by Wick Downing
“Goodbye, children!” Miss Willow called out.
Mike caught up to me. “What case?” he asked.
I grabbed his hand and dragged him along so he’d keep up. “I just want to make it easy for that old man to come over and sit with her and I just hope he isn’t as thickheaded as you are.”
Six or seven people wandered across the grass in front of us, blocking our view of Miss Willow and hers of us. “Over there,” I said, ducking behind them and running over to a hawthorn bush where we could hide and spy. “Take a nap if you want,” I told him. “I want to see if Spence shows up and whether she’ll let him kiss her without taking a shower.”
“I’ll go get some popcorn. Want some?”
“You’re such a romantic. Sure.”
I lay on my stomach on the grass with my chin on my fists and watched with droopy eyes because I hadn’t caught up on my sleep . . . when my eyes closed all the way. I was no longer watching Miss Willow at City Park; I was at the office, watching Grampa teeter in a chair with his feet on his desk. He glared at me in my miniskirt. “Kate darlin’, you’d better change into something a wee bit more appropriate before the dinner. You know how the judge is.”
“I can’t do that,” I said angrily. “Two of the jurors are in miniskirts and they’ll be there too.”
“But they aren’t getting the Outstanding Trial Lawyer of the Year Award.”
“This is my lucky outfit and I’m going to wear it always, this year and into the next century, no matter how long it takes.”
“You don’t need to wait that long, you know,” the old man said. “He’s there for you now.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked him, trembling. “Who is there for me now? I don’t believe you.”
“Zozo will introduce you. He’s the master of ceremonies.”
“But he’s dead!” I started to cry. “He ran off and died!”
Grampa sat up to see me better, and watched through eyes that worked. “I’m proud of you, young woman,” he said, but he looked angry. What had I done wrong? “You’ve forgiven him.”
The scene morphed into the kitchen. Mom’s arms wrapped me in a warm blanket, and she smiled her beautiful smile at me. “They’re back.”
The door from the garage opened, and Law and my dad came in. “Hi, Pumpkin,” Zozo said to me. “How’s my favorite daughter?”
I felt so wonderfully safe, with her hugging me and Daddy in my heart, and then someone grabbed my shoulder and shook it. “Kate? Want some popcorn?”
“Mike!” I woke up and tried to get my bearings with my nose in the grass. “You’re back,” I said. “What took you so long?”
He had that lopsided grin on his face, where most of his mouth was under his black eye. “Look,” he said.
I raised my head high enough to see Miss Willow and Spence in the distance, sitting on the blanket with their shoulders touching, holding hands. Herman was stretched out on the grass, looking comfortably bored but still included in the family circle.
“Ready, Grampa?” I asked the old man, gripping his elbow.
We were leaving his room at the hotel, and Mom was waiting in the car. “Let go of my arm!” he demanded. “I ain’t a cripple. And don’t call me that. We’re partners.”
“Can’t I call you Grampa when you come to dinner?” I asked. “I want you to be my grandfather on Sundays. Not my partner.”
“So that’s what you want, is it?” He put his hand on my shoulder when we started down the steps. “I’ll allow it. I expect you’re pretty full of yourself after your big win.” He even leaned on me for support. “But don’t get too puffed up, young woman. The truth is, you didn’t win at all.”
“I didn’t?” I asked, surprised. “Mr. Thomas thought so. So did the judge.”
“Well, they’re wrong, which perhaps you’ll learn with experience, though I doubt it.” We stopped so he could get his breath. “When I beat the socks off that stallion from the DA’s office, I didn’t win either. The system won.” We started moving again. “No one believes in the system now, with all the people who want to get rid of it or trade it in for something else. But there ain’t no better system in the world than what we have right here in this country. Do you see that, Kate?”
I didn’t want to get in a big argument, but the way it seemed to me, “justice” was a crapshoot.
“You don’t see it, do you?” he asked, sadly. “Well, it’s clear to me and maybe one day it will be to you, too. The firm of Hope and Hope had two trials last week, and both times, justice got done. I don’t know why, but it happens that way. Not all the time, but more often than it don’t.”
I wanted to believe him. Daddy had. “Maybe all I need is more experience,” I said.
When we got to the street, it was three o’clock, and hot. Mom had all the windows open in the car because Grampa wouldn’t use an air conditioner. I helped him into the front seat. “How are you, Annie?” he asked when he was comfortable.
Mom’s eyes were wet, but that was all right because Grampa couldn’t see that she’d been weepy. She’d gotten emotional because he was on his feet and walking. “I’m fine, Dad. You’re looking well.”
“At my age, it don’t matter how I look, but I feel good.”
I jumped in back, and Mom pulled away from the curb. “Have you read the stories about Kate?” she asked him.
Even from the back seat I could see his smile. “She’ll need some new hats, I expect. Tell me, young lady. Does your head fit in the car, or do you have to hang it out the window, where there’s enough room for it?”
“It’s right here,” I said, grabbing it with both hands. “But you’re the one who should have the big head, Grampa. It was you who really tried the case.”
“I tried it! How could that be? I was in the hospital!”
“That may be,” I said, “but you were in my head too. The whole time, giving me advice.” That wasn’t all he’d given me, but I didn’t go into the rest.
He turned around and tried to find me, looking strange. “That’s a peculiar thing for you to say,” he said. “I had the dangdest dreams Thursday and Friday.
“I’d a sworn I was there, too.”
Author’s Note
THIS BOOK ASKS THE READER to believe that, in 1973, fourteen-year-old Kate Hope practiced law in Colorado. Would that have been possible? Or does that stretch credulity to the breaking point?
The author of this book is a lawyer as well as a writer, and so of course he has an opinion on the subject. But first, let him find his lawyer’s hat: a dress fedora, with a feather in the brim . . .
There. He put it on, and adjusted it so it sits at a suitable angle over his right eye, out of which he is squinting.
In his opinion, though there’d have been hurdles to clear, it would have been possible for a fourteen-year-old girl to practice law in Colorado in 1973. He briefed the question, and what follows is his memorandum on the law.
Points and Authorities
Colorado was a United States territory before it became a state. It was organized as a territory on February 28, 1861, and was admitted into the Union as a state on August 1, 1876.
Even as a territory it had laws, courts, lawyers, and politicians. Those laws were updated annually by a legislative assembly, and were first published in 1868. That onevolume work was—and still is—called the Revised Statutes of Colorado, 1867.
Chapter VII of that work is on “Attorneys at Law.” Though it has more than twenty sections, the first three are the only ones that matter as far as this opinion is concerned, because they regulated the “rules of admission to the bar.” In other words, they spelled out the conditions that had to be met by those in the territory who wanted to be lawyers.
The first section provided generally that anyone who wanted to practice law in Colorado had to get a license from the Supreme Court. The second and third sections were on what applicants had to show the Supreme Court before it would give them the license. Applicants had to sh
ow, first, that they were “of good moral character”; second, that they’d been “engaged in the study of law for two successive years”; and third, that they had passed an examination on the law, given to them under the direction of the Supreme Court.
That’s all it took to be a lawyer in those good old days when Colorado was still a territory. Age was not a factor then. Many individuals who practiced law in those days had not reached the age of “majority,” usually defined as twenty-one years. It isn’t likely that there was anyone as young as Kate Hope, but there could have been.
When Colorado became a state in 1876, the chapter on “Attorneys at Law” was adopted in its entirety by the First Session of the General Assembly. The language is the same, word for word, as it was in the Revised Statutes of Colorado, 1867, except that wherever the word “territory” appeared, it was replaced by “state.”
The constitution of the state of Colorado was also adopted in 1876. It included a “Schedule” that provided, in part, the following:
That no inconvenience may arise by reason of the change in the form of government, it is hereby ordained and declared:. . .That all laws in force at the adoption of this constitution shall, so far as not inconsistent therewith, remain of the same force as if this constitution had not been adopted, until they expire by their own limitation or are altered or repealed by the general assembly . . .
That brings us to the main point. Because the territorial laws regulating the rules of admission to the bar had not been repealed, then even if other laws were passed on the subject, the territorial laws would still be in effect. In other words, there would have been another way to get a license to practice law.
It would have required some serious lawyering skills to persuade the Supreme Court of Colorado, in 1973, that the original laws had not been repealed by later enactments of laws on the same subject. But in the opinion of the author, Judge Hope had those skills. The old lawyer would have argued that the original laws had never been specifically repealed; therefore, they were still on the books. He’d also have argued that the old laws were in substantial agreement with the new ones anyway. Both provide that only persons of good moral character who have studied law for a defined period of time can take the bar examination, and both require that, before getting the license, the person must pass the examination.
Getting a license to practice law would not have been the end of Kate’s problem. There would still have been hurdles she’d need to clear before she could actually represent a client. She’d have to disclose her age, and the client would have to sign a waiver. Judges would also need to be satisfied that there had been full disclosure of her age, and that the client was represented by the lawyer of his or her choice.
You may wonder why those legal maneuvers weren’t included in the book. Here’s the reason. When the author took off his lawyer’s hat and put on his comfortable Colorado Rockies baseball cap, his writer’s hat, he knew that if those boring details were included, they’d become so tedious that many readers would go to sleep. He didn’t want that, so he used a device writers are allowed to use when they tell stories: poetic license. In other words, he ignored those boring details because they would have slowed down the story.
It may not be as accurate that way. But it reads better.
Acknowledgments
This book was a long time in the making. Without the help and encouragement of a whole host of angels, it would have wandered around forever in “book hell,” that awful pit in a corner of the underworld where unpublished manuscripts are consigned.
At Houghton Mifflin, my thanks go to Amy Flynn and Kate O’Sullivan, for keeping the project alive. And I am in awe of Erica Zappy, my talented editor, for her in-depth critique. Thanks also to Katya Rice, a copyeditor who is without peer.
Prototypes, character wrinkles, and legal twists were provided by a lot of lawyers: my older brother, Richard, younger brother, “Chuck,” my sister’s husband, Dick Schmidt, and my father and grandfather.
For insights as to how a judge might treat a fourteen-year-old lawyer in court, thanks go to Judge John D. McMullen of the Denver District Court.
Herrick Roth, a legendary educator in Denver, introduced me to some of the teachers who taught at Hill Junior High School in 1973: Dave and Meredith Jones, Mary Ann Ross, and Ruth Huebner. Thanks to them all for their time as well as critiques. Other sources regarding the period and the place were Patrick Thornham, Jeffrey Downing, and Betsy McIlhenney.
Many readers were equally generous with their time and helped with their honest critiques: The Wild Ones, a writer’s group I belong to composed mainly of talented and outrageous women (and you know who you are), Linda and Larry Drake, Katherine Pearson, and Nancy Hawkins.
I’d like also to acknowledge two old and dear friends: William B. R. Reiss, my first agent, then with the Paul Reynolds Agency, and Jane Chelius, then the senior editor at Pocket Books and now a literary agent. Without their guidance and help, I’d never have been a writer.
About the Author
WICK DOWNING has been in the business of writing for a long time. His early works were mysteries for adults, which brought him a lot of recognition—fame and fortune certainly weren’t far off! But that didn’t happen. Fortunately, he had another occupation to fall back on: law. But after a stint as a district attorney in rural Colorado, Wick returned to his favorite pastime and wrote courtroom dramas for adults. He also then published two novels for young readers: Kid Curry’s Last Ride and Leonardo’s Hand. He now lives in Denver, where he continues to pursue the craft of writing fiction.
