No Controlling Legal Authority Ch. 27...

"To what?" she asked expectantly, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue.

"To you, for starters," he replied almost giddily. "You look just, just, ah, stunning."

"Why, thank you, sir," she beamed, but her eyes never left his face and her glass remained just out of his reach, and she continued, "But, I usually don't toast myself."

"You ought to make an exception tonight, my dear, you look good enough to, uh, ah…"

"You are sweet," she laughed, cutting off his search for an appropriate comparative. "It's my Christmas outfit; Miss Kate, said I looked pretty enough to hang on her Christmas tree, if she had one, but I think she'd had too much cognac."

"Trust me," he said solemnly, letting his eyes drift from her face to her torso and linger at the red stripe that was girdling her hips, "It wasn't the cognac talking."

"Ya think?" she responded, widening her eyes innocently.

"Yeah, I think," he nodded emphatically, mentally comparing her favorably to every Cosmopolitan cover-girl that he had lecherously admired over the years. "And, I'll tell you something else I think; you're collecting admirers all over town, so you might as well go ahead and add my name to your list."

She glanced modestly down at her glass and set the liquor in motion with a twitch of her wrist. She studied the swirling vortex as it climbed toward the rim and then gradually subsided, and distantly she heard the faint ticking of a clock. "I'll drink to that, Caleb Montcastle," she said softly, and, as she tapped her glass against his, she raised her eyes to his face with a look as searing as the peat fires that had seasoned her scotch.

Her eyes held his, and his knees threatened to buckle beneath him. A hot flush of anxious attraction crept across his cheeks, and he felt a disoriented queasiness like the horizon wasn't quite where it should be. His hand shook with a noticeable tremor as he raised his glass to his lips, and she smiled at him over the rim of her glass. Her closeness compressed his chest and drove the wind from his lungs, and, even before the warm tongues of scotch began licking his brain, her sensuous aura had intoxicated him.

"And, to Christmas," he managed to mutter rapturously after she had taken a sip.

"Yes, to Christmas," she said warmly, still looking into his eyes, and she took a second, tiny sip.

"And to, re-elect Al Gore in two thousand and four," he grinned, thankful to have retained the cognitive function to think of an even better reason to imbibe.

"Now, THAT, I will drink to, you naughty rascal," she quickly laughed, and she clinked her glass against his and took an enthusiastic gulp. "Whew," she exhaled heavily, exhausting the superheated air from her lungs after the scotch had done its damage. "Do you always try to get to a girl through her politics?"

"Almost never," he laughed, sheepishly watching as she wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. "Especially not around Posey's Bend. All we have here is greedy, self-absorbed Republican women, and all they care about, besides tax cuts, of course, is presents, the more expensive, the better."

"All girls like presents, Caleb," she pointed out evenly after regaining her composure.

"Yeah, but not like Posey's Bend girls," he answered winding himself up. "They don't want, uh, ah," he suddenly began stammering, his eyes widened, and he got that deer in the headlights look again. "I, uh, oh…, damn, Christmas presents."

"What about `Christmas presents?'" she asked, prodding him gently.

"Your Christmas present; I forgot to buy it," he answered dejectedly.

"You didn't need to buy me a Christmas present, Caleb; you've already done more than I can ever thank you for."

"But, it's Christmas, everybody's supposed to get a present at Christmas," he protested boyishly.

"I am alive and safe and I have a job, thanks to you; you've given me plenty already."

"Yeah, well, that stuff hardly passes for a present wrapped up under the tree," he grumbled with embarrassment.

"It does for me," she said smiling, and then, she continued, "And, besides that, Judge Caleb Montcastle, how about you tellin' me about all the presents under YOUR tree this Christmas."

"Wellllllll," he began slowly, like he was mentally compiling a lengthy list of benefactors, "Mildred gave me another tin of her homemade peanut brittle, same as last year."

"That was thoughtful."

"Yeah."

"And, good too, I bet; I love peanut brittle."

"You don't want any part of this peanut brittle; not unless you want your teeth broken out or stuck together till Easter."

"That bad?"

"Yes, that bad; I have six Christmases worth hidden up there on the top shelf of my closet. I don't know what the hell I'm gonna do with it unless I decide to repave the driveway."

"Poor boy," she said smiling provocatively. "I have a present for you."

"Yeah? What kind of present?" he asked skeptically, letting his eyes scour her lush curves hunting for hints, while he cursed the day he ceased believing in Santa Claus.

"One that will surprise you, I think," she said smiling at his appreciative examination. "But, I don't have it on me, silly; it's out in the hall."

"Why'd you leave it out there?" he asked puzzled and a little disappointed because his searching eyes had fastened hopefully on an area of her skirt just a few inches below her belt buckle.

"I wanted to know what kind of mood you were in, first." He was ogling her openly, and she felt her loins warming under his gaze.

"And, I passed?" he asked in surprise, unaware that he had been tested.

"You passed; it was close, but you passed," she teased him over her shoulder as she turned. She knew his eyes were following her, so she slowed her step and let her hips sway enticingly as she picked her way with undue care. Her barely covered buttocks rolled with each step as she maneuvered toward the exit. She heard him huffing and puffing behind her and half-expected him to be following her into the hall. "That Kate knows him pretty good, don't she, kid?" Billy chuckled tauntingly "Shake that pretty ass of yours a couple more times and he'll be chargin' like 'zee bull,' n'est pas?"

She returned quickly, carrying the package in front of her with both hands. On the way, she bumped a stack of books and two of them toppled onto the floor. "Oh, clumsy me," she muttered stooping to replace the books, and he was treated to a staggering display of cleavage. Her full breasts dangled like a pair of inverted mountains only it was not snow that crowned their glory but ruddy discs and tiny elongated nipples that pierced her sweater like towering summits puncturing the stratosphere. "Here," she breathed softly, breaking the silence that hung in the air even after she rose and caught him leading an expedition through her Himalayas, "Merry Christmas, Caleb.

He tore his eyes from her chest and accepted the package. He placed it on his desk and began carefully loosening the paper wrapping as though he was intent on saving it. In a moment he had the wrapping spread open; the robe, carefully folded with the collar on top, was perfectly centered like a square of congealed blood on a field of starkly white paper. He bent toward the robe, moving closer to better read the inscription, and she could feel the tension building like stale air in the room. He paused, head bowed, for what seemed forever, leaning on his desk with palms to either side of the garment. He made no move to pick it up or even touch it, and behind her the clock ticked, pinging like a hammer striking a chisel, in the pregnant silence.

"Ahah," he thought, remembering Gandalf's words from The Lord of the Ring, "That which was lost has been found," and he looked at the garment reverentially. It is a peculiarity of mankind that great men's possessions sometimes are imbued with near mystical properties, as though the worth of the man could be distilled and his essence infused into the object so that the man and the possession would become one. Thus, representing all that was meritorious, or notorious, in the original owner, like King Arthur's Excalibur or John Dillinger's harmless wooden revolver, the object becomes a talisman, which is capable of transferring those attributes, good and bad, to subsequent holders. He looked at the folds and creases and could almost hear his father's voice, resonant with authority and self-confidence, exhorting him in this very office, as he put on the very robe that was now lying impotently on the desk. "The robe is the power, son; it cloaks the man so that all that remains to be seen is the power and the majesty of the Law. When I put on this robe, I become the Law incarnate, boy, the embodiment of the might and authority of the Law. I wear this to direct the events of men's lives, Caleb, often, how they will live, and, occasionally, when and how they will die, and, when I'm wearing the robe, Hiram Augustus Montcastle, the Fourth, no longer exists; his likes and dislikes, his wants, desires and prejudices no longer hold sway, for then, under the full weight of the robe, Truth, Justice and the Law are the only things that matter. Some day, if you truly accept the wisdom of what I am telling you and you prove yourself to be worthy of the honor, you may be chosen to wear a robe like this."

"It's magenta," he muttered distantly, not speaking directly to her.

"Excuse me?" she asked not knowing what to make of the observation.

"The color," he said, explaining, "it's magenta. Most people called it 'red' or 'crimson' but he always said it was 'magenta'; the color of dried blood that reminded him of the sacrifices that were made by all those who defended the Declaration of Independence."

"It must have been very important to him," she responded quietly, but even as she spoke, Danny Devito was elbowing his way to the podium and shouting, "Jeez, kid, you talk about your `pretentious bastards'; this bird-brain's old man must have been one for the record books. Would you just listen to that crap about wearing a dress that reminded him of dried blood. Yech. The thought makes me wanta puke."

"She's told you everything, hasn't she?" he asked, glancing up to her face.

"Most of it, I suppose; we didn't talk all that long, actually." She held his gaze serenely, with a nonjudgmental look that suggested that she didn't intend to hold the son responsible for the sins of the father.

"My mother and father…" he began.

"Caleb," she injected, interrupting, "they're not important. What matters is that you have the robe; it's yours now."

He fingered the garment for a moment, stroking the heavy cloth between his thumb and forefinger tentatively as a sinner seeking salvation might touch his savior's passing robe, and then he turned and walked to the window. He stood, silently staring into the cold night sky as the clock ticked toward Christmas, and she felt his uncertainty and her heart ached for him.

Finally, without turning to look at her he gave voice to his doubts. "I wonder if she really thinks I'm ready to have that," he said gesturing blindly behind him toward the robe, "or if she's just run out of time."

"She says you're ready, Caleb." Her voice was soft and smooth as the cashmere cupping her full breasts.

"She's dying. Of cancer."

"I know."

"She probably won't last through the winter."

"I know. She stopped taking her medicine two days ago, because it was making her hair fall out."

"Dammit," he swore, and his breath fogged a spot on the windowpane. "I knew she would do that; couldn't you do something to make her take it?"

"It wasn't my choice to make, Caleb; she has the right to die with dignity," she said quietly.

"Well, why did she wait so damn long and pick tonight to give it to me?" he questioned, turning from the window to face her, and his anguish had deepened the lines in his forehead.

"She said 'you first had to discover the man within the robe.'"

"What the hell did she mean by that? Did she say?" His bewilderment mingled with his anguish to cloud his features.

"She said you would know, or could figure it out in time."

"That's cryptic enough for anybody," he grumbled.

She smiled at him over the rim of her glass but withheld further explanation.

"So what am I supposed to do now?" he asked shrugging indecisively.

"If it were mine," she replied, catching a droplet of scotch on the lip of her glass with the tip of her finger and placing it in her mouth, "I would try it on to see if it fits." It was a coquettish thing to do, she knew, because it inflamed boys' fantasies to see a girl put her finger in her mouth, but she closed her puckered lips around her fingertip and looked brazenly into his eyes.

"What? Here, now?" he exclaimed, shaking his head doubtfully, as he stared distractedly at her wetly emerging finger.

"Sure, here and now," she replied. "You've been waiting, what, eight, ten years to get your hands on it; why wait?"

"It's been a while," he acknowledged reaching to touch the garment again.

"Then you need to put it on, Caleb," she whispered forcefully, and as she spoke she reached across his desk and slid the robe from under his fingers. "Here," she continued, shaking out the folds and holding it in front of her like a bullfighter's cape, "I'll help you put it on."

"I feel a little silly," he complained as she helped him slip his arms into the sleeves and then smoothed the fabric across his shoulders.

"That's because you don't have it on, yet. Zip it up and then see how you feel."

"It buttons," he corrected. "He had it made with buttons because zippers weren't traditional enough for him."

"Button it, then," she responded, accepting the correction, while she pushed his shoulders to turn him around to face her.

His fingers fumbled awkwardly with the unfamiliar buttons, gradually fastening each one till he reached the collar where the tiny, concealed clasp defeated his efforts.

"Come here," she said smiling at his difficulty, "Let me help." And she raised on her toes and leaned her head toward him, while her fingers tugged his collar into position and secured the closure.

He closed his eyes and felt her closeness in the pores of his skin. Her fingers touched him lightly, caressingly, slipping between the collar and his neck to marry the button with its loop, and he flirted with the impulse to sweep her into his arms and kiss her prettily pouting lips. The soft scent of her perfume came to him on the gentle sound of her laughter as she struggled with the button, and he felt the initial swirl of delirious dizziness. Her breasts jiggled with the movement of her arms and the dark circles of her nipples danced under the thin concealment of her sweater. The fulsome, rounded bulge of her bosom and its deep crease of cleavage drew him to her, and he sensed the awakening of the man within the robe. He lifted his chin out of the way of her fingers letting his arms dangle by his sides, and he felt like a child being dressed for play in the snow.

"There," she said with satisfaction, and when he opened his eyes to look at her, she smiled and quickly brushed her fingers thorough his hair, saying, "Judges ought not go around looking like Carrot Top."

"Well?" he asked self-consciously after she moved back a couple of steps and cast a critical eye over him. "What do you think?"

"I'd say it was just about a perfect fit. How does it feel?"

"Weird," he replied honestly. "It feels like I've put on somebody else's skin."

"You haven't; it's your skin now, remember?" she answered thoughtfully.

"Yeah, I guess you're right."

"I am right."

"Maybe, but I feel like a fool right now."

"Why? You don't look like a fool."

"All dressed up and no place to go, I guess," he mumbled, flapping the full skirt of his robe like a distraught matron.

"Where's your courtroom?" she asked. "I want to see it?"

"What for?" he asked doubtfully.

"Just curious," she said casually. "I've been wanting to see where it is you do your thing."

"In that case," he laughed, "where I do my thing is right through that door."

"Really!" she exclaimed excitedly, and, grabbing his hand, she said "Come on, then; show it to me," and tugged him toward the door.