Chapter Ten
Eunice
New York, New York
“We’re listening, Mrs. Washington.” I say the words I’ve repeated dozens and dozens of times to dozens and dozens of New Yorkers. “I wanted to follow up on the letter you sent.”
“Bless you, Mrs. Carter. I’ve called the police more times than I can count; my sons have helped me write letters to The Amsterdam News and The Crisis. But when I heard Mr. Dewey on the radio urging all of us to speak up, I prayed someone would finally listen to me.”
With the mention of her sons, I have to swallow a sob.
It’s been five months since we put Junior aboard the steamship bound for Barbados.
Only the knowledge that he’s safe two thousand miles away has helped me to bear the ache of missing him and the tension that has settled like a pall between Lisle and me.
Turning my attention back to Mrs. Washington, I say, “Please tell me more about this.” I hold up her letter.
Her voice is heavy with frustration. “I’ve got the beautiful Hotel Olga on one side and a whorehouse on the other.”
“How do you know it’s a whorehouse?” I keep my tone neutral. I believe her, but I always press for details from the residents, making no assumptions.
“Oh, I know a whorehouse when I see one. First, it’s the girls, going in and out of that brownstone every day.
But the way I know what’s going on—it’s the men.
They’re in and out, all hours; it never stops.
They don’t need a wooden door; they need a revolving one for all of those johns.
” She pauses and looks at me pointedly. “They’re called johns, you know,” she says, as if she’s teaching me a lesson.
I nod and bite back my smile.
“Most of them look like family men. Probably got a wife and a house filled with kids, too.” Mrs. Washington tsks. “They ought to be ashamed. The whole lot of them.”
“Can you give me the exact address, please?”
As I write it down, I think I recognize the address.
Is it from my review of the report conducted by the Committee of Fourteen or from another interview?
I pick up the folder marked Brothels and scan the notes I took yesterday.
I compare this with the address provided by Mr. Lewis, an eighty-one-year-old man who’s lived in Harlem for the past thirty years, and I see it’s the same street.
Over the past months, I’ve watched brothels multiply like pigeons in Central Park—with every letter, every interview, I add a new one to my list. I’ve also taken note how each new house seems to inch closer to the next.
They’re crowding in, practically stacked one atop the other.
I can’t make sense of this. How can they compete?
The madams aren’t fools; they know this.
Unless…the madams aren’t rivals. Could they have formed some sort of an alliance? I smile at the thought. In the midst of this corruption, at least that would make the women more than just pawns in a man’s game.
I lean in closer to Mrs. Washington. “You said you’ve called the police?”
“Over and over. They used to come out and shut that place down. But now? In the last two or three months, the police don’t show up. They treat me like I’m the nuisance.”
I frown. Could this really be a madam alliance?
A single brothel here, another there…Yes, the madams might be able to pay a few cops to keep their doors open.
But with so many houses packed so tightly together and operating without disruption, this is something else entirely.
This is coordination. Something that’s structured, organized… and protected.
“All right, Mrs. Washington, I will personally look into this for you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Carter”—she reaches across the meeting room table and squeezes my hand—“for doing what no one else has had the decency to do: listen to me.”
“You’re welcome. I think we’re done for today. I’ll walk you out, but first, let me just drop these files on my desk.”
Mrs. Washington is right at my heels when she follows me into my office.
She pauses, taking in the modest furnishings.
Then her gaze pauses on the wall. Her chin juts, and her lips spread into the proudest smile at my Smith and Fordham degrees.
For a colored woman, having this display of my credentials isn’t vanity, it’s a necessity.
“Mrs. Carter,” Mrs. Washington says, her tone reverent, “when the girl at the front desk told me I’d be speaking with you, I was beside myself. Wait till I tell my sons. My oldest son read in The Amsterdam News that you were the first colored woman to get a law degree from Fordham.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“He was so happy to tell me something I didn’t know. And I gave it right back to him. I told him that you were Addie Hunton’s daughter,” she says, her chin held high.
My smile dims just a little, but I thank Mrs. Washington as I escort her to the door.
Just as we exchange farewells, the corridor on the other side of the suite fills with laughter.
Several of the assistant district attorneys stroll past me.
They look like an assembly line—striding two by two, all white, all males, all dressed in white shirts, striped ties, and dark double-breasted suits.
My eyes narrow as I watch them leave another meeting I wasn’t privy to.
Only Murray glances my way and gives me a nod of apology.
In the beginning, I often felt like an afterthought, but at least I was invited to participate in the team meetings.
However, recently, it appears as if I’m not a thought at all.
“Mrs. Carter?”
I glance up and across the space. “Chief,” I say, using Dewey’s nickname as all the assistant district attorneys do.
“Do you have a moment?”
“Of course.”
The chief’s office is only slightly larger than ours, but with the walnut executive desk and the burgundy leather chesterfield chairs, it’s imposing and grand.
He directs me to one of the chairs as he settles across from me.
“Our schedules have been so hectic, but I want you to know how grateful I am that you’re on our team.
You’re a valuable member, and you’ve proven me to be a discerning judge of talent. ”
This isn’t the conversation I expected. Instead of explaining why I’m excluded from meetings, it feels as if he’s extending an apology swathed inside a compliment. Still I say, “Thank you, Chief.”
“The work you did on the Salvatore Marrone case was the reason we won,” he says, referring to a kidnapping and assault case this office prosecuted very early on.
I’d researched and built the legal framework that allowed us to bring the strongest charges—and win the conviction.
“And every week, I review your reports on the interviews you’re conducting. ”
“Between the telephone calls, letters, and interviews, I’ve been in contact with more than one hundred people.”
He steeples his fingers, tapping the tips together, a gesture I’ve come to recognize as meditative. “Mrs. Carter, I imagine the work you’re doing may feel tedious, but I assure you—your work is important. The most critical evidence can be found in the smallest details.”
“That seems to be proving true.” Now I must weigh my words.
So much of the work I’m doing goes beyond my assignment.
And even with what I’ve amassed, it’s still an unassembled jigsaw.
I would prefer to speak with Dewey once I have more, but this is an unusual meeting between just the chief and me.
Perhaps he can provide advice on shaping what I’ve discovered so far.
“From my interviews, I’ve compiled a list of brothels.
A pattern seems to be emerging. A pattern of collusion and protection—”
“Mrs. Carter”—the chief holds up his hand—“I’m certain you are aware that I will not be going after Schultz for prostitution.”
Of course, I’ve heard the chief—and other men—dismiss prostitution as barely a crime. Prostitution is a moral sin, Dewey had declared about a year ago in a radio interview. But that was before he became the special prosecutor determined to rid the city of all organized crime.
“I understand how you feel, but I’m threading together evidence that reveals a coordinated operation. I may not have a direct link between the Mob and prostitution yet—”
“Mrs. Carter,” he interrupts with a light chuckle, “I didn’t bring together twenty of the top legal minds in this country to muck around in vice cases. Not only is that beneath this office, but New Yorkers want true reform. They’ve waited long enough.”
“From the people I’ve spoken to, cleaning up prostitution would be a welcome change.
” I pause for a moment, then choose to press on.
“And certainly, the Committee of Fourteen believed it important enough to spend thirty years investigating and documenting their findings.” A flicker of surprise crosses his face, and I continue.
“Because of what I’d been hearing in the interviews and seeing in the Women’s Court, I decided it would be worth digging through the trove of data the committee compiled.
I’ve read the transcripts of interviews with the girls and the madams, and I noticed links between police corruption and brothel locations.
Links that still exist today. The only difference is, prostitution feels much bigger now, much more structured. ”
“What you’ve gathered, Mrs. Carter, may be impressive. But I’m not hearing evidence that prostitution is a Mob-operated enterprise,” he says. “And organized crime is among the most profitable enterprises in this country; those men aren’t chasing pennies from prostitution.”
“Pennies or dollars, if it’s a racket, it’s a crime. I can lay the foundation for not only a prosecutable offense but a winnable one.” I resist adding, Just like I did with the Salvatore Marrone case.
He rests his forearms on his desk. “My goal is to restore the rule of law.”
His words—or rather, what he doesn’t say—stun me.
Is he implying that prostitution isn’t against the law?
Would Dewey be so flippant if he’d seen the battered, broken girls who stumbled into Women’s Court, trembling before the judge, terrified of the pimps waiting outside?
Would he think this way if he’d met an eighteen-year-old who’d been forced to smoke opium and was now hollow eyed, strung out, twitching for her next fix, and willing to do anything to get it?
It seems the girls don’t matter to Dewey. But they matter to me.
Dewey says, “This investigation has one purpose—to bring down the Mob and Schultz. I’ve prosecuted him before, and I know his racketeering schemes, with everything from gambling, bootlegging, burglary, and extortion to even infiltrating unions and shaking down restaurant owners.
Those are our targets. I will not betray this city’s trust by wasting resources to chase a minor offense such as prostitution. ”
And herein lies his problem.
This isn’t Dewey’s first go-round with Schultz. As a United States attorney, Dewey vowed to put Schultz behind bars, and back then, tax evasion was his case. But Schultz beat those charges. Twice. And now Dewey wants to take down Schultz on something undeniably big.
My voice is steady when I say, “If that is your position, then how is what I’m doing—listening to New Yorkers’ complaints—helping this team in the prosecution? It seems my work is for nothing.”
As I watch him formulate a reply, I wonder…did Dewey only hire me to prove he was progressive? So that he could tell the press he’d hired a woman, and a Negro at that?
The press has always been suspicious of my appointment.
Not the Negro press; in the pages of those newspapers, my inclusion on the team was heralded.
But the white press framed my appointment as a political favor, a reward after I’d been asked to run in what the Republicans surely knew would be a losing race for State Assembly.
Following my resounding defeat, the white press cast my appointment as nothing more than a consolation prize from the Republican Party.
It was a symbolic gesture of goodwill, and I, merely a token.
Finally, Dewey says, “That’s not true, Mrs. Carter.
Your work is important because evidence can be found anywhere.
I once uncovered a bootlegger’s entire operation by combing through telephone records and connecting the calls.
You might interview someone who overheard a conversation in the back of a nightclub or standing near a telephone booth.
And then, just like that, we’ll have what we need.
” He stands, my signal this meeting is over.
“I wouldn’t have given you that assignment if I didn’t believe the work was crucial. ”
When I remain seated, he gives me a small nod.
“Mrs. Carter, I accepted this appointment to deliver to the people of New York the justice they’ve been denied for too long.”
Dewey is being disingenuous if he claims altruism as his primary motive. Anyone who knows this thirty-three-year-old Wall Street lawyer from Owosso, Michigan, knows of his political aspirations: first City Hall, then the governor’s mansion, and perhaps the White House.
But I only say, “I admire your dedication, Chief.”
He is relieved when I finally rise. “Please continue to send your reports. I’m eager to see what you uncover—about anything except vice.”