Hobson's Choice

Reluctantly, he followed them over to the full-length mirror, wobbling as he tried to get used to his heels. What he saw in the mirror took his breath away. The women were right. From his soft brown hair to his dainty feet, he was all girl now. He stared at himself in a trance until Janet shocked him back to reality with a spritz of cologne behind each ear.

He was too numb to protest. Ellen handed him a purse, and he held it awkwardly in his hands until she told him gently that it was okay for him to carry a purse now. With this last nail in Andrew's coffin, he followed them out the door, his old life gone forever.

* * *

Under prior arrangement with the court, Andrew was allowed to ride with his lawyer to the hearing, a police escort right behind them. It felt wonderful breathing fresh air again through the open windows, although Andrew had to constantly brush his new bangs out of his eyes, and he almost tripped and fell down trying to get out of the car in his dress. By the time they covered the two blocks from the parking lot to the courthouse, he was getting used to walking in high heels, and he actually enjoying the sensation of being three inches taller. They were escorted past security and rode up the elevator in silence.

But when they emerged onto the floor where the courtroom was, they were besieged by a pack of newspaper reporters and photographers. Andrew held up his hands as the flashbulbs erupted in his face. "Wow, look at him!" someone shouted, "he really went through with it." A wolf whistle pierced the air. Andrew was red-faced and mortified as he slunk into the courtroom and took his place at the defense table, self-consciously smoothing his skirt beneath himself before he sat down. He could tell that every man in the courtroom was staring at his legs as he crossed them and tugged the hem of his dress down over his knees. That God he told his poor mother to stay home.

"All rise!" the bailiff shouted, and Andrew got awkwardly to his feet as the judge took his place on the bench. He peered down at Andrew over his half-moon glasses as the clerk recited the case number. "People versus Andrew Hobson. Counsel, please state your appearances for the record."

Because Andrew had pleaded guilty, his case had been handled by whatever Deputy D.A. had the calendar when he was in court. Today, however, the District Attorney himself was sitting at the government's table, not wanting to miss the opportunity to cash in on some free media exposure. After he and Ellen Marshall announced their appearances, the judge took over.

"Will the defendant stand up, please?" he asked with elaborate courtesy. Andrew nervously took his feet and stood with his eyes fixed on the marble floor. "Step closer, please," the judge said. "Let me get a good look at you." Andrew complied, his ears ringing with the sound of his heels clicking on the marble floor. "Turn around," the judge said. Tears running down his cheeks, Andrew did a slow pirouette, and when he looked out over the crowded courtroom, the sneers and snickers were unbearable. Blushing bright crimson, he turned back to face the judge.

"It would appear that the order of the Court has been complied with. Do you have those papers we discussed in chambers?" he asked the clerk. He waited until the clerk, a dumpy woman who regarded Andrew with a mixture of envy and disdain, handed him a thin manila folder. "On the Court's own motion, I have initiated the process necessary for the change in your legal status from male to female. I am signing the documents now," he said as Andrew looked on in confusion. "You are now Miss Andrea Hobson. Your social security number will remain the same, and you should present yourself to the Division of Motor Vehicles to get a new picture taken at your earliest convenience." Andrea jumped when the judge banged down his gavel. "Next case."

"Your Honor, before we leave, I just want to clear up a few things," Ellen Marshall said while Andrea looked on helplessly. "We had not expected the Court to change my client's name, and I will have to discuss it with her."

"Of course, of course. If she wants to be Nancy, or Jane, just let me know, and the Court will take it under advisement."

'More important, your Honor, is the restoration of my client's license by the State Racing Commission. As a convicted felon, Andrew Hobson's right to earn a living as a professional jockey was suspended, and we were hoping that his…I mean, her new status would change that."

"Out of the question!" the judge roared. "In the first place, because Andrew Hobson no longer exists, his racing license is null and void. Your client will therefore have to apply for a new license in her new name. Although the final decision will be up to the Racing Commission, I will recommend in no uncertain terms that Andrea Hobson never be allowed anywhere near a race track, and as sentencing judge I believe my opinion will be dispositive."

"But your Honor," Ellen Marshall said as a clamor swept through the courtroom. "My client has paid her debt to society. What interest can it serve the Court to deprive her of her livelihood?"

"Your client is still a convicted rapist. The fact that she is now a woman does not entitle her to any special privileges, wouldn't you agree?" the judge said with sarcasm. "Why doesn't she try to get a job as a stewardess, or a waitress. With those tits the government paid for, she has a shot at working for Hooters."

Pandemonium broke out in the courtroom. Broken down with misery, Andrea fell to her knees, sobbing hysterically. "Your Honor, this is an outrage!" Ellen cried.

"One more word out of you, counselor, and I'll hold you in contempt! Bailiff, clear the courtroom!"

* * *

One month later, Andrea Hobson returned to her studio apartment after another frustrating day of selling shirts and ties. Her feet were killing her as she kicked off her heels, and she gratefully peeled off her nylons and slumped into a recliner in front of the television. Idly, she turned it on and flipped through the channels. At least that male addiction had not been taken from her.

She was about to skip past a local sports program when she saw a familiar face. It was her judge, standing in the VIP section at the Belmont Stakes. A race which Andrew Hobson had won three times during his brief but brilliant career. Andrea stared at the screen as the judge stood beside the owner of the winning horse, cheering along with him as their long-shot entry won an upset victory.

Andrea switched off the television and began to pace around her apartment. The favorite in that race, Buckaroo, had won the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness with Andrew in the saddle, and Seacrest Stables had never found another rider capable of dealing with his high-strung temperament. If Andrew Hobson had not been standing trial for rape, he would have been on Buckaroo, guiding him to victory against the horse owned by the judge's friend. They must have won a fortune by betting against Buckaroo, who was the prohibitive favorite to win the race and the Triple Crown.

Andrea was about to dismiss the whole thing as a strange coincidence when the telephone rang. It was Ellen Marshall. "Andrea, how are you?"

"Life sucks, Ellen. I'm making ends meet as a sales associate at a department store, in the fucking menswear department, but if it weren't for the money I saved up when I was riding, I'd be out on the street."

'I'm sorry to hear that, Andrea. Look, we need to talk. I have something I need to show you."

"What, another legal bill? I told you, I'll pay you as soon as I get back on my feet."

"No, it's not that, Andrea. It's something about your sentencing."

* * *

They agreed to meet the next day at a fancy restaurant near Ellen's office. Andrea was almost used to getting dressed up by now, and she went through the motions with her hair and makeup before selecting a conservative skirt and sweater to wear to the restaurant. It was late autumn, and she completed her outfit with opaque tights and high heels, having come to accept them as a necessary tradeoff for her new-found height.

Ellen was waiting for her at a quiet table in the back. They shook hands awkwardly, and Ellen waited until they ordered their salads and iced tea before pulling a file out of her briefcase. "I was in the courthouse yesterday, and it occurred to me that I had never seen those documents which the judge signed the day he changed your name. I had a little time on my hands, so I went to the clerk's office and asked to see the case file." Ellen handed a document to Andrea. "This is the report of your court-appointed psychiatrist. It is different from the report which was sent to me before your sentencing. Read it."

Andrea started to skim through the report, not believing what she saw. "The subject admits to a lifelong fixation with wearing women's clothing, and expressed the desire to undergo sex reassignment surgery."

"This is bullshit!" she shouted. After months of hormones, and hours of voice lessons, she had developed a woman's way of speaking, but suddenly she sounded like Andrew again. "What the hell's going on?"

"I'm not sure, Andrea. Obviously somebody tampered with your record, and put this report in there to back up the judge's decision to order your surgery. The question is, why?"

Andrew handed back the report. "You mean, if this report wasn't in there, I wouldn't have been…changed?"

"That's what I'm suggesting. The question is, who had the motive?"

Andrea's head was spinning. Her whole life, his whole life, ruined because of a bogus report? There had to be more to it than that.

"Let me ask you something else," Ellen went on. "The girl you raped. How well did you know her?"

"Hardly at all. She came up to me at the track one morning after an exercise session. She practically dragged me down to the backstretch and pulled her pants down. When she started screaming, I couldn't believe it."

"I know. And suddenly there were witnesses everywhere, backing up her story that you raped her. I always thought it seemed too convenient, too contrived…so I did a little checking. What I am about to tell you could subject me to a malpractice suit, but I couldn't live with myself if I didn't let you know."

"What are you talking about?"

"She was not under-aged, and she never got pregnant."

"What?"

Ellen pulled another document out of her file. "Her real name is Hilda Speyer. She is a professional actress, from Germany." Andrea stared down at a professional portfolio, showing the girl Andrew Hobson had supposedly raped in a variety of poses. The text was in German. "She's twenty-four years old, Andrea," Ellen said softly. "I found this out by doing a simple web search."

Andrea was bewildered. "What about her parents?" "More actors. Oh Andrea, I'm so sorry. If I had been doing my job right, I would have never let you plead guilty."

Andrea closed here eyes as she tried to grasp the enormity of it. "So I never committed a crime?"

"Of course not. You were set up, Andrea, by somebody who wanted you out of the way. When the new law passed requiring judges to offer the surgical alternative to convicted rapists, they altered your file to hedge their bets. Either way, they got what they wanted."

"But who would want to do this to me?"

"I don't know, Andrea, but whoever was behind it must have had a powerful motive, and considerable means. You know, I always wondered why your operation took place so fast, and I was surprised at your sentencing when we were told your new name. Why, it almost looks like the judge might have been in on this…."

In a flash, Andrea understood. The judge who ordered that Andrew Hobson be turned into a woman…and then made sure that Andrea Hobson would never ride again…in an owner's box at the Belmont, cheering as Buckaroo was upset by a dark horse owned by the man next to him….

When Andrea spoke, her voice was deadly calm. "Ellen, what do you know about the judge?"

"Judge Hauk? Well, as you could see for yourself, his judicial temperament leaves a lot to be desired. He's been reprimanded by the chief judge many times for his comments from the bench, including that Hooter's crack he laid on you."

"I'm not asking about his temperament. Is he a crook?"

"Andrea, you can't say things like that! Not without evidence to back it up."

"What if I told you I think I have your motive. Will you help me try to nail him?"

"I don't know, Andrea. I'm not a private detective. If you know something, we should go to the police."

"No, thanks. My faith in the criminal justice system has just taken a hit. I'm asking you to help me prove that the judge is on the take. I think I know who is paying him."

"Who?"

"Ronald Brewster."

"As in Ronald Brewster, the billionaire? The Ronald Brewster who owns hotels, office buildings, car dealerships…."

"And racehorses."

"Oh, my God. Andrea, this is too big for us. We have to go to the police."

Andrea snapped. "Ellen, I'll never forgive you for not picking up on all this before it was too late. It was almost better before…at least I thought I had this coming to me in some way. But now, to find out that I had my balls cut off so some greedy pig could fix a horserace….I need you for this, Ellen. Tell me you'll help me," she pleaded.

Ellen shook her head. "Okay, I'm in. What are we going to do, sister?"

* * *

Andrea quit her job at the department store, and for the next two weeks she spent day and night in Ellen's law library, scouring the Internet for everything she could find about Ronald Brewster. His controversial business dealings, his spectacular divorces, and his flamboyant lifestyle were all grist for the media, fanned by his insatiable lust for publicity. Andrea took particular note of his taste in woman: the billionaire had a weakness for short, perky blondes.

One afternoon, when Andrea returned to Ellen's office after a long lunch break, she was stopped by the receptionist before she could pass into the library. "May I help you, Miss?" Andrea smiled to herself. With her shoulder-length hair dyed ash blonde and styled with pretty curls, she bore no resemblance to either Andrew or Andrea Hobson. It was time to put her plan into action.

Some of Andrew's old friends on the backstretch were Mexican illegals, and they helped Andrea acquire a new social security card in the name of Fawn Healy. Buttressed with a phony resume and glowing references provided by Ellen and Janet, who posed on the phone as former employers, Fawn had no trouble landing a clerical position at Brewster Enterprises. She started out her first day on the job like any other working girl, confined to a small cubicle while she spent eight hours a day grinding out memoranda, arranging travel schedules, and bringing coffee to the higher-ups. She hated every minute of it, awakening at six o'clock each morning to comply with the Brewster dress code for secretaries - skirts or dresses, heels and stockings - and returning home every night with aching feet and freezing legs from the winter cold.

She bided her time, gradually learning enough about the office routines to find out where Brewster kept the files on his race horses. They were located just outside his massive office, near the main reception area. One night just before Christmas, a snotty young executive dumped a huge mailing for a new condominium project on the secretarial pool, and Fawn volunteered to stay late to get it out. She waited until the other girls all went home, then another hour to make sure all of the executives were also gone, before she got up from her cluttered desk and walked nonchalantly to the file cabinets outside Brewster's office. They were unlocked, although she had been prepared to jimmy them if they weren't, and she started to look through them, methodically searching for any evidence about the connection between Ronald Brewster and Judge Hauk.

When she found it, it almost smacked her in the face. The name of the horse that pulled off the surprise upset at the Belmont was Heady Days. The file on Heady Days included a syndication agreement indicating the names of the owners of the horse. On September 16th, the day Andrew Hobson's name was changed to Andrea Hobson, Oliver Hauk was admitted into the syndicate, and granted a 20% share in the horse's winnings for the rest of his career. The document was back-dated to the day before the Belmont Stakes. No consideration was paid.

Andrea put the document on top of the filing cabinet and kept rummaging until she found something else: a copy of a letter written by Brewster's executive assistant to the judge the day after Andrew's arraignment on charges of aggravated rape. It contained directions for the Judge's lunch meeting with Mr. Brewster the following weekend out in the Hamptons. She put the letter next to the syndication agreement, and continued to paw through the file until she found the smoking gun: a telefax from a Frankfurt bank containing the wiring instructions for an account held by the German actress who had posed as Andrew's rape victim.

Andrea was feeling sick to her stomach as she walked into the copy room and xeroxed the three documents. She stopped by her desk and stuffed the copies into her shoulder bag before she returned to the file cabinet and placed the evidence back in the file. She was just closing the file drawer when she heard a noise behind her.

Turning around, Andrea found herself face to face with Ronald Brewster. He was wearing a tuxedo and a white cashmere scarf, and his rugged face was flushed from too much to drink. She had kicked off her shoes to avoid making any noise, and the billionaire stood almost a foot taller than her in her stocking feet. Andrea was trying to figure out what to say when he spoke first.

"Working late tonight, Miss…Healy," he said as he bent down and read the company ID badge pinned to her suit jacket.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Brewster. All of the other girls had Christmas parties or shopping to do, so I volunteered to stay late."

"That's very commendable. You're new here, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"You're cute. Would you like to see my apartment?"

Ronald Brewster's apartment was the stuff of legend, occupying the entire top floor of the Brewster Building. "I don't know, Mr. Brewster…."

"Come on, it's the least I can do for you after you gave up your night for us. We'll have a glass of Christmas cheer."

Although he was close to sixty, there was a boyish charm about him that took the edge off his raging machismo. "That would be nice. I just have to finish up a few things."

"Take your time. I'll be in my office."

She returned to her cubicle, trying to figure out how to get away from him. If she ran out, he would become suspicious…after his latest divorce, Ronald Brewster was the most eligible bachelor in town, and no girl in her right mind would pass up the opportunity to see his place. She put on her shoes and went to the ladies room, where she brushed her hair and put on a fresh coat of lipstick before returning to pick up her purse and her shoulder bag which, in addition to the incriminating documents, was crammed with junk like the sneakers she swapped for her heels during her nightly trudge to the bus stop. She put on her overcoat and walked hesitantly into Brewster's mammoth office.

He was waiting for her at his enormous mahogany desk, in front of an entire wall filled with framed magazine covers showing the great man in various moments of triumph. "My ego wall," he chuckled as he got up from his desk. "Let's go."

They rode upstairs in silence in a polished brass elevator. When the door opened, they were standing in the foyer of his spectacular apartment. Brewster took her coat and shoulder bag, hanging them himself in a closet by the door. "I've given the staff the night off, for the holiday," he explained.