Chapter Fifteen
Eunice
New York, New York
“Dutch Schultz is not dead.”
The chief’s words hang in the air, thick and heavy like cheap cigar smoke. The nineteen other assistant district attorneys exhale. Is it dread or is it relief? Schultz is the centerpiece of each and every one of their cases, after all.
Dewey has clearly had a rough night. His eyes are rimmed with red, and the skin beneath his lids sags from his exhaustion. He’s always immaculate, but today, his necktie is askew, as if he hasn’t had the time or the inclination to adjust it properly.
“Several men have been stationed at New York Polyclinic since Schultz was rushed in last night. He’s in bad shape—multiple gunshot wounds. He’s lost a lot of blood, and he needs surgery. Basically, he’s clinging to life.”
“Is he conscious?” Murray asks.
“Can we get a deathbed confession?” another pipes in.
“Awake, yes, but talking to us, no,” the chief says. “The doctors have advised me anything Schultz says at this point can’t be trusted because of his medicine. We’ll just bide our time until after his surgery, and we’ll see what comes of this.”
The room erupts with opinions and questions. Dewey raises his hand, and as if he’s wielded a gavel, the room quiets again. But before he can say anything else, I speak up. “What does this mean for the case?”
Every assistant district attorney turns toward me before their glances return to Dewey. It’s the question everyone wants to ask.
Dewey is silent as he presses his fingertips together. Then he says, “Mobsters like Schultz make deals with the Devil. I have no doubt Schultz has more life in him yet. We’ll proceed with the case against him.”
He stands, ending the meeting. The rest of us follow, and the men gather in clusters of two and three, engaging in hushed conversations. I slip out unnoticed and hasten to my office.
Beneath the chief’s calm, there was an edge.
He’s worried, and I understand why. If Schultz dies, a good part of the cases he’s had the other nineteen assistant district attorneys investigating will evaporate.
I have no doubt Dewey already had a stockpile of evidence against Schultz from his prior efforts at prosecuting him: informants, backroom chatter, perhaps even a few witnesses who, with a little more persuasion, would be ready to flip.
And since he became special prosecutor, Dewey has had his assistant district attorneys collecting evidence in every racket where Schultz is rumored to have a hand.
The way the case is being constructed, all roads are meant to lead to Schultz.
So…if Schultz dies, the crux of Dewey’s investigations crumbles. Simple truth—cut off the head, and the body will die.
The Mob will reorganize, of course, but it will take time for a new kingpin to emerge. There will be a vicious struggle for power, not without bloodshed. And more crucially for Dewey—not without time passing. With the city watching and waiting, Schultz’s death will change everything.
But it might open a door for me.
Because the case I’ve been quietly investigating doesn’t necessarily involve Schultz. It isn’t designed to lead to Schultz specifically; it will lead to whoever is in charge, Schultz or not.
I unlock my desk drawer and pull out the folders I’ve been compiling from my observations in Women’s Court and my review of the records. Inside are pages listing each case: the girls’ names, arresting officers, the bail bondsmen of record, the defense attorney, and the outcome.
Opening one folder, I scan the pages. Across dozens of cases, the arresting officers vary, but the bondsmen don’t.
Only one of eight names appears—all bearing one of the three surnames: Jacobs, Jacobowitz, Klingsberg.
And in every case the defense attorney is Max Rachlin, who managed to either win a suspended sentence or have the case dismissed for every girl.
Even with just a quick glance, there is an unmistakable pattern.
Next, I review the file marked Resident Complaints.
The overwhelming concern among residents is the spread of prostitution.
Brothels popping up on every block, and for these houses to not only continue but thrive, some sort of orchestration must be afoot.
Among the madams? With the cooperation of the police?
Certainly, it seems, the police are cooperating with someone.
Finally, I think of Ginger Sanders’ mutterings in court: The Combination may have gotten me off, but it bungled this from the start…
. 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.
There are still so many questions, but on one point, I have no doubt—what I’ve compiled is indicative of a racket.
And if I had to say who’s behind it, with every finger I have, I’d point to the Mob.
I just don’t believe that the Mob would stand by and allow prostitution to thrive like this.
No one, not Schultz or anyone else, would give free rein to Jacobs, Rachlin, and Karp to work their courtroom racket with prostitutes without giving their nod to it all.
So is the Mob the Combination?
“Eunice.” I glance up, and Murray stands in my doorway. “The chief wants to speak with us again.”
Grabbing my notepad, I follow Murray, but when we enter the meeting room, no one is sitting. The men line the perimeter, their faces stiff. Every eye is on the chief. His countenance delivers the news before he’s spoken a word.
“Schultz is dead,” he finally announces. “That deal with the Devil didn’t stand, and he succumbed to his injuries.”
We stay silent, all of us in shock.
“There’s more.” His tone is so grim, my stomach clenches. “According to our sources, Schultz was assassinated by his own…by Murder, Inc.”
I inhale. Murder, Inc. is the nickname of a Mob hit squad, the private enforcement arm of the National Crime Syndicate, the confederation of several Mob families.
Its members have only one job: to carry out murder at the direction of the bosses.
The FBI reported that Murder, Inc. has racked up close to five hundred murders in the past ten years alone, and not once did they leave a trail solid enough to prosecute.
Dewey’s voice brings me back. “We’ve heard that Schultz was murdered because he put out a hit on me.” There is a collective gasp, and more than one of the men mutters a curse. “Apparently, he thought if I was dead, the investigation would end.”
“Oh dear Lord,” I whisper, astonished by how composed the chief remains. And then it strikes me, and I blurt out, “But the Mob killed him first because they knew killing you would only draw more attention to them.”
The chief’s gaze lands on me. “Exactly. We have some unlikely protectors out there who understand that harm to me will only hasten justice for them.”
I nod slowly, suddenly filled with strange relief. Does this mean we are all somehow safer? Perhaps this news will ease some of the strain that still remains between Lisle and me.
“But they’re not the good guys, and we must keep on,” Dewey says, sounding more resolute than he did this morning.
“We will have to refocus our case, of course. Those evidentiary chains that have been constructed leading only to Schultz will have to be reconfigured. I’ll be meeting with each of you in the upcoming days to assess how your investigations will have to change to proceed. ”
Every investigation will have to change except for mine, I think.
There is no reason for me to change anything. I already have Dewey’s winning case.