O'Brien's Desk. Ona Russell

the boxed meal he had packed for himself. Unlike most of the employees at The Blade who went out for lunch, Mitchell usually ate quietly at his desk. Although he appreciated a good restaurant as much as anyone else, he long ago realized that he was especially susceptible to the lure of alcohol at that time of day. And Volstead offered little comfort. He had overcome much greater obstacles than a silly law when he really wanted a drink. On more than one occasion early in his career, his propensity for noontime drinking had resulted in his failure to return to work. Years had passed since any of these incidents had occurred, but still he didn’t quite trust himself in the congenial atmosphere of Toledo’s lunch rooms. So as others made their way to Jake’s or Betty’s or Reed’s Chop House, a particular favorite of the press, Mitchell munched on his ham sandwich, apple, and cookie and continued to read.

      When only crumbs remained, he wiped his mouth, tossed the garbage into an already overfull container, and took note of one further point before turning to the articles on the marriage. With few exceptions, O’Donnell’s leisure activities were scrupulously, if not obsessively, recorded by the press. Mitchell couldn’t recall any other official, or for that matter, any person at all, who received such attention. Fishing trips, hotel stays, even a simple night on the town instantly became public property. Such as the night of November 23rd, when the telepathist, Eugene de Rubini, came to Toledo. Although the pieces on this subject indicated that many of Toledo’s elite were in attendance, O’Donnell’s participation in the event received top billing. Quoted as saying that he had a “keen interest in the program,” it was the judge who was pictured with Rubini, and he whom reporters sycophantically followed both entering and exiting the theater. The only reference to other notables in the crowd that night indirectly related to O’Donnell as well. Charles Northrop, was mentioned, for example, but only with respect to his participation in an act O’Donnell had suggested, asking Rubini to find a hidden coin that ultimately wound up in Mr. Northrop’s coat pocket. Sarah Kaufman, the head of the Women’s Probate Court and frequently in O’Donnell’s company, was likewise mentioned in relationship to a telepathic episode the judge had proposed. O’Donnell asked Rubini to guess what was on Miss Kaufman’s mind. When he responded that it was the judge himself who occupied her thoughts, everyone applauded when, as the article reported, “Miss Kaufman somewhat reluctantly confirmed that this was indeed true.”

      Exactly why everyone was so interested in these activities and why O’Donnell so willingly divulged such information had always been a mystery to Mitchell. But what this long-standing tradition did underscore was the curiousness of the rare instances when the judge resolutely denied the press such access. According to the date of this specific paper, Mitchell determined that one of these times oddly enough occurred on the same day as Rubini’s performance.

      “After responding to a number of questions about his ruling a few hours earlier on the Emanuel Cavender case, Judge O’Donnell refused for the second time that day to reveal the location of his Christmas holiday.”

      Stating that the judge was “Sphinx-like” when asked about his plans, the reporter furthermore suggested a willful inscrutability on O’Donnell’s part, an attitude so uncharacteristic, that it should have aroused suspicion in any Toledoan who was even remotely familiar with the man.