Chapter Fifty-Two
Polly
New York, New York
Dewey takes his place at the front of the courtroom again, and the packed space becomes eerily silent.
He opens his arms expansively, as if to welcome the jurors, the judge, and all of us spectators into his inner circle.
It’s an invitation to climb onto the great scales of justice alongside him and tip the balance in favor of the prosecution.
How glad I am that I took the dangerous gamble of being identified and decided to attend the last day of Lucky’s trial.
I don’t think I’d miss Dewey’s closing argument for the world.
“May it please Your Honor, Mr. Foreman, and gentlemen of the jury, my summation begins….”
Even though Dewey has spoken only a few words, I find his voice mellifluous, bordering on hypnotic. Like with the most captivating actors on Broadway, no boundary exists between us and him, between the story he’s spinning and our reality. Jaded as I am, I find myself caught up in his sway.
“…There were sixty-six witnesses called for the People in this case. Each one of those sixty-six witnesses, with the exception of a very few, were professional criminals of one kind or another. Every one of those witnesses had been given immunity before he or she came to testify before you in this courtroom, something the defense has criticized. However, without immunity, I wouldn’t have been able to call those witnesses to testify, because a man or a woman can’t be forced to testify against himself or herself.
As soon as they received that immunity, they could have safely said anything they liked in this courtroom.
They could have denied that Lucky Luciano was the head of the Combination.
But they didn’t. Instead, what have those witnesses established—in both testimony and corroboration? ”
I sneak a glance at Mrs. Carter as we reach this critical moment in the prosecution’s closing argument, seated unfairly in the seats behind the lead trial attorneys’ table. A paltry acknowledgment of her efforts, I think.
Is she feeling what I’m feeling? Nervous, yes, but excited as well?
Wondering whether our efforts will bear fruit?
Whether the jurors will be persuaded by his rhetoric?
Mrs. Carter is visible only in profile; I can’t catch her eye.
While she appears as prim and impervious as always, do I detect an anxious tilt to her head?
My attention shifts from Mrs. Carter as Dewey launches into the more scintillating snippets of the statements from Mildred Balitzer, Nancy Presser, Red Sadie, numerous other girls and madams, Pete Harris, Dave Miller, Al Weiner, and even the defendants’ confessions on cross-examination.
He weaves them together until he creates a hideous tapestry of exploitation and vice.
As I listen, the people around me nod along, and I can feel certainty descend upon the observers and jurors alike.
Certainty of Lucky’s guilt, it seems to me.
Dewey continues. “This has put the lie to Lucky Luciano’s statements that he doesn’t know any of the other defendants, all men who’ve been well-established bookers and enforcers in a large scheme of prostitution called the Combination.
Instead, the testimony of the many prosecution witnesses—including upstanding citizens who are employed by the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel—has proven that Lucky Luciano is indeed the Mob boss for the Combination. ”
In my peripheral vision, I perceive a softening in the erectness of Mrs. Carter’s posture.
Her shoulders have become less square, and I swear I see her sigh.
Is this done in relief at the power of Dewey’s testimony?
Or is he performing less perfectly than she’d hoped and, layperson that I am, I cannot tell how Dewey is doing?
Mrs. Carter has become my bellwether for the success of the trial, but I wonder if she’s really the right gauge.
She might know too much, and at the same time too little. As might I.
“Much has been made about the credibility of these witnesses,” Dewey continues, attempting to eviscerate in advance the argument the defense will undoubtedly make.
“It would have been nice to have clergymen and bankers and doctors as our witnesses in this case instead of prostitutes and pimps and madams and bookers and mobsters, but I ask you this: How can you bring a case against a booker of women without the testimony of the women he booked or witnesses who observe the booking? How can you bring a case against the leader of a scheme like the Combination without the statements of those who know about it and very likely participated in it, like the leader’s associates?
In order to bring this sort of case, we needed to put prostitutes and madams and bookers and enforcers on the stand. ”
I try not to be offended by the ongoing slurs about the credibility of girls and madams. I try not to let it rankle that the girls were raked over the coals and forced to describe their humiliations while on the stand as part of these machinations.
I try not to let anger take hold that only men—twelve male jurors—will be deciding the fate of a nefarious Mob organization that exploits women.
Instead, I try to remember that my own motives have not always been beyond reproach and that I’m trying to make amends by helping end Lucky’s destructive empire.
“But we did have the gift of Marjorie Brown, didn’t we? This chambermaid from the Waldorf supported the prosecution theory to the letter,” Dewey says, and my heart beats excitedly.
Oh, how this brainchild of mine has really taken flight in the hands of Mrs. Carter and Dewey, I think. Not that anyone will ever know about the hand I played.
“A steadier, more compelling, more trustworthy witness you will never encounter than that bath maid. Her sort of testimony is indisputable.”
Thrilled at this recap of the Waldorf employees’ contribution, I swivel toward Mrs. Carter. I’m too quick and excitable in my movements, and my wig shifts uncomfortably. I quickly tug it back into place and refocus on Dewey.
Dewey’s tone lifts, and I sense that he’s reaching the crescendo of his argument.
I hope so; it’s been hours. “It is time to put behind us the defense’s ludicrous theories and convict the Boss in charge of this Combination.
The proof establishes each and every element in this case beyond a reasonable doubt.
Convict Charles ‘Lucky’ Luciano, gentlemen of the jury. ”
At the judge’s instruction, the spectators rise for a break, as do the jurors.
I glance around the room, studying the men and few women who stretch after being seated for so long and chatter as the defense readies for its closing argument.
I note the enthusiastic nods and compliments over Dewey’s speech and evidence, and cannot help but believe that the jurors will feel the same and vote to convict. Hope buoys within me.
A strange satisfaction also courses through me at the role I played, and I feel an emotion foreign to me.
Could it be pride? I cannot recall the last time I felt proud of my actions, and a tear wells up in the corner of my eye.
How much real change can be wrought from the shadows, I think. From both me and Mrs. Carter.
Court reconvenes soon thereafter for the defense’s closing argument, a flimsy thing even by my inexpert standards.
And then the lawyers, parties, and courtroom audience have to wait as the jurors retire to deliberate.
No one really thinks that a decision will be rendered today, even though the right verdict seems clear, but still, many linger.
So I stay quiet and small in the corner, hoping no one notices me as I wait on the off chance that the jury makes their decision quickly. Because I won’t risk coming here again.
Just before the enormous ticking clock that looms over the judge’s bench strikes four o’clock, the foreman leads the jurors out of their room and into the courtroom.
The space fills with expectant chatter; even the judge looks surprised at the rapidity of their return.
Once they settle in the jury box, the judge asks, “Mr. Foreman, has the jury rendered a verdict in the case against Charles Luciano?”
“We have, Your Honor.”
“You may proceed with reading your verdict.”
The foreman glances back at the eleven men sitting behind him, who nod at him.
He then consults his notes and says, “On the sixty-one counts of compulsory prostitution, we the jury find Charles Luciano, also known as ‘Lucky’ Luciano, guilty as charged.” The foreman then goes on to list those charges and also announce that the jury finds nine of Lucky’s co-defendants, Thomas Pennochio, Dave Betillo, James Frederico, Abraham Wahrman, Jesse Jacobs, Benny Spiller, Meyer Berkman, and Ralph Liguori, guilty of the charges against them as well.
The courtroom erupts. The defendants stand, some slamming their cuffed fists on the table. Dewey rises and shakes the hands of his team, including Mrs. Carter. And the reporters hurl questions and comments around the overheated space.
The press is everywhere. Cameras flash and click. Reporters wave their notepads in the air. A barrage of questions is shouted out and merges together, rising through the air and sounding like a hymn.
Dewey holds up his hand, quieting the press as the twenty assistant district attorneys fall into place alongside him, surrounding the man they call the chief. “This is a great day for New York!” someone screams.
Dewey says, “I want to thank the jury for returning the indictment. And the brave witnesses who’ve testified, along with law enforcement who have worked tirelessly with us on this investigation.
And most importantly, every New Yorker who had the courage to speak up.
This verdict belongs to all of you, and my gratitude belongs to the assistant district attorneys who aided me on this case.
” He gestures to the line of his assistants, and I smile at Mrs. Carter.
This recognition is far, far less than she deserves but more than I expected.
I hope that her contributions will become better known and that this enormous accomplishment will become her legacy.
What will be mine? Running a house like no other? Protecting the Lion and the steady stream of girls who’ve come through my doors? It would be enough, given where I started, but could there be something more?
Then I remember something Robert Benchley said to me in Hawaii, and I wonder.
My role in bringing down Lucky and the Combination will never be known, but perhaps I could leave behind a different legacy.
What if I wrote the rest of my story and shared it with the world?
On one level, it could be the sometimes-painful, sometimes-exultant tale of a young Jewish immigrant from Yanow who made the astonishing ascent to the top of the heap in the skirt trade, a success story only because she operated efficiently and boldly outside the bounds of the law and expectations for women.
On quite another level, that same story could lift the veil on this business and show the world how and why girls really become part of it—rarely by choice, but often by practical necessity—and how many different types of people reap the benefits of the girls, much more so than the girls themselves.
Perhaps, if I am the lucky one, such a book could transform the way in which prostitution is viewed overall, not as so-called sin or a woman’s crime or a failure of will but as a product of our culture and society.
I feel buoyant and even hopeful at the thought of this new chapter.
The judge slams his gavel—not once but twice—bringing me back to the present.
Everyone simmers down, and he yells, “Order in the court! Court is adjourned for today, and the journalists are instructed to leave the courtroom and wait outside with their questions. We will set the date for sentencing tomorrow morning, and in the meantime, you may take all this ruckus outside to the courtroom steps. I want to thank the jury for serving on this incredibly difficult trial, and good evening to you all.”
As the judge sweeps out of the courtroom, the defendants are hauled off by police officers, and the attorneys and reporters ready for their press conference outside, I feel eyes upon me.
I turn to discover Eunice staring at me.
Our gazes meet, and a deep understanding passes between us.
Our road together has not always been easy or pleasant, and we will never be friends.
But in some peculiar way, we are much more.
Her mouth curves into a shy smile, and I give her a cautious grin in return.
The trial has transformed us both in unexpected ways, and I know that, whether or not we ever lay eyes on one another again, we will forever stand in solidarity, hand in hand.
Two women, not friends but allies.
Two women who did the impossible.
An unlikely, winning pair of aces.