Chapter Twenty-Nine
Eunice
New York, New York
As I steer through the deserted streets of Harlem, I wonder if this is what it was like for my mother. Stealing into a Southern town under the cover of night, never certain what dangers lurked in the shadows. Was she ever afraid? Did she ever wish to turn back?
One thing my mother never had to endure on those Southern nights was the brutal bite of a New York winter.
The Arctic freeze that has gripped the East Coast has turned the city into a treacherous icebox.
All day, radio announcers have droned on about the deathly danger of being outdoors.
But nothing has prepared me for the way my Ford skids across the pavement.
I gasp as I come within inches of sideswiping a parked car. But I grip the wheel and steer forward. My heart is hammering, and I murmur a prayer. One block later, I nudge my car to the curb, and I thank Jesus again before I cut off the engine.
I never should have attempted such foolishness.
And if Lisle had been home, he would have chained the front door rather than allowing me to venture into what he would call utter madness.
But Lisle is in Nashville, Tennessee, giving the keynote address at the National Association of Colored Dentists.
It is no coincidence that I chose this night for the raids.
My driving may have been reckless, but my timing is impeccable.
I glance at my wristwatch—the raids will begin in less than ten minutes.
Over 160 officers have been assigned to this sweep across the city.
To maintain secrecy, no one will be riding with their usual partner.
In fact, they won’t know the details of their mission until they arrive at their destinations and open envelopes at precisely eight fifty-five. Then they’ll spring into action.
The wind howls, rattling the car, and I double-check the doors. Both are locked, although truly, I have no fear of Luciano’s men lurking tonight. This cold isn’t fit for any man—it’d freeze the sin right off a sinner.
But the cold became a consideration today—was it too dangerous to conduct a raid in subzero temperatures?
I was the one to convince Dewey that we had no choice but to proceed.
We had too many in custody from our roundup last night—Dave Betillo, Thomas Pennochio, Jesse Jacobs, and Pete Harris, among others—and we’d lose the element of surprise and our leverage over the women if we delayed.
Through the windshield, I glance up at the brownstone.
From the moment I conceived of this plan, I wanted to be present for the strike on this Harlem brownstone.
It’s the place about which I’ve received the most resident complaints, and it holds a brothel run by one of the city’s most notorious madams.
Most of all, this is where Deputy Chief Inspector David McAuliffe, the senior officer overseeing this most ambitious police operation in the city’s history, will be.
I hear the rumble of a car engine, and I glance through the rearview mirror. Headlights approach—a patrol car followed by a paddy wagon. The patrol car comes to a stop in front of me, and inside, McAuliffe sits in the passenger seat.
I steel myself, ready to make my move. McAuliffe opens his car door, and I open mine. Police spill from the paddy wagon, their boots crushing the ice on the pavement. No one notices me—until suddenly McAuliffe does.
“Mrs. Carter!” he hisses into the frigid air. His voice is thick with rage. “I told you earlier that we do not allow civilians to be present for official police missions.”
“In this case, I am not a civilian, Inspector McAuliffe.”
“I don’t care what you are!” His face flushes with the same indignation he had this afternoon when I told him I would be here for this raid. Then he pauses and clears his throat. “We do not allow civilians or prosecutors or anyone who doesn’t wear a badge on-site. It’s for your safety.”
“I’m not concerned about my safety.”
“That’s another reason we don’t ride with civilians—you don’t grasp the danger. These policemen have enough to worry about, keeping an eye on their own backs.”
“Inspector McAuliffe”—I hold up my gloved hands—“I will stay out of your way. I just need to be here.”
“Why?” His question drips with exasperation—and frustration.
It is impossible to list the many reasons I need to be present: If anything goes wrong, I’ll be blamed. Corruption festers within the police department, and I won’t let it poison my plan. I want to serve as my own witness. This is the raid I organized, and I also arranged for the press coverage.
To McAuliffe, I say only, “As we prepare the cases for court, I must understand how these raids were conducted.”
He studies me, but officers are already dashing up the dozen steps leading to the entry of the three-story brownstone. He has no more time to argue. “Stay right here with them,” he warns in a growl, and jabs his finger, pointing behind me to two men lugging heavy cameras. The press has arrived.
I stand on the icy sidewalk looking up, hoping I’ll have a view of something through the parlor windows. But only a shimmer of light peeks through the heavy velvet drapes.
Then, crash! The front door is kicked open and smashes against the wall.
“This is a raid. Put your hands up!” the officers shout.
Shrieks, screams, and curses spill from the brothel alongside Bing Crosby’s croon of romance—the words of “It’s Easy to Remember” floating like silk through the mayhem.
I want to rush up the brownstone’s steps and witness it all.
But I stand steadfast. If any of Luciano’s men are inside, this will turn into more than a raid.
Within a minute, I have a ringside seat. I, along with the neighbors who peek from every window on both sides of this brownstone, watch as men in open shirts and unzipped trousers—a couple in only their underwear—scurry down the fire escape, then scatter like rats up and down Seventh Avenue.
When the girls emerge, each escorted by an officer, the night blazes with camera flashes.
Women in glittery gowns, their necklaces sparkling like the constellations above, file out next to others clad in nothing more than silk negligees and fur-trimmed slippers.
I shiver. Suddenly the union suit and thermal stockings that I wear beneath three layers of clothing offer me no protection from the cold as I watch these poor girls.
Perhaps I should have given orders for the girls to dress before stepping out in this weather.
I say to the passing officers, “Get them into the paddy wagon quickly.”
The air swells with the stench of perfume and cigarettes, just as a woman shouts, “You never showed me your warrant!” She is so hysterical, two officers have to wrangle her toward the paddy wagon.
“This is a respectable house, you flatfoot bastard!” Her scarlet-painted lips curl in brazen defiance, and her curses explode in the nighttime air.
This is one of the things I wanted to witness.
Red Sadie—the former prostitute who rose above her circumstances and now has a reputation that looms large in the city.
She’s the opposite of what I imagined. She’s short, stout, and rather ordinary.
Except for her steely green eyes, which are as sharp as her tongue and burn with fire as red-hot as her hair.
As Red Sadie wiggles in the officers’ grasp, the cameras click, and the flashes light up the street like high noon.
The newspaper headlines…the photographs of Red Sadie…the pictures of the girls being dragged away—all of this will crash through the city in the morning like a thunderclap.
Exactly as I planned.
—
I ride the elevator to the thirteenth floor. The level beneath our offices has been empty for months, but tonight, it will be the epicenter of our operation. This is where the girls will be processed and questioned until they’re transferred to the Women’s House of Detention tomorrow.
It was my idea to bring the women here. The sheer number of the arrests would have made it impossible to process them all at the Women’s Court or even at the prison. I wanted every step—from the arrests to the arraignments—to be under my observation.
When I exit the elevator, it feels strange to see the office humming with quiet chatter.
Yesterday, all the assistant district attorneys on Dewey’s team were told—without explanation—that today they would work through the night.
It wasn’t until the raids began that the men learned of this operation.
Now they are all here to help process the girls, while Dewey is up in his office, continuing to coordinate the police operations.
The paddy wagons will arrive any minute, so I have little time to weave through the offices. But as I cross the space, I slow down as the men, who for the past year have given me little more than a glance, pause to smile and offer the occasional “Good job, Mrs. Carter.”
I nod my gratitude at their compliments before I check the office set aside for Justice McCook to arraign the girls.
Just as I reach the freight elevators, the doors open.
Cops and girls file out, filling the air with the cloying sweetness of perfume; nearly all the girls are white, with the exception of a few colored and Spanish-looking girls.
I greet them all, almost as if they’re guests, offering coffee to warm them, before the other attorneys guide them to the offices where they’ll be confined.
“Why are we here?” many ask as their eyes dart around the bare offices with nothing more than desks and metal folding chairs.
The girls are accustomed to raids and arrests, but not like this.
“I’ll be speaking with each of you,” I tell them. “Please give me a few minutes to begin.”