Chapter Fifty
Eunice
New York, New York
I stand at the threshold of the dining room, waiting, willing Lisle to glance up.
Perhaps he hasn’t heard me. That’s possible.
But it’s far more likely that he has and he just doesn’t care.
I wonder if he’s noticed my small efforts.
Even as the trial proceeds, I’ve stopped racing out the door before dawn, instead lingering until he wakes up so we can share our morning coffee.
It has taken a toll. I’ve watched Dewey make note of my lateness, although he’s kept his silence.
But what choice is there if I hope to hold on to my marriage?
Still, I don’t know if it’s working. It’s been two weeks since I missed the NAACP award dinner.
Two weeks of perfunctory kisses and conversations that barely stretch beyond ten words.
Always cordial, always polite, always leaving me feeling like a stranger in my own marriage.
I’ve apologized and pleaded for forgiveness more than once, and while he says it’s fine, his tone and his manner tell me nothing is right in our world.
Inside the kitchen, I brew our coffee, then return with our cups.
I set Lisle’s before him, and he thanks me—without a glance once again.
I slide into the chair across from him, but his eyes remain locked on The Amsterdam News.
I stare at this man I’ve loved for so long and rake my mind.
What can I do to shift Lisle and me back to who we used to be?
This is the greatest conundrum. My husband. My work. Two loves pulling me apart.
I take a deep breath and say, “Did you read the letter from my mother?”
Without glancing up, he nods.
I continue. “Junior is happy, but I must admit that I’m delighted at the thought that with the trial soon coming to an end, our son will be on his way home.”
All he says is “Yes,” then the silence once again stretches like a river of molasses between us. And in a moment, a thought comes to me. “Lisle, why don’t you come to the courthouse?” I blurt out. “It’s something being in the room with Luciano and all of those men.”
Slowly, he lowers the newspaper and looks at me as if he wonders what kind of harebrained idea this is. I understand. I didn’t take a moment to think this through, but it makes sense.
“I’m not speaking in court, of course. Dewey’s leading the case.
But it’s my work that has brought us here.
The records, the witnesses, all of the charts—you’ll be able to see what I’ve been doing.
You’ll be able to hear some of my words in Dewey’s cross-examinations, especially if Luciano takes the stand.
I’ve worked hard, and I really want to share this with you. ”
This time, I’m pleased when he’s silent. At least he’s not scoffing. “My schedule is full,” he finally says.
“I understand,” I say, refusing to be deterred. “But if you find time…even for just an hour, I’d be so grateful. I’ll arrange a pass regardless.”
He nods, then lifts the newspaper again.
It’s not a victory, but it’s a step. So I rise and kiss Lisle’s cheek. “Have a good day, darling.”
Again, he doesn’t glance up, but at least he does say “You, too.”
It wasn’t a conversation or a flicker of forgiveness. But it feels like hope. And I carry that with me on the ride all the way to the New York County Supreme Court building.
When Mr. Johnson drops me at the curb, I have to hasten inside after lingering at home for so long. I settle into my seat just as the bailiff enters; behind him is Judge McCook, who tells Dewey to call his first witness.
Dewey rises. “Your Honor, the prosecution calls Marjorie Brown.”
Mr. Woelfle and Mr. Weinman have already taken the stand. While their testimonies spoke to Luciano’s status as a Waldorf guest sometimes in the presence of other co-defendants, Marjorie can reveal so much more.
She slips onto the witness chair looking like she’s dressed for church in her round, collared, puffy-sleeved floral dress, with a small tilt hat that she pushed away from her forehead.
She sits, head high, shoulders squared, with a confidence that belies her twenty-four years.
During her intense preparation, she’s maintained this same composure, never faltered.
In fact, I daresay she’s become stronger, sometimes sounding like she’s on a singular mission to obtain justice by herself.
After Dewey takes her through the first formal questions, he asks, “Where do you work, Miss Brown?”
“At the Waldorf Towers. On the thirty-ninth and fortieth floors.”
“What are your duties there?”
“I’m a bath maid. I clean the bathrooms, mostly. And sometimes the pantries.”
“Do you see anyone in this courtroom who was a regular guest at the Waldorf Towers?”
“Yes.”
“Would you point him out?”
Without hesitation, Marjorie points directly at Luciano. “That’s him. He told us his name was Charlie Ross.”
“Thank you, Miss Brown. And did you ever see people inside Mr. Luciano’s apartment?”
“Yes, all the time.”
“Can you stand up now and point out anyone in this courtroom that you saw visiting Mr. Luciano?”
“Sure,” she says with a smile, as if she’s waited all her life for this moment. She rises, but then solemnity returns to her expression. Thoughtfully, she glances around. “That man,” she finally says, “in the gray suit and polka-dot tie,” pointing out Dave Betillo.
“How many times did you see that man inside Mr. Luciano’s apartment?”
“Dozens of times. Twenty, thirty times.”
“All right. Anyone else?”
Marjorie goes on to point out Abie Wahrman and Meyer Berkman.
That was all Dewey wanted. Marjorie told us she’d seen four or five of the men enough times to identify them in court. Dewey believed that if she made the connection to just three, it would be enough to underscore the message that Luciano was lying about not knowing these men.
“Was there ever a time when you saw Mr. Luciano in the company of women?”
“Yes, sir. Plenty of times.”
“And can you describe the women?”
She shrugs. “Sure. They always wore really nice dresses and lots of rouge and lipstick. Oh, and I liked their perfume. Sometimes I smelled that before I even saw them.”
Dewey continues. “Was there a particular time of day when these women were there?”
“Mostly at night, when I had to go to Mr. Ross’ room with fresh towels and to turn down the bed.
Sometimes the girls were still there when I went back in the morning.
They’d be all over the place, stretched out on the sofa, the bed…
even the floor. Sometimes they’d be asleep, but if they were awake, their eyes were glassy, and they seemed hardly able to keep them open. Like they’d been drugged.”
Levy rises. “Objection. Move to strike on the grounds of speculation, lack of foundation—”
Luciano’s attorney doesn’t even have to finish before the judge says “Sustained,” as Dewey knew he would. The goal here is to set the tawdry, exploitative scene for the jury, even if they can’t actually consider “drugging” in evidence.
“Was there anything else you observed?”
“Yeah, Mr. Ross and the other men would slap those girls around plenty. There were times when I had to give them towels to cover up their bloody noses or give them ice for their bruises.”
“Thank you, Miss Brown.”
When Dewey turns over the questioning to the defense, this time, it’s Jimmy Frederico’s attorney who stands for the cross-examination.
“Miss Brown,” the attorney begins, “when you identified the men who were in the company of Mr. Luciano, did you look at every row in this courtroom?”
“Yes.”
“Did you look at every man carefully?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And the three that you identified are the only men you ever saw with Mr. Luciano. Is that correct?”
“Yes, those three, and that other man. The one there in the green suit,” she says, pointing to Frederico. “He was there so much, there were times when I wondered if he had moved in with Mr. Ross.”
The courtroom erupts in a roar of laughter. Even the bailiff cracks a smile, and I join in, too. With all the money they make, it’s baffling that the Mob doesn’t retain lawyers with greater legal acumen. Frederico’s lawyer is as bad as Levy—he just had his client identified in front of everyone.
Now Levy stands. “Your Honor, there are so many people in the courtroom, there’s no reasonable way Miss Brown’s testimony can be correct. It has to be confusing for Miss Brown with all of these people here,” Levy argues. “Her identifications cannot be accepted by this court.”
The attorneys go back and forth until Dewey redirects Marjorie. “Would you be willing to step from the witness stand and put your hand on the shoulder of each man you recognize?”
“Yes, I would,” she says, and rises. She moves slowly, but with her head high, she angles past the defense table, where Luciano sits, and then places her hand on the shoulders of Betillo, Wahrman, Berkman, and finally, Frederico.
I am beaming when Marjorie finally steps from the stand. Then I laugh to myself when she glances at me and winks.
Once Marjorie leaves the courtroom, Dewey says, “Your Honor, the prosecution rests.”
—
The office is jubilant. The trial isn’t over, of course, but the chief has put on a masterful display.
I’ve learned as much in the first three weeks of this trial as I did in my years of law school.
The skillful way he weaved this case together with a medley of witnesses—some of them with questionable credibility—was breathtaking.
Dewey orchestrated a symphony, a new arrangement every day that kept the jury’s attention from wandering.
We may have rested today, but this will still be a long night. All of the district attorneys have been given different assignments. I, along with Murray and several others, have been tasked with creating the framework for the closing argument.
My telephone rings, and I reach for it, thinking, hoping it might be Lisle. “Eunice Carter speaking.”
“Mrs. Carter, it’s Polly.”
A beat passes. “This is…unexpected,” I say, and wonder what name she gave to the switchboard operator. I notice she doesn’t use her last name in identifying herself.
“I know you don’t need any more from me, especially since it seems as though some of our plans are working well. But I do have something you might want to hear all the same. I found out what happened to Virginia.”
It takes a moment for her words to register. For just a second, I’m afraid to ask. “Is she all right?”
“She got out, Mrs. Carter,” she says, and I hear more than her relief through the line. She’s elated. “I found her at Saks. Working at the cosmetics counter. She looks different, but she looks good.”
“Did you speak with her?”
“Not how you mean. She was working, and she’s out of the life. I didn’t want to do anything to rattle her or bring attention to her. But I did say a few words when I purchased a couple of lipsticks. One for me…and one for you.”
The gesture surprises and disarms me. “Thank you.” And then, because I want to soften the moment, I add, “You always wear such lovely shades. I can only hope it will look as good on me as it does you.”
We share a chuckle, and I think this has to be the first time we’ve had such an unguarded moment. It’s not easy, but it’s not forced either.
The phone line grows silent as our laughter fades, and she says, “I just heard on the radio that the prosecution has wrapped its case. Congratulations.”
“There’s still a lot more to come: the defense’s case, closing arguments, and of course, the jury’s deliberation.
We can never predict how long that will take.
But we have come a long way,” I say, thinking back to that day fourteen months ago when I went to the 30th Street Precinct and asked to speak to Polly Adler. “Together.”
“We certainly have,” she says. “We make quite a pair.”
I smile. “We certainly do.”
“Yup. A pair of aces, that’s what we are, Mrs. Carter.”
“Miss Adler”—I pause for a moment—“after all we’ve been through, I think it’s appropriate for you to call me Eunice.”
“Only if you call me Polly.”
I can feel her smile through the telephone and imagine that if Polly and I were in the same room, we’d shake hands.
We don’t yet know the trial’s outcome, but we’ve forged an alliance, not of affection but of necessity.
Still, I pray that though the deck is stacked against us, this pair of aces holds the winning hand.