" Laura asked anxiously.
"I didn't hear anything," Tracy answered, confused by the question. "It looked like Pope was coming on to you. Is he giving you a hard time?"
"No," Laura said nervously. "He was just trying to find out how Bob . .
. Justice Griffen was going to vote on a case."
"Are you being straight with me.> Because you look pretty upset."
"I'm okay, Tracy, really. Let's drop it."
"Come on, Laura. I can help you, if you'll tell me what's bothering you."
"How could you possibly help me.>" Laura exploded. "You have no idea what I'm going through."
"Laura, I . . ."
"Please, I'm sorry, but you'd never understand," Laura said.
Then she edged away from Tracy and bolted out of the stacks.
Tracy watched Laura go, stunned by her friend's reaction.
"Laura wants to see you, Judge," Justice Griffen's secretary announced over the intercom. "Send her in."
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