Chapter Forty-Eight
Eunice
New York, New York
“Chief, may I have a moment?” I ask, finally getting my chance to speak with Dewey, who’s been behind closed doors most of the day.
I’d informed Miss Rosse that I had urgent information for the chief, but only now he’s made himself accessible to me.
I begin before he can respond. “This morning, I received statements from three employees of the Waldorf Towers. A manager, a waiter, and a chambermaid.” As Dewey sits back, I recount my interview with the three.
His eyes flicker with surprise when I repeat all the names the trio mentioned—almost every one of Luciano’s co-defendants who were regularly in and out of the Waldorf Towers apartment.
“There is one conversation in particular the manager recalls.” I glance down at my notepad.
“Luciano told Pennochio to ‘talk to Becker, let him know that if he wants his cut, he better keep the cops looking the other way. There’s a lot of money to be made off these girls the way I have it set up now.’ ” I hand Dewey my notepad.
He scans the pages and shakes his head in awe as I continue.
“For a time, he was running his prostitution racket straight from the Waldorf. How will Luciano explain these men going in and out of his apartment so frequently when he claims to not know any of them? Not to mention, every single one of these statements implicates him even more.”
I cannot withhold a smile of satisfaction. These three are near-unassailable witnesses.
“He won’t be able to deny this,” I say. “The jury will be convinced.”
The chief taps the notepad against his palm. “You never know what a jury of twelve men will do, but this is good work, Mrs. Carter. How did you track these people down?”
Without a pause, I say, “You’ve been concerned about the gaps between testimonies and credibility. I was determined to find more credible sources.”
He doesn’t seem to notice that I didn’t quite answer his question. He only nods, satisfied. “All right. We’ll get them prepped for court.”
“I’ve already established a rapport with them. I can help prep them, especially Miss Brown—just like I’ve prepped the other women.”
“We’ll need that at once,” he says.
I nod. “I’ll arrange for the interviews tomorrow.”
“And can you prepare a comprehensive examination outline for each? With so little notice, I want a full run of questions, because their testimonies are critical.”
“I’ll have it first thing in the morning.”
As I make my way back to my office, I feel a bit of dread.
I won’t get the car back to the garage before Lisle comes home.
Perhaps I should ring him, but as quickly as I have that thought, I push it aside.
The car will be of no matter—unless, of course, he intends to go out tonight.
He’s certainly used to the hours I work, especially these past weeks of the trial.
Inside my office, I slide my typewriter to the center of my desk and sit for a moment.
This day has been long enough to fill a week, and tonight promises to be even longer.
But I am not alone. Since the trial began, most of us have worked well past midnight.
I’ve heard that a few attorneys have even spent nights stretched out on their office floors.
I’m certain Dewey has done that a couple of times.
Even now, the office hums like it’s the middle of the day rather than well into the evening.
But the bustle is not from lawyers alone.
Wives bring supper to their husbands, and the scent of coffee and stewed meat mingles in the air.
Little children who tagged along to get a bedtime hug and good-night kiss from their fathers fill the corridor with laughter.
Everyone is here for the duration, and the families have popped in to support them.
For a moment, I imagine glancing up and seeing Lisle and Junior standing in my doorway. But it is just a dream. My husband is busy with his own work, and we’ve yet to bring Junior home. But the day for his and Mama’s return is edging closer.
Just as I set my fingers on the typewriter keys, a light tap on the door makes me look up, and my smile is instant.
“Eva,” I say, greeting Murray’s wife. “It’s good to see you.”
“And you as well, Eunice.” She gazes at the papers on my desk. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the sheer amount of work all of you are doing. And such long hours.”
“All for a worthy cause.”
“Certainly.” She reaches into the wicker basket she carries and pulls out a wax-paper-wrapped sandwich.
“I just brought Murray his supper. You know, he sometimes forgets to eat when he’s buried in work.
And I suspect the same is true for you.” She hands me the bundle.
“I hope you like corned beef with mustard.”
“I love it,” I say, taken by her thoughtfulness. “Thank you.”
“It is my pleasure.” She pauses for a moment before she adds, “Eunice, what you’re doing here makes all of us so proud.” She gives me a nod and then leaves.
For a while, I sit, letting her words settle over me. I appreciate her kindness, but it’s what she said—that I’m not making a difference for just colored women but for all women—that heartens me the most.
I unwrap the sandwich and close my eyes after the first bite, savoring the tang of the mustard. My conversation with Eva—and the sandwich—have reenergized me, and I turn back to the typewriter with renewed purpose. Perhaps this won’t be such a late night after all.
—
I would have parked my car in the middle of Edgecombe Avenue if I had to. Anything to avoid walking the two blocks from the garage to my apartment alone. But tonight, God is merciful. A space waits for me right in front of my building as if He saved it for me Himself.
And good thing—it’s a quarter past two in the morning, and exhaustion clings to my bones. I will not be able to stagger more than a few feet into my building.
The moment I enter the apartment, I kick off my shoes without undoing the T-strap and lean back against the front door. I want just a moment to summon the strength to ready for bed. Quietly, of course, so I won’t disturb Lisle.
But as I pass the parlor, something catches my attention. Lisle sits on the sofa in the dark, his gaze straight ahead, fixed on nothing. My heart kicks inside my chest. Something’s happened! To Junior? To my mother?
I rush in and click on the lamp on the side table. “Lisle, darling. What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t blink.
I’m trembling as I ease down beside him. He still won’t look at me, and then I notice. The stiff collar of his shirt is undone, but he’s dressed formally, in his black tuxedo with the wide silk lapels.
Now I’m even more confused—until I glance down at the cream-colored program resting on the cocktail table. The words on the front are embossed in gold: The NAACP honors DR. LISLE CARTER.
I gasp and snatch the program from the table. “Oh my Lord. Was this tonight?”
For the first time, Lisle’s eyes meet mine. “Yes.”
I press my hand to my chest. “Lisle…sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe…I forgot.”
He lifts his glass and takes a slow sip. “Of course. You forgot.”
“It’s the trial,” I say. “It’s been so consuming…and I had it on my calendar,” I add, although I wonder if I remembered to write it down. “Why didn’t you remind me?”
He tilts his head. “When would I have done that, Eunice? Somewhere between three and four in the morning? Because you’ve been leaving for work before I’m awake, and you come home long after I fall asleep.
I know what’s going on with the trial, but I honestly thought this”—he gestures toward the program—“was important to you, too.”
“It was. It is. I just thought it was next week,” I murmur. “Lisle, please…”
He stares at me for a moment, then glances away. And I’m glad he does. Because it was hard to see what’s in his eyes. I was used to his anger and weathered even his rage. But this…his disappointment is a heartbreaker.
I stay silent, searching for more words to say.
He speaks first. “All through the dinner, I kept looking up, thinking that at any moment you would walk through that door. I told myself you would come flying in there, breathless and filled with apologies. But you would be there. For me.”
Tears burn behind my eyes.
“Even when I stood and began my speech, I kept looking at the door. I searched for you when I talked about how I came here to America and how difficult it was being an immigrant. But how it all came together once I met you.” Finally, he looks straight at me when he says, “And I ended with how proud I am to be your husband.”
I blink and try to breathe. “And I’m proud to be your wife.”
After a moment, he nods and stands. “I believe that. I just don’t think that’s enough. It’s not enough for you. And finally, I’ve come to realize, it may not be enough for me.”
He disappears down the hall and into our bedroom. I sit there, afraid to move, afraid to think. Because I don’t want to face the meaning of his words.