Chapter Six
Eunice
New York, New York
The clanging bell of a passing trolley sounds as I hasten up the stairs of the Chambers Street IRT.
I’m running late thanks to Lisle grumbling about the new brand of coffee, Junior spilling half his bowl of Cream of Wheat down the front of his trousers, and my mother needing warmed liniment rubbed onto her knees.
Then there’s my ongoing quarrel with Lisle. He’s imagining a menace where there isn’t one. But not even the memory of Lisle’s cross words this morning can dim my mood as I think of my day ahead and the case I’m quietly constructing.
I reach 233 Broadway, a cathedral-style, fifty-seven-floor building that, until a few years ago, claimed the title of the tallest in the world.
The lobby is crowded as usual, as there are hundreds of companies housed in the Woolworth Building.
I glance around the perimeter and spot five men covering the seven different entrances.
Like the officers stationed throughout the premises, these men are built like prizefighters, with pistols on their hips.
The one closest to the elevator locks eyes with me, and I nod as I pass.
Once on the fourteenth floor, I make my way to my office, which is tucked away at the very end of the hallway.
As I settle behind my desk, laughter drifts in from the room beside mine, the space reserved for the rotating cast of sixty or so officers assigned to our protection.
They gather there between shifts to shoot the breeze.
Unlocking my desk drawer, I pull out three files and set aside the bulging one labeled Complaints.
In addition to the calls and visits I’ve received from dozens and dozens of New Yorkers, hundreds of letters have poured into this office.
The overwhelming number of grievances are about brothels popping up, tucked between brownstones and apartment buildings.
Prostitution is raging throughout the city.
After what I saw in Women’s Court, this is no surprise to me.
I turn my attention to the two slimmer folders labeled Arraignments and Bail Records.
I asked Lisa to gather these for me for the last thirty days.
I’m not certain what I’m looking for, but I begin jotting down the names and addresses of the girls arrested for prostitution.
I’m searching for a pattern, perhaps in the addresses of the girls represented by Rachlin and the girls who are not.
But after a few minutes, a different pattern starts to emerge. I shift my focus—to the names of the bail bondsmen on the cases represented by Rachlin:
First sheet: Jesse Jacobs
Next sheet: Donald Jacobs
Then: Max Jacobs
Jesse Jacobs appears a few more times, followed by Max Jacobs again.
Then, there’s a shift:
Morrison Jacobowitz
Shirley Klingsberg
Harry Klingsberg
Leo Klingsberg
Rose Klingsberg
And tucked between each of these names, every few pages, is Jesse Jacobs.
I recognize the name Jesse Jacobs as the bail bondsman for many of the girls from my days in Women’s Court. But who are these other people with names that riff off of “Jacobs”? And the others—who are the Klingsbergs? Is this all one family? Two? Is this a family business?
Or something else?
I scan the pages once again. Fifty-two arraignment sheets and only these eight names appear.
Is it possible that only a few bail bondsmen handle these types of cases?
But then, there’s the handwriting. Either all eight of these people had the same penmanship teacher… or the same person signed each page.
If there is only one “Jacobs” acting as bail bondsman for all these girls—which is strange but permissible—why would he be using different names? He would if he was trying to hide his identity. But why? And of course, forgery on any legal document is against the law.
This is all very suspicious.
A light tap on my door pulls me from the folders. “Mrs. Carter, here are the daily dockets.” Lisa LaFrance, a fellow Smith graduate whom I personally recommended to Mr. Dewey, enters. She’s been assigned to assist me and several other assistant district attorneys.
“Thank you,” I say, taking the stapled stack of papers from her. The top sheet draws my attention.
Defendant: Adler, Polly
Charge: Pandering
It’s been three weeks since our very brief encounter, where Polly told me nothing. But today, I might learn something from her silence.
—
I hear the chatter and laughter before I step into the small, dim courtroom.
Women’s Court is always unruly compared to the solemn criminal courthouse two miles away.
Today, the air is thick with heat and chaos, and every seat is packed with spectators and reporters.
Along the walls, photographers stand with bulky cameras, jostling for space.
Squeezing onto the hard wooden bench at the back, I scan the room. It is never this crowded. Is everyone here to see Polly Adler?
Then I freeze.
At the prosecution table are District Attorney William Dodge and Assistant District Attorney Maurice Wahl. Why is the New York County district attorney here? Women’s Court is usually reserved for junior prosecutors, not the elected district attorney.
Dodge, with his wire-rimmed glasses perched low on his nose, sits hunched next to Wahl, whispering and sharing notes. After a few moments, both rise, cross the room, and shake hands with the young defense attorney. The three men seem more like friends than adversaries.
At the defense table, a silver-haired lawyer I’ve never seen sits next to a blond young lady with her head bowed and hands folded, the picture of demureness.
Behind her, three other girls perch the same way.
All appear to be in their early twenties and are dressed in modest, floral, belted day dresses. I’m guessing they are defendants.
There are several cases on today’s docket with the same arrest date and officer as Polly’s. Are these all Polly’s girls? If so, where is Polly? I’d expect her to be seated beside them, the protective mother hen I’ve heard her to be.
My eyes drift back to Dodge, Wahl, and the defense attorney.
When Dodge laughs and slaps the defense attorney on the back, the reason for his presence becomes clear.
He’s not here to prosecute; he’s here to put on a show and silence his critics—the ones who demanded that Thomas Dewey be appointed special prosecutor because Dodge, who owes his election to Tammany Hall, the city’s powerful Democratic machine, is more politician than prosecutor.
And in their eyes, that makes him unfit for the job.
That’s why the press is here. Dodge notified them, so they can watch him make an example of the city’s most notorious madam. Polly and her girls aren’t getting off.
From behind his high bench, the magistrate, Judge Steven Moore, a gray-faced man in his sixties with bushy brows and weathered skin, raps his gavel to bring the unruly courtroom to order.
The morning has just begun, yet he looks both weary and bored—the usual expression among magistrates in this court.
I remove my leather-bound notepad and fountain pen from my briefcase.
But before I can jot down the first word, Dodge stands and says, “Your Honor, if it pleases the court, the prosecution and the defense have reached a resolution in this matter of The People of the State of New York versus Virginia Woodward, Katherine Jacoby, Angelica Evans, and Rosalie Luca.”
I glance up, puzzled. Dodge and Wahl must have just reached a deal with the defense; otherwise, this would have been taken off today’s docket.
“What’s the agreement?” the magistrate asks, his eyes wary.
“For a plea of guilty, the defendants will all receive a suspended sentence of ninety days.”
A suspended sentence? What happened to the spectacle? The trial? This isn’t showing New Yorkers that Dodge is cracking down on crime.
After muttering a few words, the judge instructs all the girls to rise. “Are you in agreement with this sentence?”
The girls nod and in unison say, “Yes, Your Honor.”
The judge accepts the agreement, and, relieved, the girls hurry from the courtroom. It has happened so quickly, but before I can grasp it all, the bailiff calls out, “The People of the State of New York versus Polly Adler!”
The murmurs return, louder now. Heads turn, everyone eager for a glimpse of the infamous madam. But the door doesn’t open. The attorneys on both sides exchange glances. Would she dare miss her court appearance?
Just as the magistrate lifts his gavel, Polly saunters in, the epitome of style in her fur stole (despite the spring weather) and heels that defy gravity. With her shoulders squared and her chin high, she struts into the court with confidence. Like a woman about to sit on her throne.
What moxie.
Then, at the sight of Dodge, Polly falters. Her eyes narrow. He smirks. I scoot to the edge of my seat.
The courtroom quiets as Polly slides into her seat. She motions to a dark-haired young man, no older than eighteen, who sits on a seat behind her. She whispers a few words to him, and at first, he seems startled. But then he darts from the courtroom.
Just as Dodge stands, Polly curls forward, clutching her stomach.
“Your Honor,” her attorney says. “May we have a few moments? My client isn’t feeling well.”
“What’s wrong with her?” the magistrate asks.
“Your Honor,” Polly says, her voice quivering, “it’s something I ate. I’m sure my stomach will settle and I’ll be fine if I can have a quick break.”
“Give her some water,” the magistrate says with a scowl. “You have one hour, but I’d be happier with fifteen minutes.”
The noise swells again, and Dodge breaks into a grin so wide, the corners of his lips nearly touch his ears. Initially, I suspected that Dodge was here for a show, to send all the girls to jail. But he’s here today for only one reason—to take down Polly Adler.