Mistress of Justice

Avenue.
    The bedroom was the homiest room in the place, decorated with lace tulle, art deco lamps and old furniture—battered but loaded with personality—a hundred books, souvenirs from the trips young Taylor took to Europe with her parents.
    On the wall was a large poster—one of Arthur Rackham’s sepia illustrations of Lewis Carroll’s
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
.
    The picture wasn’t like the Disney cartoon or the original Sir John Tenniel drawings but was a masterful work by the brilliant artist. It showed an alarmed Alice lifting her hands to protect herself as the Red Queen’s playing card soldiers flew into the air.
    The caption read:
    At this the whole pack rose up into the air,
and came flying down upon her.
     
     
    The framed poster had been a graduation present from her roommates at Dartmouth. Taylor loved the Carroll books, and Alice memorabilia were sure bets as birthday and Christmas presents. There were many other
Wonderland
and
Through the Looking-Glass
artifacts throughout her apartment.
    Taylor sent her tongue around her parched mouth; she didn’t enjoy the trip. She staggered into the bathroom, where she downed two glasses of water and brushed her teeth twice. She squinted at the clock. Let’s see, Sebastian had dropped her off at about four. Do the math.… Okay, we’re talking about three and a half hours’ sleep.
    And, more troubling, it turned out that she’d largely wasted her time. Thom Sebastian had denied being in the firm on Saturday or Sunday and had remained tight-lipped about his dealings with Bosk though he’d continued to talk bitterly about the firm’s decision to pass him over. He’d had no response when she’d casually mentioned Hanover & Stiver, Inc.
    She kneaded her belly, which swelled slightly over the top of her panties, recalling that there were a hundred fifty calories in each cocktail.… She squeezed her temples. Her vision swam.
    A blinking red light across the room coincided with the throbbing in her head. It was her answering machine, indicating a message from last night. She hit the play button, thinking it might be a call from Mitchell Reece, remembering his asking her if it was okay to call her at home.
    Beep
.
    “Hello, counselor.”
    Ah, her father, she realized with a thud in her turbulent stomach.
    “Just wanted to tell you: You owe me lunch. Earl Warren
was
chief justice when the case was decided. Call when you can. Love you.”
    Click
.
    Shit, she thought. I shouldn’t’ve bet with him.
    Taylor didn’t mind losing to him, of course; half the lawyers in Washington, D.C., had lost a case or motion or argument to Samuel Lockwood at one time or another in their careers. The
Washington Post
had called him “The Unbeatable Legal Eagle” (the article was framed and displayed prominently in their living room at home). No, it was that even though she could see clearly that he was testing her, she’d weakened and agreed to the pointless bet.
    It was very, very difficult to say no to Samuel Lockwood.
    He called her two or three times a week but unless he had something specific to ask her he usually picked “safe” times: During the day he’d call her home, at night he’d callthe firm, leaving messages—fulfilling his parental duty and making his royal presence felt in her territory but making sure he didn’t waste time actually talking to her. (She noted cynically that she might reasonably have been expected to be home last night when he’d phoned—because the purpose of that call had been to gloat.)
    Well, she could hardly point fingers; Taylor did the same—generally calling home when she knew he was working so she could chat with her mother untroubled by the brooding presence of her father hovering near the receiver, a presence she could sense from even three hundred miles away.
    She winced as the headache pounded on her again, just for the pure fun of it, it seemed. A glance at the clock.
    Okay, Alice, you got twenty minutes to get yourself up and running. Go for it.

     
    Sitting before Mitchell Reece in the glaringly lit Vista Hotel dining room was a plate of scrambled eggs, hash browns, bacon and a bagel. Taylor was nursing a grapefruit juice and seltzer.
    She’d already been stared down by her dry toast.
    Reece said, “You feeling okay?”
    “I was out dancing last night till four.”
    “All work and no play …”
    Taylor grunted. “The good news is I’ve got us a suspect.” The juice was reviving traces of rum