The Case of the Queenly Contestant

Mason said, “If you are walking along the street in a public place and a photographer takes your picture to illustrate a street scene, he can use that picture as a magazine illustration.

“If the photographer singles you out to take your particular picture, he may or may not still be within his rights. If he uses that picture for any commercial enterprise, he has violated your privacy.

“If, on the other hand, you become newsworthy because you are the victim of a holdup, or if you decide to run for public office, or if you do anything of your own volition which makes you newsworthy...”

“I see. I see,” she said, looking at her watch impatiently. “You’re right. I’m going at it in the wrong way. A person who runs for public office waives the right of privacy?”

“Within reasonable limitations, yes.”

“How about a person who runs for — well, a beauty contest?”

“Declaring herself as a candidate?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

“The same situation would apply.”

“And how long would that situation last?”

“At least as long as the contest and the enjoyment of the rewards of the contest, if any.

“Understand, Miss Adair — or is it Mrs. Adair?”

“It’s Miss Adair,” the woman said sharply. “Ellen Adair.”

“All right. Understand, Miss Adair, this is a relatively new branch of the law. From its very nature it is not capable of exact, precise delineation. Each case depends largely on the facts in that particular case.

“Now let me suggest that, if you’re involved in anything where you wish to assert your right to privacy, you start in, in an orderly way, by telling me the facts of the case and quit beating around the bush.

“After I have the facts I can apply my knowledge of the law to the facts and give you an intelligent answer.

“If you try to get the law from me and then apply the law to the facts, you may make a very costly mistake. You might know the legal principle, but the application to a particular set of facts would be all wrong.”

She hesitated, bit her lip, frowned, averted her eyes, then reaching a sudden decision, turned to Mason and said, “Very well; twenty years ago in a Midwestern city I was a contestant in one of those bathing-beauty contests. I won first prize. I was eighteen at the time. Winning the contest went to my head. I thought I was a motion-picture star, because winning the contest gave me a free trip to Hollywood and a screen test by one of the major studios.”

“You came to Hollywood and took the test?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

“And have been here ever since?”

Ellen Adair shook her head, “No,” she said, “I disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” Mason asked, his voice showing his interest.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To have my baby,” she said.

There were several seconds of silence, then Mason said sympathetically, “Go on.”

“Now,” she said, “a paper in my hometown is publishing one of those features which the rural newspapers dig up from time to time: a column dealing with twenty-five years ago, twenty years ago, fifteen years ago, ten years ago.”

“I see,” Mason said noncommittally.

“Well, they want to publish a story about me winning the beauty prize twenty years ago, it was quite an honor for the town. I won the state beauty contest, and the hometown was proud of me.

“Then I went to Hollywood and had a screen test and nothing came of it. I was given an automobile, a motion-picture camera, a projector, a lot of beauty creams and toilet articles, an airplane trip to Las Vegas — all that type of thing which is showered on a girl who wins a contest and from which the manufacturers get enough publicity so it offsets the cost of the merchandise. It is, of course, all part of a commercialized advertising program, and I was too dumb to know it. I thought that I was getting all of those things because of my popularity and charm.”

“And then you disappeared?” Mason said.

“Abruptly,” she said. “I wrote friends that I had a flattering offer to go to Europe. Of course I didn’t go to Europe.”

“Quite obviously,” Mason said, “this is a painful interview for you. It is raking over the ashes of a dead past, but it is also apparent that you are faced with a very real emergency. Does the newspaper know where you are now?”

“It can find me.”

“How?”

“It’s rather a long story. I disappeared. I didn’t even let my family know where I was. Remember that this was twenty years ago. The whole mores of the people have changed materially in twenty years. An unmarried woman can have a baby now and get by with it if she’s clever and self-respecting. In those days it was a matter of deep shame — shame to the unwed mother, shame to the parents, shame to the community.

“The whole town where I lived was proud of me. That would have changed overnight. They would have crucified me on a cross of public scorn.”

“No need to explain all that,” Mason said. “As a lawyer I know the facts of life. But you disappeared. You didn’t let your folks know where you were?”

“No.”

“And what happened?”