O'Brien's Desk. Ona Russell

“The privileges of class!” Sarah said mockingly, as she entered the room. “My, my, look at this place! The epitome of luxury!”

      The small eight by ten room was in actuality cramped and dank. The tiny window on the south wall was locked and barred, offering little relief. Aside from the bed, there was no other furniture except a requisite table and lamp, the light from which cast a sickening glow over O’Brien, who responded instantly to the sound of Sarah’s voice. “Sarah, Sarah, oh Sarah, my dear.”

      Sarah immediately abandoned her meager attempt to lighten his spirits. In truth, she had made those trifling remarks about the room as much to calm herself as to ease his suffering. When Dr. Miller had left her at the threshold of the door, she experienced a surge of anxiety so intense that she worried at her own ability to cope. She even briefly considered turning around to purchase some cigarettes, something she hadn’t done in several years. Finding humor in difficult times had helped her before, so why not try it? But she had clearly made a mistake: there was no way to view this as a joking matter.

      That became even more evident as she approached the judge and witnessed the physical signs of his torment. The thin, white hair matted with perspiration, the drawn and pale face stained with tears, the usually soft grey-blue eyes dehumanized by frighteningly constricted pupils. Worst of all, although O’Brien was extremely restless, he couldn’t really move because his arms and legs were cinched tightly to the bed. My God, they have him in some kind of strait jacket. Miller said nothing about this.

      “Sarah, Sarah.”

      “Yes, Obee, it’s me.”

      O’Brien gazed up at her. “Sarah, I’m so ashamed. So ashamed.” He began weeping.

      “Ashamed? Ashamed of what, Obee? What’s happened? Try to calm yourself and tell me what exactly has happened.”

      Without hesitation, Sarah untied O’Brien’s right hand and held it comfortingly in her own. Generous and strong, this was a hand that had reached out to those in need and commanded entire court rooms. Today it was clammy and weak, barely able to return her grasp. “Obee, now please, you wanted me here. Talk to me.” O’Brien moaned. “Yes, I did want you here. I wanted you here so badly, Sarah. I need your help. All is lost unless you can help me . . . you’re the only one who can help me!”

      Sarah’s heart skipped, but she showed no sign of such a response when she answered. “You know I’ll do anything I can. But I first need to know what the problem is, Obee. And, I need to know now.”

      O’Brien stopped crying, stared straight ahead, and in a hoarse, detached voice began.

      “This afternoon, after I returned to my office from lunch, I noticed a letter under my door. There was no postmark, no return address, only my name on the envelope. I went to my desk, opened the letter, and in an instant witnessed my entire world coming to an end. The letter was a threat, Sarah, a threat of such magnitude that I thought I might do myself in right then and there.”

      If Sarah had not witnessed Obee’s condition, she would wonder if he had not invented this story. The whole thing sounded like something out of a bad novel. But seeing him . . . she simply said,“go on.”

      “The letter was typed on plain white paper. The words were few. It stated that if I did not withdraw from the coming election, that everything would be revealed. The person who wrote the letter knows all, Sarah. They know about Winifred, they know about the drugs, and they know about . . . about . . .” “About what, Obee?”

      “My God, Sarah, they know about Westfall, about Frank Westfall!”

      This last statement caused O’Brien to weep again, and move his head about so fitfully that Sarah thought he might never regain his composure. Nevertheless, she needed a few questions answered to ever make sense out of any of this.

      “Obee, try to hold yourself together. Let’s take this slowly. Now first, what does this person claim to know about Winifred?”

      “Oh, Sarah, please don’t judge me too harshly.”

      “I won’t, you know I won’t. Now tell me, what is it?”

      “Sarah, my friend, I should have told you long ago.” O’Brien’s expression became even more pained. His face contorted into deep rivulets. “No, no, I can’t!”

      “Obee!”

      “All right! Winifred was pregnant before we were married! Do you hear me?” he nearly screamed. “I got my wife pregnant before we said our vows, months before! And now someone, someone horribly evil is trying to use it against me!” He reluctantly glanced at Sarah.

      Calmly, she nodded. When the idea had first occurred to her months ago, she dismissed it as utterly fanciful, first, because she had what she believed at the time to be convincing evidence to the contrary, and secondly, because she was so hurt by the possibility. Since then, however, circumstances, particularly the hastiness of the wedding and Winifred’s extended holiday, had forced her to suspect that Obee had indeed married the young woman out of necessity. But for someone else to actually have proof and use it so viciously was another matter entirely. That this blackmailer—for that was clearly what they were dealing with—also knew about and was willing to expose Obee’s drug problem was even more disturbing. As far as Sarah knew, she was the only one, outside of the doctors who attended him, who possessed that information.

      There would be time enough to ponder the identity of this dangerous individual, however, let alone figure out what to do if she were to actually discover it. But the ominous reference to Frank Westfall took the air from her lungs. Because according to the extremity of Obee’s reaction when he mentioned the former county commissioner, the worst was yet to come.

      “All right, Obee, I admit that this situation looks a bit hard. But, really, you must know that you haven’t actually done anything that wrong. You’ve done right by Winifred in marrying her, and people will understand about the drugs. It’s not as if you’re an addict, and no one can prove that your current lapse is anything more than overwork. I mean, that’s what it’s always been due to anyway, hasn’t it, Obee?”

      “Yes, yes my dear. Of course.”

      Sarah chose for the moment to ignore Obee’s unconvincing tone in responding to this question and proceeded on.

      “Okay, then, all we need to really be concerned with is Frank Westfall. I hardly remember him, Obee. What could anyone possibly know about him that would be injurious to you?”

      Obee looked away with such an odd, far off expression, that Sarah feared he might stop talking altogether. When he remained silent after she repeated the question, she tried a different tact.

      “Obee, tell me more about the letter. Do you have it here?” O’Brien shook his head. “Where is it?”

      O’Brien now did turn to her, but with deranged eyes. “I burned it. I tore the letter up and burned it! I couldn’t let anyone see it, Sarah. Not anyone, especially Winifred. She knows nothing of the drugs, nothing of Westfall, and if she thought the pregnancy might be exposed, why, why . . . it would be too horrible to imagine!”

      Very foolish, Sarah thought. Very foolish. But of course he wasn’t aware of what he was doing.

      “Obee, tell me about Frank Westfall. If I’m really the only person who can help you, then I must know what—”

      “I can’t tell you, Sarah. No, I refuse to tell you that!” O’Brien started to weep again.

      “Obee, Obee, you’re being irrational. How am I supposed to help you if I don’t have all the facts? You must tell me. Obee, do you hear me?”

      Sarah took O’Brien’s face in her hand and tried to force him to look at her. But his eyes were closed now, and even when she shook him a little, he lay there listless and limp.

      Frustrated, confused and exhausted, Sarah retied Obee’s arm. Perhaps it was just as well. What he had told her so far was disturbing