In Tribute to Gladys Towle Root
SAN DIEGO — The most spectacular woman I ever met in my life was not a raving beauty, nor femme fatale. She was a trim, blonde, middle-aged woman of unremarkable features. She had not achieved the political accomplishments of a Golda Mier, and lacked the poetic soul of a Maya Angelou.She was a Los Angeles criminal defense attorney. Spectacular is an accurate description of Gladys Towle Root and paradoxical would be the correct adjective to describe her.
My introduction to Mrs. Root was through a Coast Guard O.C. S. classmate and fellow New Yorker. He moved to Los Angeles after his release from the service as legal officer in New Orleans in February 1959. He worked for Mrs. Root as her assistant in his first job as an attorney.
I visited him a few months after he joined Mrs. Root’s firm. I was in Los Angeles on business for American Airlines. He told me of this very different woman attorney he worked for who dressed bizarrely, whether in her office, appearing in court, shopping or attending the theater. However, she was a crackerjack criminal defense lawyer. She would dress in spectacular, unique clothing, both in style and color. One day she might appear in court wearing a hat with peacock feathers, enough feathers to look like a bird was sitting on her head. Another day she was clothed in a Victorian ball gown with a fabric train trailing after her on the polished courtroom floor. A third day, her bejeweled shoes might curl up at the toe.
The courtroom arena where she pleaded her cases was always packed. Even the judges eagerly awaited her appearance to see her latest fashion creation. However, no Judge ever admonished her for the spectacular outfits that adorned her because she was so professional in her craft and respectful in her demeanor. In court she was all business,respected by her peers as one of the top defense attorneys in Los Angeles.
The flamboyant barrister had some other unusual traits. In the legal profession it is common practice to lunch with clients or associates in fine dining establishments with immaculate service and decor. Gladys, however, preferred McDonald’s, Jack in the Box, or drive-in window service at Carl’s Jr. My friend Pierce, who received an “A” in the class all law school students must pass, before graduation, entitled “Proper Dressing And Dining,” had to persuade her, with difficulty, to eat at a more discriminating beanery during lunch recess.
One day I accompanied him to his office to pick up some papers. The waiting room had eight curved-back chairs positioned back-to-back in the center of the room. The chairs were covered with shiny metallic silver lame fabric. One bank of chairs faced a wall painted to simulate downtown Los Angeles office buildings at night. Paste jewels of various colors glued to the windows of the buildings simulated the reflection seen in the evening. The opposite facing row looked onto a mural of the Los Angeles skyline by day, painted a pinkish tan hue. This mural had rhinestone jewels glued to the windows, to simulate the sun’s reflection.
Mrs. Root’s personal office was a long, rather narrow, room without windows. One sidewall housed shelves of supplies and documents. Covering the shelves were floor to ceiling painted, wood sliding doors. On each door was a full-length portrait of Gladys in one of her court costumes. Half a dozen padded silver chairs for clients faced her desk. The desk was entirely faced with mirrors, top, front, and sides. Her chair, of course, was in a silver fabric. Behind her chair was a full-length light gray curtain with her initials sewn in the center in rhinestone script.
One day of my visit, I went to the court. Outside the courtroom Mrs. Root was conferring with her client and his wife. The couple were in their mid-thirties and stood out by virtue with their distinctive height. He was a slender six-foot-five inches tall, a far away look in his eyes. His wife, a handsome lass, topped out at six-foot-two. The husband was a ne’er do well whose greatest talent, as testified in court, was “shtupping” his wife three times a day. In between these daily rides he made visits to the racetrack, gambling and usually losing. His wife’s wealthy mother provided the money as an allowance to him as long as he kept her daughter happy. Over time his betting losses became so large he could no longer place bets on every race. He asked his mother-in-law for an increase in allowance, and she turned him down, admonishing him to live with the money she gave him.
Humiliated and angered by the mother’s denial, he plotted her demise. Shortly thereafter he suggested the three of them take a sight seeing drive into the nearby Santa Monica Mountains. At some point in the tour he parked the car at the edge of a high scenic overlook and got out of the car with the pretext of checking a rear tire, deceptively leaving the gearshift in neutral. He then proceeded to push the car with the intention of propelling it off the precipice to the rocks far below killing his mother-in-law and his wife. Unfortunately for him, a rear wheel caught on a rock before it plunged over the edge. The two women escaped from the car, beat him into submission, and had him arrested for attempted murder.
As the trial continued, the lonely wife began to visit her imprisoned husband, once more fell under his amorous spell (remember three times per day), and recanted her testimony. Her mother, however, refused to do so and he was convicted. He only got a few years in jail, was paroled, and reconciled with his wife. Mrs. Root had to sue to collect $25,000 in unpaid fees.
The last evening of my visit, I accompanied my buddy to his boss’s home to deliver some papers. She lived in a fashionable area close to downtown L.A., an easy drive to the courts, and her office. Her home, a tasteful Spanish hacienda, was nestled comfortably in a landscape of lush tropical plants and trees. We rang the bell and Mrs. Root opened the door dressed in a full-length bright red knitted dress that reached to the floor. Creamy white Ermine tails emanated profusely from the entire length of the dress. She certainly wasn’t the housemaid.
She guided us through the large black-and-white checked marble floor in the hall to the vivid leaf green painted living room. I asked the charming but unsmiling Mrs. Root the origin of her flamboyant dress style. She replied, “It was my deceased husband’s influence. He felt the world was too dull with conformity, and needed individualism and flair. He would wear an Ostrich skin shirt, yellow shoes, or a feathered hat if he felt in the mood.”
I wonder where I can find an Ostrich shirt? I’m allergic to feathers and I already own a pair of yellow shoes.
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Ira Spector is an author and freelance writer based in San Diego. This selection, with slight revisions, was republished from Spector’s 2011 work, Sammy Where Are You? An Unconventional Memoir … Sort of. It is available via Amazon.