Lance Morrow

Mary Pinchot Meyer was a painter, a pacifist, and a woman who grew up rich but didn't like to follow rules. Dovey Johnson Roundtree became a civil rights lawyer at a time when Black people were systematically stripped of their rights. She was a minister, too, and determined to use the law to defend all God's children.

Mary Pinchot Meyer was a painter, a pacifist, and a woman who grew up rich but didn't like to follow rules. Dovey Johnson Roundtree became a civil rights lawyer at a time when Black people were systematically stripped of their rights. She was a minister, too, and determined to use the law to defend all God's children.

The lives of these two women ran parallel to one another until one horrible day in 1964. Both were smart and confident. They had brilliant minds. In another world, I wonder if they might have even met. But they had never crossed paths in the district, except after one of them was killed. At that moment, in 1964, their lives suddenly intersected. And now, their legacies are forever intertwined.

The lives of these two women ran parallel to one another until one horrible day in 1964. Both were smart and confident. They had brilliant minds. In another world, I wonder if they might have even met. But they had never crossed paths in the district, except after one of them was killed. At that moment, in 1964, their lives suddenly intersected. And now, their legacies are forever intertwined.

Let's start at the moment that would bring them together. The day one of them was murdered. Her name was Mary Pinchot Meyer, and her final day started like any other. It was two days before her 44th birthday, one of those crisp days that actually makes you happy summer is over. Cool enough for a sweater, but still bright and sunny, with a blue sky streaming above. Mary was painting.

Let's start at the moment that would bring them together. The day one of them was murdered. Her name was Mary Pinchot Meyer, and her final day started like any other. It was two days before her 44th birthday, one of those crisp days that actually makes you happy summer is over. Cool enough for a sweater, but still bright and sunny, with a blue sky streaming above. Mary was painting.

She loved to paint. It was somewhere between a hobby and a job for her. She had spent 13 years married to a CIA man named Cord Meyer, holding down the fort while he traveled and spoke around the country. By this time, Mary resented her then-husband and what he represented. After their divorce, their two sons went away to boarding school.

She loved to paint. It was somewhere between a hobby and a job for her. She had spent 13 years married to a CIA man named Cord Meyer, holding down the fort while he traveled and spoke around the country. By this time, Mary resented her then-husband and what he represented. After their divorce, their two sons went away to boarding school.

Mary suddenly had a lot of time alone and could devote it to her craft. On most days, she'd hole herself up in her studio and just paint and paint and paint. Her studio was how you would imagine an artist's haven would be. It was a converted garage with two skylights littered with notebooks.

Mary suddenly had a lot of time alone and could devote it to her craft. On most days, she'd hole herself up in her studio and just paint and paint and paint. Her studio was how you would imagine an artist's haven would be. It was a converted garage with two skylights littered with notebooks.

That's Ben Bradley. I remember him from when I was a kid. He was a newspaper legend. You might remember him, too, from Watergate. He was editor-in-chief of the Washington Post when they broke the story. He also happened to be Mary's sister's husband. Mary was exploring a new artistic style. She was painting these concentric, colorful circles on round canvases, known in the art world as tondos.

That's Ben Bradley. I remember him from when I was a kid. He was a newspaper legend. You might remember him, too, from Watergate. He was editor-in-chief of the Washington Post when they broke the story. He also happened to be Mary's sister's husband. Mary was exploring a new artistic style. She was painting these concentric, colorful circles on round canvases, known in the art world as tondos.

They gave you a window into Mary's art and the way her mind worked. Her routine was the same every day. Mary went into her studio, turned up the electric space heater, poured coffee from her thermos, lit up a cigarette. And then she would paint. For hours on end. Until that time of the day when concentration becomes difficult and the mind grows hazy.

They gave you a window into Mary's art and the way her mind worked. Her routine was the same every day. Mary went into her studio, turned up the electric space heater, poured coffee from her thermos, lit up a cigarette. And then she would paint. For hours on end. Until that time of the day when concentration becomes difficult and the mind grows hazy.

Like clockwork, around noon, Mary would go for a walk on the towpath, just when she was losing focus. Mary savored walking on the towpath. In the winter, she'd even ice skate along the ice that blanketed the canals. Her daily walks gave her the time and space to think, get inspired. And that was what Mary was doing on October 12, 1964.

Like clockwork, around noon, Mary would go for a walk on the towpath, just when she was losing focus. Mary savored walking on the towpath. In the winter, she'd even ice skate along the ice that blanketed the canals. Her daily walks gave her the time and space to think, get inspired. And that was what Mary was doing on October 12, 1964.

Before heading out, Mary had put on her gloves and pedal pushers. She layered herself with a cable-knit blue Angora sweater. The inside of her gloves had a cleaner's mark that said Meyer. That would later help police identify the body. She slipped her red tube of lipstick in her pocket and put on her white paint-splattered PF flyers. That day, she had a chore to do, a fun one.

Before heading out, Mary had put on her gloves and pedal pushers. She layered herself with a cable-knit blue Angora sweater. The inside of her gloves had a cleaner's mark that said Meyer. That would later help police identify the body. She slipped her red tube of lipstick in her pocket and put on her white paint-splattered PF flyers. That day, she had a chore to do, a fun one.

She had a cat that had laid some kittens. That's Nina Burley. She wrote a biography of Mary called A Very Private Woman.

She had a cat that had laid some kittens. That's Nina Burley. She wrote a biography of Mary called A Very Private Woman.