Chapter Twelve
Eunice
New York, New York
I have sat in Women’s Court watching an endless number of cases over these last weeks, and yet, it is still difficult to ignore the noise and chaos. Only when the bailiff enters, followed by the magistrate, does a modicum of order settle over the courtroom.
The bailiff calls out, “The People of the State of New York versus Ginger Sanders.”
We rise, and this affords me a better look at Assistant District Attorney Kessler, who has been the prosecutor of these cases for the last month.
Across at the defense table, a young woman wearing a Peter Pan–collared floral day dress—whom I presume is the defendant—and her defense attorney, Max Rachlin, rise.
For weeks, I’ve watched thirty-year-old Max Rachlin, with his slicked-back hair and pencil-thin mustache, perform in the courtroom.
Always dressed in custom-tailored three-piece suits and shoes polished to a mirror shine, Rachlin resembles a headliner at the Paramount more than he does a defense attorney.
He’s especially given to theatrics—the way his voice rises to a crescendo, then crashes to a whisper when he’s questioning a police officer about something as simple as what time an arrest was made.
In the row behind the defense table sits the disbarred Abe Karp. He is the opposite of the flamboyant Rachlin in stature and style—shorter, heavier, and he buys his suits off the rack. He’s not performative, he’s calculating.
Kessler delivers his opening statement—practically identical to what he says in every prostitution case—and then the magistrate asks him, “Are you prepared to call your witnesses?”
“The prosecution calls Officer Walter Harrison.”
The uniformed officer lumbers to the stand.
As the bailiff swears him in, beads of sweat cling to his brow.
After going through the formalities, Kessler gets to the crux of his questioning.
“I’d like to discuss the circumstances of the arrest of Miss Ginger Sanders on the evening of August eighteenth.
Do you recall the events that led to Miss Sanders’ arrest? ”
The officer shifts his glance from Kessler to the defense side of the room.
“Officer Harrison, do you need me to repeat the question?”
“Uh, no. But to be honest, I’m not sure I remember,” he says.
Kessler’s eyes narrow as he picks up a folder from the prosecution table. “What do you mean you don’t remember? The police report you filed that night was very detailed.”
Officer Harrison shakes his head.
Kessler continues. “According to your report, you arrested Miss Sanders at a gathering at the Crystal Room on 142nd Street after you raided the establishment.”
Quickly, I scribble down the name to compare it to my list of brothels.
“Well, now I’m not sure,” Harrison mutters.
“Not sure of what, Officer Harrison?” Kessler asks, his voice laced with the frustration I’ve often heard from him.
The police officer’s gaze drops to the report in Kessler’s hands. His silence drags on. “I’m…I’m not certain of the arrest circumstances because there was a lot going on that night.”
Kessler reads aloud from the report, and when that doesn’t elicit any refreshed recollections from the officer, he asks, “If you can’t recall the specifics, what do you recall in general, Officer?”
Officer Harrison glances at Karp, and then his voice rises. “I don’t recall much. In fact, it’s possible Miss Sanders may have been mistaken for one of the other girls I brought in that night.”
Kessler turns to the magistrate. “Your Honor”—his tone is measured now—“if Officer Harrison cannot remember the events of that evening, I have his original statement regarding the arrest of Miss Sanders. I believe Officer Harrison was telling the truth the night of the arrest in his report, and now I respectfully ask the court to disregard his contradictory testimony today and accept his earlier statement as a recorded recollection.”
As Kessler hands the magistrate the statement, Officer Harrison glances at Karp, and my eyes dart back and forth between the two. The magistrate studies the report, and I inhale, feeling equal parts hope and dread.
The judge raises his gaze from the paper. “Request denied. Do you have any other questions for this witness?”
Kessler shakes his head, and my shoulders sag along with his. “No, Your Honor,” he says.
“You may step down,” the magistrate says to Officer Harrison. As the officer leaves the stand, the magistrate asks Kessler, “Do you have any other witnesses?”
“No, Your Honor.” Kessler sits down, dejected.
Rachlin rushes to stand. “Your Honor, I move to dismiss. There is not enough evidence to support a conviction against Miss Sanders.”
The magistrate looks toward Kessler for a response, but he just shakes his head. With one rap of the gavel, the magistrate says, “The case against Ginger Sanders is dismissed.”
The young woman spins around. Even though she has just scored a victory, her eyes are blazing.
She fixes her gaze on Karp. “The Combination may have gotten me off, but it bungled this from the start,” she hisses just loud enough for me to hear.
“I pay ten dollars a week to have a bond issued so that I never have to step foot inside the slammer. I don’t pay to spend two days in the clink. I’ll handle this with Red Sadie, too.”
She stomps down the aisle. Hurriedly, I scribble: Red Sadie, ten dollars a week, and the Combination. Then, next to that, I add: Case dismissed.
For the rest of the morning, I sit through trial after trial.
I take notes, collecting the names and arrest locations.
There are no surprises. The pattern continues: All of the girls represented by Max Rachlin are set free.
At a quarter to noon, the magistrate releases the court for the lunch break, but I won’t be returning.
After all of these weeks of being here, I’ve seen enough.
I rise from my row and slip with the crowd into the corridor.
The hallway is more jam-packed than the courtroom.
Clerks, defendants, attorneys all spill from the doorways, everyone eager to make the most of the hour-long break.
Just before I reach the front door, I’m bumped from behind. “Oh,” I exclaim, and spin around.
“Pardon me, miss.” I glance down at the young colored boy, no more than nine or ten, in a white shirt and dark wool pants hitched up by suspenders. The brim of his flat cap hides his eyes. “I have a message for you.”
“For me?” Confusion is the only reason why I take the folded paper from his hand. Before I can say another word, he scurries away, disappearing into the crowd. Stepping aside, I unfold the paper and read the one line scribbled in the center:
How is your son in Barbados?
—
“Mama!” I shout the moment I enter the apartment.
“Gracious, Eunice.” My mother rushes into the foyer. “What’s going on?”
I collapse in her arms, and as she leads me to the sofa, I choke out the details about the note and how I dashed to the office after receiving it.
“The chief took charge without delay,” I explain.
“We sent two telegrams—one to Lisle’s mother and the other to the Barbados authorities.
But, Mama, I can’t stop worrying. What have I done? ” I cry.
“You’ve done what you’re supposed to do. You’ve loved your son, and you’ve protected him.”
“But what if the telegrams don’t reach them in time? What if one of Schultz’s hoodlums has already gotten to Junior?” I am devastated at that thought.
“You don’t know that’s the Mob’s plan. They are probably just trying to scare you.”
“But surely they’ve been watching me and—”
The shrill of the ringing telephone is as jarring as a scream at midnight. I rush to the hallway and hold the telephone receiver with both hands to keep it steady in my grasp.
“Mrs. Carter, this is Thomas Dewey.” His words come quickly, succinctly. “The authorities in Barbados have received our communication, and we’ve heard back. Your son is fine.”
“Oh, thank God,” I exclaim, wanting to drop to my knees right then.
He continues. “Two officers will be assigned to watch over your family. One will accompany your son to and from school.”
I imagine Junior’s eyes, wide with curiosity and questions, when an officer escorts him to class. Will he be frightened? Confused? Or will he puff out his chest, just a little, fancying himself a boy on an important mission? I hope it’s the latter.
“Thank you,” I say, not able to recall when my heart has been filled with more gratitude.
“We’re taking every precaution, but you should know this is a common tactic used by the Mob. You’re the third assistant DA to receive such a note. And while we have no indication that they’re acting on their threats, we won’t take any chances.”
“Oh, I didn’t know,” I say, surprised I haven’t heard so much as a rumble or a rumor about this in the office.
“And truth be told, my wife has received more than her share of telephone calls. We’ve changed our telephone number and kept it quiet. It’s important that this doesn’t leak. The Mob feeds on fear, and we don’t want to give them any satisfaction. So I’m making the same request of you.”
“Of course,” I say. “I’ve only spoken with my mother and left a message for my husband.”
“All right. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Yes, I’ll see you tomorrow.” I thank him and hang up, prepared to tell my mother the details of Dewey’s call. But when I turn, she’s standing right behind me, a smile blooming across her face. How can she smile in the midst of this storm?
She says, “I’m glad to hear you’re going back to work.”
I stagger into the parlor. “Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe Lisle is right. Perhaps it’s time to quit.”
My mother shakes her head, her conviction apparent. “You don’t believe that.”
I shrug. “The only thing I believe is that if I were not part of the special prosecutor’s team, my son wouldn’t need a police escort to school. He was supposed to be safe in Barbados.”
“And he is. Once again, you’ve made certain of that.”
It doesn’t feel like enough. “I just wish…”
“Don’t start questioning your purpose now. You’ve been chosen for a time such as this. To be the first colored woman in your position. That’s a heavy burden to carry, but you were chosen because God knew you could bear it with grace and, most importantly, without faltering.”
“It’s terribly hard. To have this purpose outside of my home, and to watch my son struggle beneath the weight of not being with me.”
“He’ll be fine,” she says with certainty.
“Just like you and your brother were. You’re not sending Junior away for the rest of his life, and there are far worse things than spending a few months in Barbados.
That’s not a punishment.” She steps closer, placing both hands on my shoulders.
“Listen to me, sugar, if there’s one thing I know from my own life, it’s that you can’t be a good mother, or wife for that matter, if you’re not walking the path God set for you. ”
The front door slams against the wall as Lisle rushes in. “What happened?”
I melt into his embrace. It’s been weeks since he’s held me with such tenderness.
He leans back, and his eyes search mine until I show him the note. Lisle reads it, then glances up. He’s silent for a moment, as if the words have stolen his breath away. Quickly, I tell him about the telegrams that have been sent and how officers are already at his mother’s home.
There is a flicker in his eye—an alarm. “That’s the plan?” he says incredulously. “That is not enough. There is only one thing that will truly protect our son.”
So many times, Lisle has made this demand of me.
And I have never wavered—until this moment.
He sees my hesitation and moves in. As he takes my hands, his voice is softer now, wrapped in that Bajan lilt that has done more than just enthrall me; it’s always made me feel safe. “Sweetheart, there is only one way.”
I part my lips to agree, but my mother moves faster than the speed of my voice. She steps between us, breaking our grasp. Facing my husband, Mama says, “You’re right. There is only one way to make sure Junior is safe. I’m going to Barbados.”