Erle Gardner: The Case of the Half-Wakened Wife

“What was she doing?” Jane Keller asked.

“Sitting in a chair, looking out the window,” Martha Stanhope said in a flat, expressionless voice.

Martha Stanhope determinedly pushed open the door marked PERRY MASON, Attorney at Law, ENTRANCE then held the door for Jane Keller, who was lagging somewhat dubiously behind.

The receptionist looked up from the switchboard, smiled, said, “Good afternoon.”

“Is Mr. Mason in?”

The receptionist said, “Mr. Mason has left for the evening.”

“Oh dear... Isn’t there some way I could see him?”

“I’ll let you talk with his secretary, Della Street.”

“Please do.”

The receptionist plugged in a line, said, “Miss Street, there are two women here who seem very anxious to see Mr. Mason. Could you... Thanks.”

She pulled out the plug, smiled once more at the women, said, “Please be seated. Mr. Mason’s personal secretary will be here in a moment.”

The women sat down, exchanged glances. Jane Keller seemed definitely apprehensive as to whether what she was doing would meet with Lawton Keller’s approval.

Martha Stanhope, her chin up, lips tight, met her sister’s eyes with a glance that was almost hypnotic in its firm determination.

“Don’t you think, Martha, that while we’re waiting I could call Lawton and...”

“No.”

Jane sighed, said dubiously, “Well... of course...”

The door that was marked PRIVATE opened and Della Street, trim, efficient, was smiling at them. “I’m sorry. Mr. Mason has left for the evening. But, if you’ll give me your names and tell me generally what you wanted to see him about...”

Martha Stanhope did the talking and Della Street made notes, getting the names, the addresses and the nature of their business.

When Martha had finished speaking, Della frowned down at her shorthand notes, said, “Mr. Mason won’t be in any more this evening but Mr. Jackson is here.”

“Who’s Mr. Jackson?”

“He’s an assistant to Mr. Mason... Frankly, Mr. Mason doesn’t do very much except important cases in court and...”

“I know,” Jane Keller said. “I didn’t think he’d be interested.”

“But,” Della Street went on, “he’s always interested in cases where there is an apparent injustice. I think you’d better talk with Mr. Jackson. It’s after five now and you won’t find any other lawyers in their offices, I’m afraid.”

“We’ll talk with him,” Martha Stanhope said grimly.

“This way please,” Della Street said.

Jackson was a legally erudite man who was never so happy as when his nose was buried in a law book, searching for some precedent which would give him a case that was “on all fours.”

He seldom left the office before six or six-thirty, and then tore himself away from his law books with obvious reluctance, a man with a vast memory, studious habits and a meticulously formal type of mind. His eyes seemed more at home resting on the printed pages of his book than on the human faces of his clients.

Jackson at one time confessed to Perry Mason, “My greatest trouble is translating the problems of my clients into the proper legal category. Once I get them definitely fixed, however, I never have any more trouble. I just keep on searching until I find a precedent. But it’s hard for me to translate life into law.”

The lower part of Jackson’s face showed a certain nervous tension. His nose was long and thin. The taut mouth turned down slightly at the corners, and there were deep calipers stretching down from the nostrils. There was no tension, however, about the upper part of his head where the high forehead was placid in its tranquillity, the calm of absolute knowledge.

Jackson was, in his patient way, a genius at uncovering the exact needle he wanted from the haystack of legal decisions.

Naturally a cautious individual on his own account, he never ventured to pilot his clients through unchartered paths in the legal domain. Once Jackson had translated the problem of a client into its proper legal category, he delved into the books until he found where a similar case had gone to a court of last resort. Thereafter, unless the client impatiently took the bit in his teeth, he was never permitted to make a move which had not previously been made by some other litigant, duly taken to court, and thereafter adjudicated by some appellate tribunal.

So long as Jackson was following in the footsteps of some previous litigant he was crisp, decisive, and sure of himself. But, if it ever became necessary for his feet to leave the charted legal paths and explore new realms, the man froze to a standstill.

When Jackson had married, he had proposed to an attractive widow some five years his senior, but quite definitely a widow. As Perry Mason had pointed out to Della Street, even in matrimonial affairs, Jackson was afraid to blaze a trail on his own initiative.

Jackson sat thoughtfully silent as he listened to Jane Keller’s story, interspersed from time to time with comments from Martha Stanhope.

“Do you have a copy of this printed oil lease?” he asked.

“No, I haven’t,” Jane said. “My brother-in-law, Lawton, has it.”

“I am very much interested in the exact wording of that provision,” Jackson said.

Martha Stanhope said, “It wouldn’t take her over half an hour or three quarters of an hour at the most to go out and get it.”

Jackson looked at his watch. “I’m afraid that would be pretty late. There’s nothing that can be done tonight, in any event. However,” he added somewhat wistfully, “I would like to get the facts clear in my own mind so that I could make a quick search and see if a similar provision hasn’t been adjudicated somewhere. A printed contract indicates a definite possibility that an exactly identical provision has been construed by some court in some state.”

“How would you go about finding that?” Martha asked.

Jackson waved his hand towards the law library. “The cases decided by courts of last resort in all of the states are printed and bound,” he said. “We have them.”

“And you can find a case like that?”

“Oh yes,” Jackson said smiling reassuringly, “I can find it... I can nearly always find a case in point. It’s just a question of knowing where to look and how to look, and then staying with it long enough.”

“Well, Jane could go out. We might be able to get a cab...”

“I could telephone Lawton,” Jane said, “and get him to read that to me over the telephone and we could write it down.”

Jackson said, “That’s an idea.” He pushed back his chair abruptly and said, “Wait there please,” and after a perfunctory knock on the door of Mason’s private office, said to Della Street, “Mr. Mason won’t be back any more tonight I suppose?”

“I don’t think so.”

“There’s a clause in this oil lease that I’d like to work on. Would you mind taking it down in shorthand for me if we can get someone to read it to us over the telephone?”

“Certainly not,” Della Street said picking up her notebook. “I’ll be glad to.”

Jackson’s smile was apologetic. “The stenographers have all left for the evening,” he said. “I guess we’re holding down the office.”

“It’s all right with me,” Della said. “I’ll write it out for you.”

They entered Jackson’s office. Gertie, the receptionist and telephone operator, had gone home, so Jackson’s line was connected with the outside line through the switchboard. He dialed the number Jane Keller gave him, listened while Jane Keller carried on a conversation with her brother-in-law, a conversation which got down to the point at issue only after several minutes of voluble explanation as to the reason for the call and the necessity of consulting a lawyer.