Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
The chatter grows louder and angrier. About an hour later, Justice McCook settles into his designated space to arraign the girls and set bail.
The other attorneys and I start processing the arrested girls—taking their names, addresses, and occupations.
I’m not surprised to hear the responses to the question of their employment:
“I’m a model.”
“I’m a housewife.”
“I’m a student studying opera.”
I note their responses without comment.
I lead the first girl, Daisy Wilson, into Judge McCook’s “chamber.” Even though he’s crammed behind a small desk in an office that, until last year, housed an insurance company, the heavyset, barrel-chested justice still wears his black robe with the stiff white collar.
I imagine that in his sixteen years on the New York Supreme Court, he never pictured a scene such as this—arraigning prostitutes inside the Woolworth Building.
His jowled face is stern when he asks Daisy her name. And then the justice says, “You have been charged with compulsory prostitution. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty,” Daisy proclaims. There is a bit of amusement in her tone as she tightens her mink stole around her bare shoulders.
The justice nods. “Bail is set at ten thousand dollars.”
Her smirk fades fast. “Ten. Thousand. Dollars?” She blinks, her merriment gone. “My bail is supposed to be three hundred dollars.”
“Your bail is whatever I say it is, Miss Wilson,” he says gruffly before he cracks his gavel down hard on the desk.
I lead Daisy to the office for her interview. She sits on the edge of the chair, her expression a clash of incredulity and confusion. “I’ve never had bail set so high.”
“These are serious charges, Miss Wilson.”
“No more serious than usual,” she replies, flicking her bangs from her eyes.
“Oh?” I feign surprise. “You’ve been arrested before? I thought you were an art student.”
Her lips press into a thin line, and she glances away.
“I have a few questions, Miss Wilson. You work with Red Sadie, correct?”
“I told you, I’m an art student,” she snaps.
“At Red Sadie’s, how much of your earnings do you retain?”
She says nothing.
“Are you aware of how the clients are procured and managed there?” More silence. “Besides Red Sadie, is there anyone else who oversees the management of that establishment?” She refuses to reply. “Are you from New York, or were you brought here by someone?”
Daisy remains silent through my next six questions. I end by telling her the truth, a statement that all the girls will hear. “Miss Wilson, while this is serious, we’re not here to prosecute you or any of the women. We want your testimony to convict the men at the top.”
“I’m not going to tell you anything about any of them.” She shakes her head, shedding the art student pretense.
“Then we’ll have no choice but to proceed with the charges against you. You’ll be sent to prison to await your trial.”
Her shoulders sag beneath the weight of my words. “It’s been rough, Mrs. Carter,” she whispers. “This life…working with the Combination…”
I inhale. “The Combination? What can you tell me about that? Who’s the head of the Combination?”
She gives me a long stare. “Do you have any idea what will happen to me if I say anything?” With slow deliberation, she lifts her finger to her throat and drags it across her skin. She holds her finger there for a beat before she folds her arms and sits back.
“Thank you, Miss Wilson” is all I can say before I leave her alone.
I suspect Daisy is telling herself not to be concerned. Yes, the raid, this building, and the bail are all surprises. She may even suspect that she’ll have to spend one night in jail. But three nights—and beyond—in a cell will certainly change her perspective.
We repeat the process, girl after girl. But no one offers us anything more than their rehearsed lies. Their unrelenting fear is the Mob’s greatest weapon. The girls believe losing their freedom is a far better fate than losing their lives.
The madams are even more obstinate. We have quite a few in custody: Jenny the Factory, Silver-Tongued Elsie, Fat Rae, even Max the Barber—the one male madam among them—and, of course, Red Sadie. We receive no cooperation from any of them.
By midnight, my voice is only a rasp. By three in the morning, it’s my sanity that’s fraying.
Exhaustion has overtaken me, and I am edging toward delirium.
The new morning sun’s first rays peek through the venetian blinds when I process the last of over one hundred girls and I take the elevator up to my office.
We instructed the cops to search the brothels for paperwork and diaries, and now all of that is stacked atop my desk.
But I am so bushed, I don’t even have the strength to drive home. Just as I consider resting my head on my desk, Murray knocks on my door.
His eyes are as bloodshot as mine, but he grins as he collapses into the chair. “We did it.” He sounds hoarse.
“Now we wait for them to turn from prostitutes to state witnesses.”
He brushes his fingers through his hair. “Did you hear we had another leak?”
“No! What happened?”
“The cops went out to the eighty brothels you gave them but only raided forty-one. Seems like the others were tipped off.”
I bounce back in my chair. “So we only got half?”
Murray nods. “But we got enough. We missed a few, like Florence Brown, Diamond Lil, and Polly Adler, but we have plenty of girls and madams down there.”
I freeze at Murray’s words—We missed a few…Polly Adler.
I am no leaker, but I made sure Polly would be missed. She gave me what I needed, and I made sure she and her girls were safe from the raid. That was our deal.
And now, after last night, Polly Adler and I can return to pretending we never met.