When I met Justice Sandra Day O’Connor in 1994, I never imagined that one day she would become my matchmaker.

After the collapse of the Berlin Wall, which symbolized the decline of Soviet-style communism, we met in Bulgaria while representing the American Bar Association’s Central and East European Law Initiative. The program recently had been established to support democratic reforms in former communist countries. Justice O’Connor served on its executive board, and I provided pro bono services focused on strengthening judicial independence, enhancing private legal practice and modernizing law school curricula.

After that, our paths continued to cross, both abroad and during my periodic visits to Washington, D.C. We would meet in her chambers and often have dinner together, sometimes joined by her husband, John, and ABA CEELI co-founder Homer Moyer. Our conversations centered on our shared professional commitment to assisting emerging democracies. In 1995, I was asked to serve as the keynote speaker about ABA CEELI’s work at the ABA Annual Conference. Justice O’Connor introduced me.

I never expected our professional relationship would meld into a personal one. Yet after the annual conference, which John also attended, both pulled me aside and asked about my marital status. John pressed for details: Married? Divorced? Children? “Spinster,” I answered with a wicked smile, confessing that I had yet to find Mr. Right. As if rehearsed, they responded in unison that they were determined to find a great man for me.

I reminded them that I was a Democrat, and that if I ever fell in love with a Republican, we would need daily diplomatic cocktails. Justice O’Connor laughed and said she couldn’t promise me a Democrat but vowed to find a suitable Republican. Unaccustomed to letting grass grow under her feet, she began her quest with two entirely unexpected adventures.

During my next visit to her Supreme Court chambers, she summoned Justice Stephen Breyer to join us. Knowing he had lived in San Francisco, where I was currently living, she asked him about eligible men in the Bay Area. I was astonished. Is this the Supreme Court’s version of small talk during recess? Is dispensing dating advice their form of comic relief?

Perhaps so. Because Justice Breyer began asking about my professional life, my personal life and my interests. There I sat between two Supreme Court justices who were discussing my romantic life. It was surreal. I maintained a casual facade, but beneath it, I was utterly stunned. The meeting ended, and I left with my heart pounding, wondering whether my life was about to change. I couldn’t imagine better matchmakers than two Supreme Court justices.

Whether Justice Breyer pursued eligible bachelors for me, I’ll never know.

A few years later, Justice O’Connor called me at home with the same determination.

“I’ve just met the perfect man. Even though he is a Republican, he’s an attorney, involved in international work and is as philanthropic as you.”

Before I could respond, she continued, speaking as if she was issuing a judicial ruling.

“I want you to come to my Phoenix home this weekend. I’m inviting him, along with several friends, for dinner on Saturday night.” Anyone who personally knew Justice O’Connor is well aware that her “requests” sound like commands.

I had no choice but to answer, “I would be delighted,” while frantically thinking of how to reschedule my weekend. Deadlines were delayed, and dinners were canceled. Two days later, my bags were packed, and I flew to Phoenix.

Arriving at her home, Justice O’Connor ushered me into her kitchen where she was preparing our lunch. Not known for gourmet cooking, she tore open a large plastic bag of a ready-made salad kit. That and orange juice comprised our outdoor lunch. There was no fanfare, and I felt at home.

As evening approached, I imagined an exciting courtship, hoping our dinner conversation would reveal shared passions for travel, cultural events, good food and wine, and tennis. I pictured our conversation igniting a desire to meet again, lessening the impact of political differences. What a wonderful daydream I was having when the doorbell rang.

Three couples who were Justice O’Connor’s close friends entered, followed by the “husband-to-be.” He was a tall, handsome man, comfortable meeting all of us for the first time. His small talk, rich with substantive comments, flowed naturally. His charm and easy laughter fueled my interest.

Neither he nor the three couples knew of Justice O’Connor’s surreptitious matchmaking scheme. She ensured the hors d’oeuvres lasted an hour, using the time to extract as much information as possible with rapid-fire questions as if she was in the middle of oral argument.

He politely answered and continued to talk. And talk. And talk.

When dinner began, he continued uninterrupted. We all learned much about him. He was, indeed, a fascinating man, but there was little opportunity for others to speak.

Rather than being an engaging conversationalist, he was a monologuist. I became irritated by his outsized ego and could not comprehend how he was so clueless in the company of a Supreme Court justice and her formidable friends. How could he find the sound of his voice mesmerizing enough to hijack the conversation?

Dinner ended, and as soon as the guests left, I retreated to my bedroom, thoughts whirling over how awful he was. I tossed and turned, wondering how I could gently tell Justice O’Connor that my “husband-to-be” would never be. I struggled with what to say, worried that the truth could damage our friendship. If I was venting to a girlfriend, I would have ripped into him: “What an egotistical, narcissistic, clueless jerk he is. No wonder he’s divorced.”

The next morning while Justice O’Connor was preparing breakfast, I was visualizing her hugging me with joy, proclaiming what a perfect couple we would be. She would probably offer to arrange the wedding. In fact, she would have already chosen the church, the minister, the flower arrangements, the music, the vows and the caterer. I was imagining her changing our plans for the day, so we could shop for a bridal gown.

As I entered the kitchen, our eyes met. There was an interminable pause. I braced myself, waiting for her to pronounce my miserable fate: walking down the aisle and hating the rest of my life. The silence was deafening.

“Wasn’t he intolerable, Mary Noel?”

I was astounded. My heart rate plummeted. I tried to speak, but my grin wouldn’t allow it. It wasn’t necessary. One look at her face, and I knew we were girlfriends.

Two decades later, I visited Justice O’Connor in her retirement home in Phoenix. Although she was suffering from dementia, she recounted the blind date dinner. We both laughed at its absurdity. As I was leaving, never to see her again, she gave me a hug.

“I haven’t given up, Mary Noel.”

Since 1993, Mary Noel Pepys has helped to advance the rule of law in more than 45 countries, specializing in international legal and judicial reform. More recently, she has focused on the rule of law and judicial independence in the United States through the Alliance for American Rule of Law, a network of international rule of law practitioners.

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