Mistress of Justice

a scuffed, well-worn aspect to the place; it reminded him of old subway cars. Well, that was appropriate; after all, justice was just another service provided by government to its citizens, like public transportation and trash collection.
    He sat for a few minutes but grew restless; he stood suddenly and began to pace.
    And what, he speculated, would happen if Taylor
didn’t
find the note?
    He supposed he could find alternatives. But because Mitchell Reece was so very driven, because he was someone who, as Taylor had once said, had left behind reason and logic and even safety in this mad sojourn, he felt a fierce desperation to find that tiny piece of paper.
    He wanted to win this one oh-so-badly.
    He rose and walked to the soiled window, through which he watched men and women hurrying along Centre Street: attorneys and judges and clients. Everyone was wearing a suit but making the distinction among them was easy. Lawyers carried big litigation bags, clients carried briefcases and judges carried nothing.
    He wandered to the judge’s bench then to the jury gallery.
    Theater.
    Winning is about theater, he reflected.
    The revelation had come to him early in his career—he was representing a young boy blinded in one eye when a lawn mower fired a rock out of the grass chute and into the child’s face. The boy’s father had used a hacksaw to cut off the safety deflector panel, believing the motor labored harder with the deflector in place and used more gas. Reece sued the manufacturer, claiming that the unit was defective because there was no warning that users should
not
cut the panel off.
    It was understood by virtually everyone that—because the proximate cause of the injury was the father’s removal of the device—Reece had absolutely no chance of winning. The bored judge knew this, as did the arrogant lawyer for the defendant and the complacent lawyer for the defendant’s insurance company.
    Seven people did
not
know the impossibility of the suit, however. One was Mitchell Reece. The others were the six members of the jury, who awarded the snotty, self-pitying little kid one point seven million bucks.
    Theater.
    That was the key to litigation: a dab of logic, a bit of law, a lot of personality, and considerable theater.
    He glanced at the door to the courtroom, willing it to open and Taylor Lockwood to hurry inside, the note in hand.
    But of course it remained closed.
    After he’d heard nothing more from her after she left to go to the firm at 3 A.M . He’d gotten a few hours’ sleep, shaved and showered then dressed in his finest litigation Armani. He’d gathered his documents, called the clients to have them meet him at the courthouse then limoed downtown, where he slipped into the cavernous domed cathedral of New York State Supreme Court.
    Well, the matter was out of his hands, he now reflected. Either Taylor would find it and life would move in one direction, or she would not and an entirely different set of consequences would occur.
    Mitchell Reece had not prayed for perhaps thirty years but today he addressed a short message to a vague deity, whom he pictured looking somewhat like blind Justice, and asked that she keep Taylor Lockwood safe and to please, please let her find the note.
    You’ve done so much, Taylor; now do just a little more. For both of us.…

     
    Taylor Lockwood stood in Wendall Clayton’s private bathroom.
    The time was now 9 A.M . and she’d hidden here for hours, waiting for the partner to take a break so that she could continue going through the remaining stack of papers.
    But Clayton had never even stood up to stretch. In this entire time he’d remained rooted at his desk, reading, picking up the phone and calling partners and clients. The news he was receiving was apparently good for his side; it was clear to her that the merger would be approved and that both firms would sign it up later in the day.
    Reece would be in court by now, probably despairing that he hadn’t heard from her.
    But there was nothing she could do other than wait.
    Ten minutes passed. Then ten more. And finally Clayton rose.
    Thank God. He was going to check on something.
    She would grab the remaining stack and flee with it to her cubicle, looking through it there. Then—
    Her gut jumped hard. Clayton wasn’t leaving the office at all. He needed to use the rest room and was walking directly toward where Taylor Lockwood now hid, a room without a single closet or shower stall where she might