Chapter Forty-Four
Eunice
New York, New York
From my earliest days in church, I’ve been taught that seven is the number of completion, of divine favor. On this seventh day since the beginning of the trial, I pray that this holds true for us today.
From the shocking moment when the bookers changed their pleas and testified about the inner workings of the Combination, to the testimony of two prostitutes who corroborated the men’s stories with their own firsthand accounts, we’ve been making progress.
While the defense has poked a few holes—casting aspersions on the credibility of our witnesses, mostly—with each day, we’re moving closer to a conviction.
But the woman who now places her trembling hand on the Bible is, I believe, one of our most critical witnesses.
Sallow-skinned and sunken-eyed Nancy Presser steps up into the witness stand, a ghost of who she once was.
This woman, who arrived in New York chasing dreams (and blessed with the looks) of modeling, became drawn to the underworld after crossing paths with Al Capone.
But a life lived too fast—short days, endless nights, too many Gin Rickeys, and the slow merciless ruin of the needle—ravaged her beauty.
“I do.” Her voice is soft as she swears to tell the truth. She sits, her back rigid as if a rod is holding her upright.
Nancy is frail, the toll of the drugs apparent. I take in a slow breath and lift up a silent prayer.
I’m certain Nancy never imagined she’d find herself here, preparing to do the unthinkable—testifying and helping to send Luciano away for a long time. She glances at me, searching for steadiness. And I give her a nearly imperceptible but hopefully encouraging nod.
We rehearsed this moment. I warned her to never look at Luciano. To keep her eyes on Dewey. We discussed every line of questioning from the prosecution and the possible questions that would come from the defense.
I spent just as much time coaching Dewey, another advantage of me being on his team. I explained Nancy’s fragility and guided him on how to approach her with authority and grace. He had to treat her with dignity and not pity, and then the jurors would do the same in assessing her testimony.
The chief buttons his jacket as he approaches the stand. “How are you today, Miss Presser?”
“I’m fine.” Her voice wavers slightly.
“Thank you for being here.”
My breath catches. That’s not how I would have opened. I pray Nancy doesn’t say she was pressured into being here. When she only nods, I exhale.
Dewey moves swiftly through the opening lines of questioning: her full name, age, place of birth, education, and current residence. Then he moves to the crux of his direct examination.
“Miss Presser, are you acquainted with the defendant, Charles Luciano?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know Mr. Luciano?”
She shifts but keeps her eyes on Dewey. “I was one of his…uh…girls.”
“By ‘girl,’ do you mean prostitute?”
She lowers her eyes and nods. But then she remembers another instruction. “Yes,” she says, speaking up and with resolve.
Dewey leads her through the facts she told me: the places she and Luciano met, how much time they spent together, the men who would often join them. “Were there occasions when Mr. Luciano spoke about his business?”
“Yes. Lucky and I often had dinner at this place not too far from Madison Square Garden. And whenever anyone joined us there, they usually ended up talking business.”
“Who would join you and Mr. Luciano?”
She says, “The regulars, you know. Lil Davie, Tommy the Bull, Jimmy…”
I flinch at her use of the nicknames. I’ve worked hard to get the girls to use formal names. But the chief clarifies all the names for the court and the jury before he moves to the conversation I told him to draw out.
She says, “There was one evening when Lucky was talking with Lil Davie about some of the houses not paying.”
“Objection, hearsay,” Luciano’s lawyer stands and yells out.
Dewey is prepared for this. Nancy overheard Luciano—and others—make many damaging statements that we need admitted into evidence. Of course, the defense will try to exclude them under the hearsay rule.
But we have our exceptions to that hearsay rule ready to keep hold of Nancy’s critical testimony. We know we won’t get everything in, but the jury will hear most of it.
“Exception to the hearsay rule,” Dewey replies. “Statement of a party opponent.”
The judge nods and says, “Objection overruled. You may continue, Miss Presser.”
To prompt her along, Dewey asks, “What do you mean by ‘the houses’?”
“The brothels. The madams who run them. Some of them weren’t paying up, and Lucky told Davie to go in there and smash and crash everything. To destroy the place to make an example.”
“Hearsay!” One of Luciano’s team jumps up again.
The judge doesn’t even bother waiting for Dewey’s argument. “Overruled.”
She continues, recounting other conversations: “I heard him talking about how he was going to raise the prices, and he talked to the others about when and where the girls were being moved. He talked a lot about expanding the business.”
After drawing out everything that Nancy knows about the workings of the Combination, and the statements she overheard Luciano make about running it and wreaking havoc on those who didn’t toe the line, Dewey thanks her and steps away.
I study the jury. The twelve men have listened closely.
Most of them are stone-faced, but the foreman, Edwin Aderer—a dental gold manufacturer—is almost on the edge of his seat.
That’s a good sign, but the battle for Nancy Presser’s credibility has just begun.
George Morton Levy rises, and I press my hands together.
I tried to prepare Nancy for this cross-examination, warning her about the insults and the pure brutality of the questions that would come from Levy.
But mostly, I tried to prepare her for him.
The forty-year-old slick gangster lawyer moves with the confidence and authority of a man who never loses.
His booming baritone and sneering tone even rattled me a few times over the last week.
Nancy told me she was ready. All I can do now is hold my breath.
“Miss Presser,” Levy begins, addressing her with casual disdain. “You are addicted to drugs, is that correct?”
“I have had difficulty with them in the past, yes. But I am not on anything now.”
“And what is your poison?” Before she can respond, he adds, “Or are there too many to count?”
“I have had problems with heroin in the past,” she says, her voice steady, as if she’s merely stating a fact.
“Ah! Is that why you sell your body? So you can get your next fix?”
“Objection!” Dewey shouts from his chair. “Speculation. Assumes facts not in evidence. And badgering.”
“Sustained!”
For the next hour, Levy drags Nancy through the gutter, attempting to reduce her to ruin in the eyes of the court.
He asks her to describe her drug addiction: the needles, the dosages, how the high made her feel.
He presses her on how many times she fell back into the habit and why she couldn’t just stop.
Dewey objects, and most are sustained. But the seed of doubt has been planted and has to be growing in the jurors’ minds.
Protectiveness surges through me, and so many times I want to rise, object, and demand that Levy move on. But I cannot, and the man barrels forward, beating Nancy down with every question. Nancy begins to break. Her chin dips, her shoulders fold, and perspiration glistens on her forehead.
When she begins to sway, Dewey stands. But before he can speak, Judge McCook asks, “Miss Presser, are you all right?”
“No.” Her voice is barely audible.
“Would you like a glass of water?” The judge nods to the bailiff.
“I need…a moment…the bathroom.” Before the judge can grant her leave, Nancy bolts from the stand, a hand clamped over her mouth as if she’s pressing back a volcano of rising bile in her throat.
The courtroom stirs as Levy strolls back to his chair, his smirk smug and satisfied. I shake my head. More than one of the girls warned me that just talking about their addiction made them nauseous. Levy tried this tactic with the first two girls, but it only worked with Nancy.
When Nancy doesn’t immediately return, Judge McCook says, “It’s nearly twelve. We’ll take this opportunity to take a lunch recess until one o’clock.”
He has barely rapped his gavel again before the room erupts. I gather my briefcase, prepared to rush after Nancy. But just as I rise, a blond boy, no older than sixteen, brushes past me. He slips a folded piece of paper into my hand.
I freeze. Before I can think or speak, he’s gone.
My hands shake as I stare at the paper. Is this another threat from Luciano and his goons? Would they be so brazen as to actually threaten me in court? I unfold the note and read. Then I scan the room. No eyes are on me. I ease out of the courtroom.
Less than thirty minutes later, I hop out of Mr. Johnson’s Buick and bound up the stairs of the New York Public Library. The twin marble lions of Patience and Fortitude majestically flank the entrance, but today I barely notice the statues.
I move quickly through the grand vestibule, weaving past students and scholars, until I reach the sweeping staircase. On the second floor, I find her in the history stacks.
Today, Polly wears heels so high, I hope they were purchased with a parachute. Her black satin dress is a bit too clingy and fancy for daytime. But she scans the shelves as if she’s an ordinary patron.
A bit of indignation washes over me. Over all these months, we’ve been so careful to avoid suspicion and detection. But now? I stride forward, stopping right alongside her, although I do take the precautionary measure of facing the opposite shelves.
“You should not have contacted me this way,” I say in a sharp whisper. “You pulled me out of the trial.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Carter.” Her tone is cool and cordial.
“You had your runner slip me a note in open court. Do you know what that could have cost me? Not to mention you?”
“I was not concerned. If anyone asked, you could have said you were receiving a note from an important witness or a colleague.”
“Or if they’ve been watching, someone could have followed your messenger and learned the message came from you. And that would put both of us at risk.”
“He wasn’t going to come back to me,” she says. She gives me a quick sideways glance. “Why are you so skittish? Have you been followed?”
I brush her off with a wave of my hand. “Why did you want to see me, Miss Adler?”
“I’ve been listening to the radio bulletins on the trial. Your witnesses’ credibility’s being picked apart.”
I huff. When did Polly Adler start practicing law?
“I understand that Nancy Presser is your next witness,” she continues.
“She just got off the stand and will go back on again later.”
“And she’ll be excellent, I’m sure. But just like with the others, many will doubt that she’s trustworthy. Those men on the jury will see her only as a drug addict and a two-bit whore.”
I flinch at Polly’s words. She’s never referred to any of the girls that way, but I know it’s only to make her point.
“Credibility is the Achilles’ heel of your case.” She keeps on like she’s one of the prosecuting attorneys. “But I have something that can fix that.”
The heavy clomp of hard-soled shoes approaching makes her pause, and she waits until the footsteps fade. She pulls a volume from the stacks, opens the pages, and then whispers, “Hotel staff.”
“What about them?”
“Lucky spent weeks, sometimes months, living in the Barbizon and the Waldorf.”
I stare at the books in front of me. “And?”
“And I’m familiar with his time at the hotels because I sent girls there from time to time.
He had the same staff serve him during each of his stays.
I know this because I had to get to know them—the managers, doormen, porters, bellhops, attendants, all of them—befriend them, so to speak, so my girls could move freely about the hotel without being harassed. ”
I drop my arms to my sides, the realization dawning upon me. “And now those same employees could provide useful testimony about him.”
“Yes,” she says. “The hotel staff would have seen him regularly and come to know him, his habits, and his visitors. I’m sure they can recall an overheard conversation or two.”
“They can corroborate what the bookers and the girls have said on the stand,” I say, more to myself than Polly.
Polly faces me for just a moment and smiles.
I say, “And they will be credible witnesses.”
Polly answers with a nod. “I’ll be in touch, Mrs. Carter.”
“You don’t have the names for me?” I’m astounded. Why would she bring me here just for a chat?
“I wanted to see if you’d be amenable to this. You’ll hear from me very soon.”
I watch as she disappears down the aisle, and then I smile, too. This was worth the risks.