Chapter Forty-One
Eunice
New York, New York
I glance at my watch as I step off the elevator. It’s just half past six. I rush to Dewey’s office. “Miss Rosse, has Mr. Dewey returned?”
“Yes, Mrs. Carter. His train arrived a little late, but he’s in his office now. I told him you’d been asking to speak with him. I will let you know when he’s available.”
“Thank you.”
Back inside my office, I pull my notepad from my desk drawer.
For all of these months, I was the one reaching out to Polly, pressing her for more and more.
But when she contacted me just a few days ago, not only did she give me my ticket to my rightful place in the courtroom, but she gave me a lever that could tighten our case like a snare around Luciano’s operation.
These notes from our meeting have been scorching my palms for the three days since Dewey has been away “meeting with people connected with the case.”
Knowing that Dewey was returning tonight, I was prepared to sit in my office until midnight, if necessary. But just over two hours ago, I lifted the telephone receiver to hear Lisle’s voice, an unexpected interruption.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Of course not, darling,” I said, even as I glanced at the stack of charts piled on my desk. With the trial beginning less than two weeks from now, I could ill afford even a moment’s pause.
“I wanted to give you some good news.”
I set aside the chart I was working on. “Then you rang the right telephone number.”
Lisle chuckled. “I was just informed that at the NAACP dinner this year, I’ll receive the prestigious Carter G. Woodson Award for Civic Race Advancement.”
Sitting back in my chair, I pressed my hand to my chest. “Oh, darling, I’m so very proud of you.”
He only said “Thank you,” but in those two words, I heard the swell of pride he carried for the work he’d done, especially leading the drive for a women’s wing in Harlem Hospital.
I was bubbling over for my husband. “We must celebrate. I’ll host a party on the night of the dinner.”
He hesitated. “Wonderful. But I was hoping we could celebrate now.”
My smile faltered, my excitement waning as swiftly as it had come. With all that was before me, how could I step away?
But Lisle had promised that it would be no more than a quick dinner.
So I agreed, and even though my time was short, Mr. Johnson drove me uptown, where Lisle and I were welcomed at one of Harlem’s fixtures, Frank’s.
Over pot roast for him and beef stew for me, Lisle shared his excitement, and I shone with pride for him.
Truly, I could hardly wait to stand by his side as he received this recognition.
“Mrs. Carter.” Miss Rosse pulls me from my reverie. “Mr. Dewey can see you now.”
Grabbing my notepad, I make my way through the corridor. The office is humming as if it’s noon and not seven in the evening. But my thoughts are on what feels like gold in my hands.
When I get to the chief’s door, he gestures for me to enter.
“Welcome back, Chief.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Carter.” His voice is weighted with exhaustion as he sets papers on his desk aside. “I was just reviewing these charts you prepared. Excellent work. Good visuals always help the jury grasp important facts. The organizational chart will be especially helpful.”
“I want to make sure you have everything you need for the trial.”
“Everything we need, Mrs. Carter,” he corrects. “I want to reiterate how important your work has been, even if you won’t be in court.”
I pause, then say, “I’m preparing a map now—every brothel across the boroughs under Luciano’s control.”
“That will be useful. And of course, if you think there is anything else—”
“There is,” I cut in. “I have something that will make our case significantly stronger.”
Dewey leans forward. By now he knows that if I have something, it’s worth hearing. “What is it?”
With a deep breath, I draw up every bit of Hunton moxie within me. “Before I share this with you, Chief, I want something in return.”
Dewey’s eyes narrow, and he’s quiet for what seems an interminable minute. But then the creases in his forehead smooth, his composure restored. “What is it?”
“I want to be on the trial team.”
His eyebrows rise at my audacity. “I thought we discussed this.”
“We did,” I say. “And I understand your concern about my race. But what I’ve contributed so far should far outweigh any apprehension.”
“All right, Mrs. Carter. This isn’t something I’ve wanted to discuss directly, but since you brought it up, I am concerned the press will seize on your presence in the courtroom and you will become the focus over the facts. It could distract from the case.”
“The press has already made a spectacle of my race. There’s little left for them to exploit.
But even if every article puts me in the spotlight, it won’t diminish the strength of our evidence.
And this last piece”—I hold up my notepad—“could be the linchpin to the prosecution.” When he doesn’t respond, I say, “I’m not asking to argue before the judge and jury, I’m asking to be present at the trial.
Behind the prosecution table where the lead trial attorneys sit would be fine. I’ve earned that much.”
The muscle in his jaw twitches. Finally, he says, “What do you have?”
I hesitate. Part of me wants his agreement first. But I have more trust in him than he has in me, so I place the notepad on his desk.
As he reads, I explain, “Nancy Presser, one of the madams we have in custody, was one of Luciano’s favorite girls.
” Even though he’s reading the notes, I continue.
“I’ve spoken with Nancy, and she can connect Luciano to everything, from dictating what brothels were opened and closed to setting prices.
And if any of the girls stepped out of line, the order to take care of them came from Luciano. She can give us everything we need.”
Slowly, he nods. “And she’s clean now?”
“Like Mildred Balitzer, she’s been clean for almost two months. And her testimony will strengthen Mildred Balitzer’s and Red Sadie’s. With all three witnesses, I believe a jury will find Lucky Luciano guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.”
Dewey sits back, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. The silence stretches, and my heart thuds. This is crucial evidence, direct links from the girls all the way to Luciano. But Dewey can still say no. He has every right to use this evidence and give me nothing in return.
“You’ll be at the trial, Mrs. Carter,” he finally says, his words landing like a gavel and carrying as much warmth. He slides the notepad back to me. “Type up these notes. I want her statement in hand as soon as possible.”
“Yes, Chief.” I slip out of his office. I don’t know if he is impressed with my gumption or irritated by it. Maybe both. But once I’m back at my desk, I’m giddy—almost as giddy as I was when Polly gave me this information.
This is a victory that would never have happened without her.
Over these months, I’ve asked myself: Who is Polly Adler?
Of course I have always placed the bulk of the blame on the men in the racket.
But the madams, women like Polly, profited, too.
She built power in a trade exploiting women.
And yet, there is one truth that I’ve come to know—Polly Adler cares.
Not just for her girls but for all the girls who’ve been exploited.
She risks her life with every meeting we have.
Even if she never sacrifices herself completely by offering her personal testimony in court.
So much of what we will present at trial was assembled by me but made possible because of Polly.
It makes me smile to think that she and I built this case.
History would probably have a laugh at this, too—the prosecutor and the madam, the unlikely pair behind the downfall of America’s most notorious mobster. If all goes to plan.
But my smile fades as I remember that no one can ever know that Assistant District Attorney Eunice Carter and the notorious madam Polly Adler stood side by side against Lucky Luciano.
The prosecutor and the madam—strange and secret bedfellows, indeed!