Mistress of Justice

cap that is,” he said. Then frowned. “I’ve got a thought. How about a compromise? What if you got a job as a paralegal at one of the firms in Washington, one of our affiliated firms. I’ll get you in. You can try out law firm life, see if you like it. I’ll put aside some funds for school.”
    She’d said no at first but Samuel Lockwood was relentless and she’d finally given in.
    “But I’ll get a job on my own, Dad. I’ll support myself. If I like it I’ll apply to law school. But I’ll play music at nights. Nothing’s going to interfere with that.”
    “Taylor …” He frowned.
    “It’s the best I can do. And not in D.C. I’ll go to New York.”
    He took a breath and then nodded his concession to her victory over him. “You’ve got backbone, counselor.”
    And he gave her a smile that chilled her soul—because it unwittingly revealed that this “spontaneous” thought of his had been born some time ago and nurtured over many nights as he lay in his twin bed, three feet from his wife’s, trying to figure out exactly how to manipulate her.
    Taylor was furious with herself for letting her guard down. He’d never intended that she work in Washington, wouldn’t have presumed to link her with him by getting her a job and would never have threatened her music directly—out of fear that he’d push her away completely.
    In the end, even though she’d defiantly resisted him, it turned out that Taylor had played right into his hand.
    “You understand I’m doing this because I love you and care for you,” he said.
    No, she thought, I understand you’re doing this because the thought of being unable to control the slightest aspect of your life is abhorrent to you.
    She’d said, “I know, Dad.”
    But, as it turned out, the paralegal life was not as bad as she’d anticipated. Smart, tireless, unintimidated by the culture of Wall Street money and Manhattan society, Taylor had made a reputation for herself at the firm, quickly becoming one of the most popular paralegals, always in demand. She found that she enjoyed the work and had considerable aptitude for it.
    So when a cycle came around for applying to law schools and Samuel Lockwood asked her which schools she’d decided to apply to (not
if
she intended to apply), she said what the hell and plunged forward with a yes and basked in the sunlight of her father’s approval.
    Taylor, lost in this complex answer to Reece’s simple question, now realized that she was still frozen in place, perched on a sofa arm, her hand floating above her answering machine.
    Why exactly was her father coming here? Where could they eat? Would the place she picked please him? Would he want to come see her perform? They sure couldn’t eat at Miracles or one of the other clubs she played at; he’d make a fuss about the menu. Want to know what kind of oil they cooked with, send food back if it wasn’t prepared just right.
    The electronic woman in the answering machine told her,
“To save this message, press two. To erase this message, press three.”
    She hit two and walked into the bedroom to dress for her Mata Hari date.

     
    This
is a Midtown club? she thought.
    Taylor had expected that it would be more, well, spiffy. More of a power, platinum-card corporate watering hole and less of a tawdry college lounge. Well, maybe old money was allowed a little shabbiness. In any case, Taylor Lockwood looked at the fiercely bright lighting, the dusty moose head sprouting from the wall, the threadbare school banners and uncarpeted floor, and asked herself again, This is a club?
    But Ralph Dudley was excited about the Knickerbocker Businessmen’s Club. He was at home here and buoyant at showing off his nest to a stranger.
    “Come along now,” the partner said. And he ushered her into the club’s dining room. He walked to what must’ve been his regular table and, amusing her beyond words, actually held the chair out for her and bowed after she’d sat.
    “Have the steak, Miss Lockwood. They have chicken, too, but order the steak. Rare, like mine.” The old partner’s excitement was infectious, his eyes gleaming as if he were back in the arms of his alma mater.
    They ordered. Dudley took instantly to his task as mentor and launched into a series of stories about his lawschool. It seemed an endless tumble of hard work, harmless collegiate pranks, chorale singers, respectable young gentlemen in suits and ties and tearfully inspiring professors.
    All forty years