Chapter Thirty-Eight
Eunice
New York, New York
When Mildred Balitzer crosses her arms and fixes me with a glare, I’m reminded of Polly Adler and her moxie.
“I’m tired of you, Mrs. Carter,” Mildred snaps.
I sigh. Red Sadie gave me the same look—as if I’m no better than the men who exploit them. Yet beyond putting Luciano behind bars, I want this case to give these ladies a chance to live free.
“Why do you have to keep asking me the same questions?” She pushes her chair back, but she doesn’t rise.
Of course she won’t leave. Now that she knows that I know about her relationship with Pete Harris, she’s desperate to get herself and Pete out of police custody.
And she knows cooperating with me is her ticket to making that happen.
I’ve come to understand Mildred’s love for her husband.
As Polly implied, this is also my greatest leverage with her.
“Forgive me,” I say sincerely. “This will be the final time you have to answer these questions.”
She wipes her teary eyes. She isn’t crying; watery eyes are simply one of the symptoms of a recovering junkie. Her addiction has left other marks as well—irritability and agitation—although I’m certain those traits are just part of her nature, with or without drugs.
Even though she’s only thirty, the years of drug use have aged her decades beyond.
The toll is etched into the sallow ruddiness of her complexion and the thinning of her hair.
Yet beneath the ravages of addiction and prostitution, traces of the striking woman remain.
She very well could have been a model—as she so often claims, each time she’s been arrested.
“I’m asking these questions again to ensure that you’re consistent.”
She nods.
“How do you know Lucky Luciano?”
“Through my business. And my husband is one of his bookers.”
“Have you met Mr. Luciano personally?”
“A couple of times.”
“Do you have personal knowledge of Mr. Luciano’s connection with the prostitution ring?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you have personal knowledge of Mr. Luciano being the leader of the prostitution ring?”
“Yeah, he’s the man at the top.”
“How do you know this?”
“Lots of ways. I’ve been friends with Lil Davie and—”
“Lil Davie?” I ask. I know who she’s referencing, but she needs to practice naming him the way she will have to in court.
“Yeah, Davie Betillo. I’ve been friends with Davie Betillo and Tommy the…” She stops. “Tommy Pennochio. I’ve known them for years. We’ve been out a few times together and have run into Lucky. The first time, Davie introduced him to me as his boss.”
“What did you believe that to mean?”
“It meant that Lucky was the man, the number one guy, the Boss.”
“The boss of what?”
“The boss of this whole Combination thing. Davie was the manager of all the cathouses. If anything ever went wrong or I had a problem, I called Davie. So if he was saying Lucky was his boss, that meant that Lucky was in charge. Because no one was above Davie…except the Boss.”
“Did you have any other occasion to believe that Mr. Luciano was involved in the prostitution ring?”
“Yeah, one day, about a year back, he was trying to make a deal with some guy. Offered to pay him forty dollars a week if he’d become a collector.”
“A collector?” I ask, knowing what Mildred means, but again, preparing her for trial.
“Yeah, Lucky was gonna pay him to collect money from all the houses.”
“Do you know the name of the man Mr. Luciano made the offer to?”
“Nah,” she says.
I pause and fix my gaze on Mildred. This is the crux of her testimony. “Did you ever have occasion to speak to Mr. Luciano directly?”
“Yeah.”
“And what were the circumstances of that conversation?”
“My husband, Pete Harris”—she glares at me—“got himself in deep, owing the Combination some money. I wanted my husband to get out of the business, and since I’d been friends with Lil Davie, I thought he would do me a good turn. But he didn’t do nothing, so I decided to go straight to Lucky myself.”
“Why did you want to speak to Mr. Luciano?”
“Because I told you, he was the Boss. So I went to Lucky.” She sits up straighter. “I told him I wanted my husband out of the business.”
“And what was Mr. Luciano’s response?”
“He told me Pete wasn’t going anywhere. Not until he made him square.”
“Made him square?”
She huffs. I’ve told Mildred before that not everyone will understand her slang. “Not until he paid back every dime. He told me I knew how his rackets worked.”
“His rackets?”
“Yeah. His operation. He told me Pete was one of his top bookers, and he would never let him leave his business.”
“And what did you understand he meant by his ‘business’?”
“He meant his prostitution business. Because that’s the only business Pete was in.”
Although I’ve heard this three times, it still thrills me. Mildred has been unwavering. If I can keep her away from the drugs—and keep her alive—she will be one of our key witnesses.
Mildred rubs her arms as if she’s warding off a sudden chill. “When will I see my husband?”
“Once you’re released from here and settled into your secure location, I’ll see what I can do.”
All the way from the House of Detention to my office, I sit in the back seat of Mr. Johnson’s car, smiling. Another link to Luciano. Now we have two witnesses definitely linking him to the prostitution ring. Can I get three…?
But the moment I enter the office, my smile crumbles. Eight prosecutors—no Murray among them—file out two by two from the chief’s office.
What kind of meeting could they have had without me?
I march to the chief’s office and stand at his open door. Dewey is at his desk making notes when I knock. He glances up, and I ask, “Chief, do you have a moment?”
He sits back in his chair and nods slowly. Only when I stride in do I realize I’m still wearing my coat and holding my briefcase. Placing the briefcase down, I say, “It seems I missed a meeting. I apologize. I had the final interview with Mildred Balitzer.”
He shakes his head. “You didn’t miss a meeting, Mrs. Carter. I only asked a few of the assistant district attorneys to join me.” He breaks my gaze and stares down at his writing pad. “I just assigned the attorneys for the Luciano trial.”
His words astound me. Everyone in the office has been waiting for those assignments. I had every confidence I’d be chosen. Not only because of my trial experience but because the entire case against Luciano is based on my work, my theory.
I cross my arms. “Are you saying I’m not going to be one of the trial attorneys?” I can barely keep my voice steady.
He lifts his eyes. “I had to put together the best team to win.”
My voice quivers with anger when I ask, “And you don’t think I’m one of the best?”
“That’s not what I’m saying at all, Mrs. Carter. We certainly wouldn’t be here without you.”
“Then why am I not on the trial team?”
The chief sighs. “There was so much for me to consider beyond experience. Here in the office, we’re a team, but in a courtroom, there’s the judge and, most importantly, the jury.”
“I realize that. I’ve been in a courtroom before. I’m one of the only prosecutors on this team who has.”
“Yes.” He nods. “That was one of the things that impressed me during your interview. But your cases before…well, they are certainly no match for what we’ll be up against with Luciano.”
“The cases I’ve represented are a better match than someone walking into the court without any experience at all.”
I wait for him to explain what he means, but he remains silent. So now I fill in the blanks. He’s saying the clients I’ve represented were colored or women, therefore a colored lawyer was accepted in those courtrooms. But in this one…
“Mrs. Carter, you’ve done so much good work on this case. I know you wouldn’t want to do anything to jeopardize it.”
“Of course not. But I don’t understand how my presence at the prosecution table will jeopardize anything. Especially when I know this case best.”
He gives me a hard stare, asking me not to force him. He doesn’t want to say aloud that I cannot sit alongside him because I am a Negro.
“You will still have a prominent role, Mrs. Carter. Like you said, no one knows this case better than you. I’ve chosen four prosecutors to handle the actual trial, but I’ve assigned Mr. Ten Eyck to prepare the girls for trial and…”
Of all the assistant district attorneys, Dewey has chosen Barent Ten Eyck?
The one who’s been investigating racketeering in the baking industry?
How can the chief believe Ten Eyck will be able to handle the women whom I’ve developed relationships with, whom I’ve managed to get talking?
Hasn’t this team learned whom the women trust?
Dewey goes on. “I’m sure Mr. Ten Eyck will need your assistance. And I’d like your help with the exhibits I plan to use during the prosecution’s case. I want charts to lay out the evidence showing all the patterns you uncovered.”
I don’t speak. I cannot.
We stare at each other until Dewey says, “Is there anything else, Mrs. Carter?”
I shake my head and pick up my briefcase. “No, Chief, there’s nothing else. I’ve certainly heard enough.”
—
I’m still off-kilter as Mr. Johnson eases the car to a stop before the colossal three-arched facade of Grand Central Station. My mind is spinning from my conversation with Dewey. “All right, Mrs. Carter. Is this where I should pick you up as well?”
“Yes. In about an hour,” I say, slipping from the back seat. As I enter the terminal, with its towering arched windows letting in golden sunlight and the celestial mural painted high above, my thoughts scatter.
New Yorkers surge all around me, and the clamor in the terminal is constant.
Heels clicking on the marble floor, the muffled roar of the steam engines pulsing from the platforms below, and porters wheeling carts piled high with luggage as they weave between men in business suits and women hurrying children along.
And this is precisely why I chose this as a meeting place with Polly, since she’s refused to meet in Central Park again.
She was adamant about a new meeting locale, and I wonder if something happened after our last meeting.
I move past the newsstand, past the shoeshine parlor, and make my way to the opal clock perched atop the information booth at the center. Searching the crowd, I see no sign of Polly. I’m a bit early. She will certainly find me.
As I wait, I take in the space. Usually I’m swept up in the energy here, feeding off the travelers’ frenzy, as thrilled as if I were traveling myself.
But today I feel untethered. I have given up so much personally to be a part of this team fighting to clean up crime, making the city safer for New Yorkers.
But this justice I seek for others feels beyond my reach when it comes to me.
Yes, I know America is steeped in discrimination and inequality.
Just because of the color of my skin, I will not be served in certain restaurants, cannot enter certain nightclubs, cannot shop in certain stores, cannot even catch a picture show in some theaters.
Still, with my law credentials and the work I’ve done on this case, how can Dewey refuse to make me one of the trial lawyers because I’m colored?
Without the foundation I’ve laid, Dewey and the nineteen other assistant district attorneys would be in Hell’s Kitchen helping Mr. Ten Eyck search for clues inside strawberry cupcakes.
Maybe I should give up. Perhaps that’s best. Walking away would save my marriage and bring my son home. Yes, I’ve earned my place, but that is not enough. And I don’t have the strength to wage two wars—one at home and one at work. If I can win only one fight, I choose my family.
I take a deep breath—my decision made.
“Mrs. Carter?”
I almost don’t recognize her. Polly Adler stands just a few feet in front of me with her back turned. Today she’s wearing just a light swagger coat, and I wonder, Where is her fur stole? I’ve scarcely seen her without it, even in warmer weather.
She takes a few steps forward. Her eyes are partially hidden by her tilt hat, but I can see her glancing at the departure board. And I follow.
Then I wait for her to speak.
For the final time.