“Many a good street car conductor has been spoiled by a foolish idea that he could become a lawyer,” Ashley would often say. Grace heard this curious phrase many times in class and often wondered if his words were meant for her. Ashley believed that a law degree might be beneficial to society women but only so that they could know what a deed or power of attorney was. The rest of her classmates probably thought this was Grace’s interest as well.
And it might have been, at some point. But somewhere along the way, that changed. What Grace found particularly fascinating was Ashley’s view on cases. Ashley would walk in, tip his beard up, and speak on how cases could be used to illustrate a particular set of learning objectives; as in real life, rarely were there precise answers to the issue at hand. For the final decision of a case, Ashley cared nothing. It was only the process that he taught and stood by. The first principle was his shrine. In class, he built his cases on interviews, public sources, and even personal experience. He built stories out of fragments. Ashley would then lead his students to an “aha” moment, during which conventional wisdom was trumped by deeper, more seasoned insights. This great connection to life—real life—intrigued Grace deeply. Ashley began to notice this student in the front.
One night in class, students looked around and realized that Grace was missing from her familiar spot in the first row. Whispers cut through the classroom. Had she given up? Dropped out? Or was it something even worse?
She’s in the day class now, someone piped up.
With the personal aid of Dean Ashley, Grace Quackenbos had been moved to the regular program. She completed a three-year law degree in two short years, graduating in 1903, one of only twelve women in her class. She immediately received a clerkship with the Legal Aid Society of New York, which offered low-cost legal help to the poor. Grace was admitted to the bar in the state of New York in 1905, becoming one of only a thousand female lawyers in the whole United States.
*
Grace was going through her mail one afternoon when she opened a letter from a group of Wellesley College girls. Their letter told the sad story of a woman in New Jersey named Antoinette Tolla who was doomed to hang for defending herself against a man who had threatened her. The papers had not reported on her case. Grace had never heard of her. Mrs. Tolla was innocent, the girls said. They begged Grace to help her.
Grace felt a strange connection to the woman she was reading about, this Antoinette Tolla. Grace was twenty-six years old, just like Mrs. Tolla, and had passed the bar just as Antoinette was being shown her jail cell.
The next morning, Grace set out bright and early for New Jersey, feeling very young and inexperienced, and without the faintest notion of what she might do when she got there. Grace was a full-fledged lawyer and had been for two months, but she had never argued a case. And she had taken to dressing completely in black.
Grace went to see Sheriff Mercer at the Trenton jail, where they were now holding Mrs. Tolla. The sheriff told Grace that he had no authority to let her see the prisoner. Grace wandered about the shadows of the jail, wondering what to do next. As she tried to guess what Dean Ashley would do, she was approached by a man who suggested she call on Father Lambert, a nearby priest who ministered at the jail. The priest welcomed her in and told her everything he knew about Antoinette Tolla. Father Lambert believed strongly in Antoinette’s innocence. He advised her to go straight to the governor since there was so little time left. The priest confessed little hope for Antoinette’s earthly future, but he prayed for it anyway.
That afternoon, Grace took the train to see the governor. As Grace watched the rectangular glimpses of a gray-and-black landscape pass by her, she didn’t like her chances. When Grace arrived, she waited an hour before the governor received her. Governor Stokes listened patiently as Grace went on about a woman she had never even met. When Grace had finished, the governor took a deep breath and replied slowly.
“My dear young lady,” he said, looking down on her. “Your efforts are useless. The woman is guilty, and I can’t do anything about the sentence. The law must take its course.
“However,” he added, after a long pause. He reached for a thick book on a shelf above his desk. “Here is the Record on Appeal. If you care to take it with you and read it, you may have it.”
Grace left his office carrying the heavy book. As Grace boarded a late train bound for New York, she knew that, according to the edict of the law, there were only two days left in Antoinette Tolla’s life. But there wasn’t a ghost of a chance to save her, especially here on a train. Settling back into her seat, Grace opened the law book and paged through it until she found the appeal of Tolla’s conviction to the Supreme Court of New Jersey. There on the nighttime train, Grace read the ruling that refused Antoinette a new trial, her eyes stopping on this section:
No pistol seems to have been found other than the one used by the defendant. Her account of Sonta’s exhibiting a pistol, as well as her statement of his remark after he was shot through the brain, is manifestly fanciful.
Grace sat upright. Why did it say “No pistol seems to have been found”? Why “seems?” If there was no pistol on Sonta, then no wonder Antoinette was convicted—there could be no argument for self-defense. But Antoinette was clear in her explanation that there was a gun. Grace hurriedly gathered her things together and left the train at Trenton, eager to follow up on the tiny lead.
By the time Grace got back, it was already midnight. She phoned Governor Stokes, asking him to let the prosecutor give her access to the case records. The governor obliged, and Grace got a room in a local hotel. She tried to fall asleep but could only stare at the small clock in her room. The hands seemed light and fast. Antoinette Tolla had less than forty-eight hours to live.
The next day was Sunday. Grace spoke with Mr. Koester, the original prosecutor of the case, but he said there was no gun in evidence. The trail was cold again. After thinking for a moment, Grace brightened up with an idea. After getting an address, she went to see the county coroner, an older man named Morgan. When she got to his house at five that afternoon, he was seated at an old-fashioned organ playing “Nearer My God to Thee.” Morgan silently offered Grace a chair. She listened politely, in the very bright room, shifting in her seat as Morgan pushed the keys and pumps. When Morgan was done playing, Grace told him who she was. He looked her up and down.
Grace decided not to waste time bluffing. She told Morgan that she was here to see the gun taken from Sonta’s dead body.
Morgan hesitated. But then, to Grace’s surprise, he nodded.