Chapter 2
Margaret had been assigned the Law and Motions docket for the morning, and the various petitions and pleas kept her seated behind the bench for the entire two and a half hour period. She had declined to take a break, and her courtroom was a colorful swirl of activity as attorneys and their plaintiffs entered in teams, conferred quietly, appeared before the bench, and departed. Fortunately, there were few hitches, and she successfully got through the entire calendar - running over into the noon hour by only a few minutes.
She felt drained as she went back to her chambers and removed her hot robe. Unlike Judge Patricia Gardener, her friend sitting in Municipal Court, Margaret wore a dress under her robe. She wasn't quite sure exactly why she felt a dress was required, feeling only that it seemed more proper, and the extra material did help obscure a figure which had proved rather distracting to most of the practicing attorneys. She had always thought her too ripe, voluptuous body was her one weak point. Her mind was finely tuned and flexible, able to catch the subtle nuances of any decision, any point of law. But she despaired of her body; men thought of her as a sexual object, and she despised them for it. There was no place in a court of law for such frivolous things as thoughts of animal-like sex.
And with that thought, as she removed her robe, she began thinking about how she was going to break the news to John that one or the other of them would have to move into the guest room. Thank God he was leaving on that Baja California expedition in two weeks; she would be free of him for three months anyway.
Quickly pinning up her hair, the comely judge checked her desk for telephone messages. Nothing that couldn't wait, she decided, then hurried across the street to her luncheon date with the Presiding Judge of the Superior Court, 76-year-old Judge Samuel Dudley.
The Barristers Restaurant didn't advertise for new business or increased patronage; they neither wanted or needed it, for the specialty restaurant was open only five hours a day - between ten and three. There was a special room in the rear for judges and court referees, another special room for attorneys who are actually involved in cases and must receive prompt service in order to get back to court in time. The two remaining rooms are for attorneys and clients who are discussing business, and other people who find themselves in the Court area during the day. The booths are rich, luxuriant. The food superb, the atmosphere quiet and pleasant. The only noisy places in the entire establishment were in the kitchen and in the bar, where an inordinately large number of newspaper reporters and photographers hung out hoping for the inside track on a fast-breaking story.
Two photographers boisterously greeted Margaret when she walked in, and another gave out with a low wolf whistle. Ordinarily, she would have been put out at this type of behavior, but she knew she had to retain the favor of the newsmen; the way they handled their stories and the angle from which they took their photographs would make or break someone in public life. For that reason, Margaret usually found herself responding in kind with their banter, even though she hated herself for being hypocritical. Like most of the judges, she kept a fully stocked bar in her chambers, complete with refrigerator, and the newsmen were frequent guests after court had concluded for the day. The only time she had ever drawn the line with them - really drawn it in scathing language - had been the afternoon Stan Watson, the photographer for the Daily World, had suggested she pose for cheesecake atop her desk wearing a bikini swimsuit holding a gavel in her hand.
Margaret turned down at least four offers of drinks from the newsmen, pleading a tight schedule for the afternoon, and then went on back to the rear room where the gray-haired Judge Dudley sat. "I'm sorry I'm late, Sam, but I had a chance to wrap up everything on the docket."
"No need to apologize, my dear," he said, gazing in undisguised admiration at her. "After all, it isn't every day that an old man like me has a chance to dine with..."
"Now . . . now," Margaret dimpled, knowing he was going to outrageously flatter her. "Remember what you told Mrs. Johnson, that pretty little embezzler who appeared before you two weeks ago."
Judge Dudley laughed, delighted. "No flirting with the judge."
"Right," Margaret said, lifting her vodka martini on the rocks in mock salute.
"Yes . . . well, I keep forgetting. I am a man and you are a woman." He was no longer smiling.
"Thank you," she said quietly. She could accept the compliment from this man old enough to be her grandfather, whereas the same words from a younger man would have annoyed and angered her.
Judge Dudley continued to stare speculatively at her for quite a time, then he seemed to relax, having reached some decision. He asked, quietly, deceptively, "I forgot what I've assigned you. What does your calendar look like for the balance of the year?"
"Routine cases. Why?" Something was going on, Margaret could tell by the elderly judge's behavior. He acted almost as if he were teasing her about something, as if he knew something she didn't.
Judge Dudley didn't answer her question at first. He dug into his seafood salad, munching thoughtfully away like a contented rabbit. Now Margaret knew positively that he hadn't invited her to lunch just for chit-chat; something important hinged on his question.
Finally when the suspense had really begun to build up in her mind, Judge Dudley laid down his fork and said, without any preparation or warning at all, "I'm assigning the Fleming case to you."
An involuntary gasp came from Margaret's throat. The Fleming mass murder stories had been on page one of every newspaper in the nation for over a month, and the case itself had overtones of voodoo, witchcraft, and communal sex. The judge who presided over the trial would become a household name across the United States before the hearing was concluded. It would be as important a trial as the Sirhan Sirhan and Charles Manson trials.
Margaret was speechless for a moment, then she stuttered, "Sam ... I'm overwhelmed. But what about Harry Watson or Mike Gallagher?"
Judge Dudley shook his head. "You know and I know that Mike, being Catholic, would be challenged by the defense right off the bat because of the Black Mass ceremonies. I've talked to Harry, to find out his feelings. Frankly, his health wouldn't hold up during the five or six months that this trial will take. He recommended you, not knowing that you were my first choice all along."
Margaret could only repeat her earlier statement. "I'm overwhelmed." She was, too. She had been in the spotlight before, but never like this.
The old man patted her hand. "Don't be modest; you've earned a chance to show your judicial talent in a national interest case." He smiled and his eyes seemed to burn holes in her skull, as though he could see every little thought - and the big dream of the Supreme Court - that resided in the hidden recesses of her brain. "You're going to make us all look good," he said.
"I'll do my best."
"Of course, you will. You've always adapted beautifully. Now then, the district attorney and the defense attorney seems to think that it will take a minimum of five months to present both sides. I know that you've scheduled your vacation for September, but would it be possible to take it before the trial . . . say ... ah, before July 1st? I want you rested, fresh."
"Oh, Sam. I can't. I have too many cases already scheduled."
"Never mind those," he said sternly. "We'll spread them around the various courtrooms."
"When have you set the trial?" she asked.
"Right after the fourth of July holidays."
It would mean juggling her schedule around completely. Earlier she had planned to take an October vacation in Washington, D.C., spending her time in the Supreme Court archives. This Fleming case, though, was an opportunity not to be overlooked. "All right, Sam," she said. "And thank you."
She was still lost in a vague sense of wonderment as she went back across the street after lunch and donned her judicial robes again. For the afternoon, she had been assigned a non-jury trial involving a 17-year-old prostitute. Margaret wasn't fooled by the assignment. The defense attorney had procrastinated until he was sure the case would be assigned to her, hoping she would be more compassionate with the defendant because of having a daughter about the same age.
It was exactly 1:45 p.m., when Margaret buzzed her bailiff to let him know that she was ready to begin. As she walked down the corridor to the courtroom's judicial entrance, she heard the gavel bang and the bailiff's disembodied voice saying, "Hear ye, hear ye. All rise. The State of California . . . Superior Court . . ." It was a familiar phrase to her, one that contained the most important words in the world to her. Whereas other women live for the words, "I love you," Margaret lived only for this sing-song ritual of opening the court. She threw open the door to the courtroom, stepped up to the bench, and seated herself just as the bailiff concluded, "Judge Margaret Dunn presiding." She felt that same old familiar thrill, and knew that as long as she lived no other words could ever mean as much to her.
The gavel banged. "Be seated."
She had expected to spend the better part of the afternoon on the trial. It was relatively simple. The girl had approached a plain clothes policeman drinking beer in a bar and asked him if he wanted "to have a little fun. Only ten dollars." The policeman had gone along with the girl after calling the vice squad. He had permitted her to disrobe completely, had given her the marked money, and she had lain down on the bed in preparation for the act itself when he identified himself and placed her under arrest. It seemed to be an open and shut case, especially since the girl had been picked up, charged, and convicted three other times for the same offense . . . thus her assignment to the Superior Court rather than to Juvenile Court.
As it turned out, however, the case was over in five minutes. The girl decided to plead guilty, thus Margaret found herself free of all duties by two o'clock. Somehow, the thought of spending the rest of the afternoon in her chambers poring over pending cases did not appeal to her. It would be nice, she thought, to go swimming for a change ... to relax and spend a couple of hours thinking about the opportunity offered by the Fleming trial.
And thus it was, that Margaret found herself pulling into the circular driveway of their house a half-hour later.
When she saw Charlie Webb's car in front, she had a momentary twinge of disappointment and anger, quickly suppressed. After all, she thought, there's room enough for three of us in that big pool. It wasn't until she was putting the key in the locked front door that she began to wonder why Carolyn and Charlie weren't in school.