Holland Taylor Trilogy by David Housewright Page B

people who share it. Three people already share this one.”
    â€œThat’s it, I’m out of here,” I announced and pushed myself upright.
    â€œTell him,” a warm voice spoke behind me. I turned in my chair to see C. C. Monroe’s radiant smile. She stood with her back against the closed door, wearing an oversized black-and-cream sweater with a roll neck and padded shoulders. Her skirt was black and pleated; it swished when she moved toward me. I liked it a lot. When a reporter asked C. C. early in her career why she didn’t wear the traditional navy blue suit of Minnesota politicians, she answered, “I wasn’t aware I was supposed to. I didn’t take political science in college.”
    â€œI am not convinced it would be prudent to tell him anything just yet,” Marion Senske said.
    â€œHe’s here to help,” C. C. replied. “You are here to help aren’t you, Mr. …”
    â€œHolland Taylor,” I said, extending my hand. She shook it without hesitation. “It is a great pleasure to meet you,” I told her. I’m always gracious to prospective clients; it’s only after they hire me that I become surly.
    â€œI am Carol Catherine Monroe,” she said, proud of the fact. “Please sit, Holland.”
    I sat.
    â€œWe could use your help and if you give me your word that nothing you hear will go beyond these walls, I will tell you why.”
    â€œYou have my word,” I told her.
    â€œOh God,” Marion moaned from behind the desk.

    Carol Catherine Monroe had been going nowhere fast until the day Terrance Friedlander was killed. She told me so herself, told me frankly while sitting across from me, our knees occasionally touching.
    â€œThe truth is, I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of beating Friedlander,” she confessed.
    Friedlander was much loved in his district. The kids who played on his bantam hockey team called him “Mr. Terry.” To everyone else he was just plain “Terry.” He had won seven consecutive elections to the House by increasingly larger margins and it was said that whoever ran against him was a damn fool. Well, C. C. Monroe was not a damn fool. But she was bored silly shuffling papers for the DOT. She had been doing it for two years, since passing the bar. So she volunteered to oppose Friedlander, hoping that after the election the political contacts she’d make would help her move out of the Department of Transportation and into a more meaningful office, like the Pollution Control Agency or attorney general’s office. Since no other candidates were forthcoming, the party leaders shook her hand, patted her head, whispered “Good luck,” and got the hell out of there.
    Then Friedlander was killed.
    C. C. had not really wanted to go to the House of Representatives, had had no idea what she would do when she got there. Yet once she arrived she discovered, or so she said, “there was so much to be done, so much that I could do. I think it was good that I wasn’t a real politician, that I wasn’t beholden to special interests. I could see the possibilities.”
    She had also seen that she needed help. So C. C. enlisted the aid of Marion Senske, a private-practice attorney well known for her feminist activities who had lectured C. C.’s law class years before. Under Marion’s tutelage, C. C. soon became a star of the local women’s movement, preaching Marion’s doctrine that “Women are not to be dismissed or taken lightly anymore. They have power. They can make an impact.”
    C. C. was outspoken and she was quotable, although the words were nearly always Marion’s. Plus, she had great legs; her obvious sex appeal always guaranteed a larger share for the TV news programs and talk shows she appeared on. So that particular year, when the governor, who was running for reelection, and the mayor of St. Paul, who was trying to