Chapter Two
Eunice Carter
New York, New York
I hurry through the labyrinth of crisscrossing hallways, passing one frosted-paneled door after another until I reach a wide-open bullpen.
The space hums with secretaries and stenographers, clerks and accountants.
Standing watch over it all are the duty officers, stationed throughout this ten-thousand-square-foot office—and beyond—to protect Special Prosecutor Thomas Dewey and this team he’s assembled to take on New York City’s organized crime and one of its brazen and cold-blooded kingpins, Dutch Schultz.
A haze of cigarette smoke greets me the moment I enter the meeting room, and then I hear the low murmur of voices.
The other nineteen assistant district attorneys are already crammed around the long oak table.
Once again, I am the last attorney to arrive, but only because I was the last to be informed.
At least this time Dewey saw fit to notify me.
No one glances up when I enter, a shift from the first weeks, when we were all brought together to be part of this prosecution team. Back then, every conversation ceased whenever I entered. The curiosity surrounding my appointment, it seems, has dulled.
Slivers of sunlight slip through the drawn venetian blinds.
Every window throughout the office is covered—a layer of security against spying eyes from nearby windows and rooftops.
Even here in the meeting room, we’re watched.
Two broad-shouldered men stand in the corners, their glares sharp as ice shards, with service revolvers resting on their hips; each would make any man blink once and think twice.
I spot Murray Gurfein peering at me over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses. He raises his hand, then points to the empty chair beside him. I exhale. Murray is the only colleague I consider a friend. From the first day, he’s been my refuge in this sea of white men in dark suits.
“Thanks. Do you know why we’ve been gath—” Before I finish, Dewey strides into the room.
Standing tall, he looms, not by height but by presence.
He has a set jaw and piercing gaze, and his brown eyes study us as if he’s taking the measure of a jury.
Of course, we are no jury. We are his team.
The twenty against the underworld, as the press calls us.
For the briefest moment, Dewey’s eyes land on me—the only Negro, the only female he selected when he was appointed to this position with the singular objective to rid the city of racketeers, vice lords, and murderers. First up is Dutch Schultz.
Under the intensity of his stare, I sit up straighter, proud of my place among these men.
“Gentlemen,” he begins, then glances at me. “Mrs. Carter. Last night, there was another murder in the city. It’ll hit the newspapers this morning, but Vincent Coll was killed. He was gunned down in a telephone booth on 23rd and Eighth.”
The room erupts.
Vincent—“Mad Dog”—Coll is dead?
My only thought—it didn’t happen soon enough.
“Simmer down. While Coll wasn’t the target of our investigation, his death may help us nail Schultz.
His murder is the result of the war between the two.
I want you all to mine your networks. Keep your eyes and ears open for anything linking Schultz to this murder.
This is not the big, organized scheme we hope to bring him in for, but still, a conviction for the murder of Coll would put Schultz behind bars. Any questions?”
Not an eye strays from Dewey as we shake our heads.
“Now, one word of caution. Violence rarely ends with one bullet. Violence begets violence. And this killing may set off a chain of bloodshed. So be on the lookout. Mind your movements. Take good care of yourselves; remember these men kill with ease and without conscience.” After a pause, he slaps his palms on the table. “All right, back to work.”
Chair legs scrape against the polished oak floor, and we stand, the mood now somber. As we file from the meeting room, Murray steps in line with me. He shortens his stride so I can keep up with him.
“Things are heating up,” he whispers.
“Yes,” I say as my mind races, worrying about what this Coll situation means.
Murray follows me to my office. This isn’t unusual.
We have been friends from the day Dewey first gathered his team together, and at that meeting, I slipped into the chair beside Murray.
At the end, the men, still buzzing with excitement, agreed to extend their conversation over lunch.
But when one suggested Fraunces Tavern, a popular joint for the legal set, I gathered my things and started back to my office.
“Mrs. Carter, aren’t you coming?”
I turned to Murray, but before I could speak, I caught the flicker of understanding in his eyes. He knew it was unlikely that I’d be welcomed at Fraunces Tavern. I was colored.
Without missing a beat, Murray told the others he’d join them the next day. Then, minutes later, he appeared in my office doorway with a bag from the corner deli.
“I hope you like liverwurst and Coca-Cola,” he said, and we’d shared lunch and laughter.
We chatted about our families and where we’d attended school.
I shared with him that I received my bachelor of arts and my master’s of social work from Smith College and, a few years later, my law degree from Fordham University Law School.
He told me about his years at Columbia University and then Harvard Law School—and his past five years at the US Attorney’s office under Dewey.
By the end of the hour, he was Murray, I was Eunice, and we were friends.
As I slip into my desk chair now, he says, “Something else happened last night. Something that will be of interest to you.”
“Something more righteous than Coll being murdered?” My tone is heavy with the loathing I’ve long held for that man—the baby killer, as I’ve come to know him.
He settles into the chair across from my desk. “Polly Adler was arrested.”
Polly Adler? The most infamous madam in New York? “At her brothel?” The location of her brothel has been a well-kept secret, and even uncovering that would be a coup.
“No. Outside of the Algonquin Hotel.”
I nod slowly. In this war we’ve waged against the underworld, each assistant district attorney has been assigned a particular racket where the Mob reign through fear and bloodshed.
We’re up against everything from extortion to murder, in industries like construction, retail, and restaurants.
As the only attorney from Harlem, I assumed I’d be assigned to the numbers racket—the illegal gambling game that costs players only pennies but funnels millions into the pockets of the “numbers men.” The police have largely eradicated “the numbers” throughout the city, but in Harlem, it’s allowed to thrive unchecked.
Schultz was gunning for control—both literally and figuratively—of this racket.
But he was being thwarted by a colored woman, Stephanie St. Clair, the Queen of the Harlem Numbers.
Given the prominence of Miss St. Clair and my station and connections in the Harlem community, that assignment should have fallen to me.
Instead, unlike the men, I hadn’t been given a racket at all.
Rather, I’d been assigned the task of fulfilling a promise Dewey made to the citizens of New York when he was first appointed special prosecutor: “We need your help in rooting out organized crime in this city,” he’d said on a WOR broadcast. “Therefore, if you’ve seen, heard, or know of anything, we want to hear from you.
We will investigate every complaint, and I have someone assigned specifically to this task. ”
That someone was me. I listened to every New Yorker who called, came to our office, or wrote a letter with a gripe about the Mob.
At first, I was far from pleased, certain this assignment was dismissive and kept me from the front lines.
However, as I interviewed dozens of residents, I noticed that, while most complaints centered on prostitution, there was a familiar pattern forming, specifically with brothels the police seemed to ignore.
It reminded me of my days working in Women’s Court, when I’d noticed another pattern, that time also with the prostitutes.
These patterns, along with the citizens’ complaints, had me wondering, Is there more here? Could there be Mob-connected corruption from which I might build a case? A case grounded in a racket of organized prostitution?
Of course it was a long shot, but I’d been determined to make something out of the nothing that had been handed to me.
So I began combing through court records, sitting in on countless arraignments and trials, listening to the hollowed-out stories of the prostitutes.
And I spent hours in the Manuscript and Archives Room of New York Public Library, poring over the records of the Committee of Fourteen, a group of wealthy New Yorkers who, through undercover investigations and interviews, had spent thirty years trying to understand prostitution and eradicate it from New York City streets.
And at last, my suspicions are beginning to bear fruit.
But Murray is the only one in the office who knows that I’ve gone far beyond the mandate I was given.
“I knew you’d be interested that Polly and a few of her girls were picked up on pandering charges,” Murray says, snapping me back to the present.
“That is interesting,” I finally say, a plan already forming in my mind.
“Isn’t it?” Murray says. “Have you turned up anything from your observations in Women’s Court?”
“No,” I say, not ready to discuss what I’ve discovered. There are still too many unconnected dots. But this development with Polly Adler could springboard my investigation. “Where is Polly Adler being held?”
—
Rows of narrow, iron-barred windows flank the towering entrance of the 30th Precinct Station House.
I’ve been here just a few times, but whenever I step inside, the gray walls, concrete floors, and overhead steel beams are as intimidating as they were during my first visit.
Muffled chatter passes between two officers behind the partitioned counter, while another policeman pecks away on a Remington, barely glancing up as he types.
A fourth officer notices me. He stands and crosses his arms as I approach. His eyes narrow with reproach and recognition.
I stand strong against his glare, one that, in my nearly thirty-six years, is familiar to me.
This policeman is aware of who I am. Not that I had many criminal cases during my short time in private practice.
But I came here for a couple of clients.
And since my appointment to Thomas Dewey’s special prosecution team, my picture has been plastered across the newspapers.
“I’m Assistant District Attorney Eunice Hunton Carter,” I say, and hand him my official credentials. “I’m here to see one of the ladies arrested last night. Polly Adler.”
He takes his time filling in the registry, then points to the wooden bench behind me. “Take a seat.”
I bristle. Any white lawyer would have been escorted to the small waiting room reserved for attorneys before seeing clients or witnesses.
Although irritated, I settle onto the bench and bide my time.
Never did I imagine I’d find myself face-to-face with Polly Adler, the madam of all madams. I first heard her name last year when I volunteered in Women’s Court.
Back then, my private practice clients were so scarce, I feared my hard-earned Fordham law degree was a gamble I shouldn’t have taken.
So to fill up my time, I volunteered, helping magistrates clear their overflow.
While the courts did handle child support and wife beating cases, the majority of the cases were prostitution and pandering charges.
It didn’t take long to notice a pattern.
Most girls were booked and arraigned, their fates sealed within minutes.
But a handful walked free, their charges dismissed or their sentences suspended.
The difference? Lawyers. The girls who walked were always represented by the same small circle of men.
Most notable among the attorneys—Abe Karp, a lawyer whose fees were far beyond the means of any of these girls.
So the question of how they were paying for Karp has stayed with me.
In recent weeks, I’ve returned to that same courtroom, this time as an observer.
While the parade of prostitutes has continued, there are a couple of differences.
First, the attorney of record for the girls who are set free is now Max Rachlin.
While Abe Karp still appears in the courtroom alongside Rachlin, he was disbarred last year after the Seabury investigation—the same sweeping probe led by attorney Samuel Seabury into corruption in New York City Magistrates’ Courts that forced Mayor Jimmy Walker to resign.
Karp’s role in bribing judges right here in the Magistrates’ Courts was uncovered during the investigation.
And I also noticed that second, Max Rachlin represents a lot more girls than Karp ever did.
“Eunice!” the officer calls out. “You can go back now. She’s in the first cell, and you have twenty minutes.”
I stand and move toward him. “My name is Attorney Eunice Carter,” I say, my eyes locked with his.
He stares but looks away first, and then I follow him toward the gate. The keys on his belt jingle as he inserts one that releases the lock. He hoists the lever and drags the heavy gate open.
Moving past him, I step onto the other side, and the gate crashes shut behind me. I flinch, but it’s more than the sound that jolts me; it’s the sense of confinement in the hands of this man who holds the keys to both my entrance and my escape.