"WILHELM, KATE - JUSTICE FOR SOME" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilhelm Kate)

Bar and Grill. She had walked in and been greeted by a few people there;
the place was full, with people playing pool, drinking, huddling in
booths whispering, and she had been shocked by the realization that she
was there looking for a man.

Any man. No long-term commitment, no promises for even another day, just
a man for one hour. She had fled, had driven for hours, and returned
home only when dawn was breaking.

She sat up and hugged her knees hard against her chest and thought so
clearly that she knew she had been thinking this for hours, and had
denied the thought for hours: If she were appointed a federal judge, she
would move out of Pendleton, where everyone knew everyone; she would
live in a big city where she would be unknown, and where it wouldn't
matter if she were known. She could see men if she chose to, date them,
sleep with them. If she were appointed federal judge, it was for life.

She would be free. No more impossible decisions about tomorrow, next
year, no more worry about what she would live on when Blaine's term ran
out, no more worry that she might not be able to get another job as a
lawyer anywhere.

And if she had wings, she thought bitterly, rocking back and forth-but
she could not see herself with wings flying through the air, and she
could see herself at the bench. Curiously, the image of herself at the
bench was sharper, more in focus than the memory of Blaine there. She
pressed her face hard against her knees, rocking back and forth.

"Were you their man, Blaine?" she whispered. "Were you?" ALL FRIDAY
AFTERNOON Winnie Drexler had been overseeing the construction of a
fantasy as workmen laid sod and struggled with tubs of plants to create
the illusion of a suburban yard. A fence line was being delineated with
potted roses and junipers. This was supposed to be a comer of a yard,
and it probably would fool most people, who would pay little attention
to the background and would not suspect that the lush grass was a
postage-stamp-size patch of new sod. Where it ended, near-desert
conditions began-brittle gray or tan grasses, pale cracked earth.

Ringing the immediate setting, mountain peaks reached the sky, a few of
them with the sheen of snow, but most of them bare, some close enough to
make out individual slopes, some lost in a hazy distance.

Closer, behind the potted shrubs, a hill rose steeply, brown already
with clumps of dead-looking grass, a few scattered, tired pine trees,
and many pale rocks. In another direction the background was rows of
greenhouses and, finally, dusty old poplars between here and the road.

None of this would make it to the video.

"Okay," Winnie said, as the men working with the heavy pots waited,