Chapter 6 Emily
EMILY
After her conversation with June Jones, Emily stood on the sidewalk beneath the Liberty Street sign for a solid three minutes, mind and heart still racing, before turning and walking north to catch the streetcar on Queen.
Her journey was a distracted trance filled with a cascade of questions and thoughts about the Incorrigible Law, the Mercer prison, and how she would propose her plan to Doris.
She hopped off outside Osgoode Hall after nearly missing her stop, then made her way up to Dundas, weaving through the throngs of commuters, clamorous students, and newspaper kiosks.
Two new subway lines were under construction to add to the existing Yonge line, with a new station being built right next to her office building.
Most of her officemates couldn’t wait for the new lines to open, but not Emily.
She preferred the streetcars and her own feet.
More time for staring out foggy windows and working through her thoughts as the city whizzed past in a blur of colour and human activity.
She walked the final block up University until she reached the big intersection at Dundas. She stared up at the Maclean-Hunter building, waiting for the light to turn green. It was the same building her father worked in when he wasn’t at the rolltop desk at home.
Emily had known she wanted to write like he did from the time she was young. Working in a glamorous building like that, right downtown in the thick of it all, had been her dream when other girls her age—including her sister—were interested only in dolls and barrettes.
She crossed the street and walked toward the building, stopping outside the doors to check her watch. It was nearly noon, but she might still catch Doris before she left for lunch.
Emily tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, then wrenched the glass door open and stepped into the echoing lobby.
She jammed the small black button on the brass plate beside the elevator and the doors opened.
As the car rose to the fourth floor, Emily’s finger tapped her bag like rapid Morse code.
The elevator bell dinged and the doors slid open. As Emily stepped off, she saw Doris standing near the reception desk, shrugging on her coat.
“Doris!” Emily yelped, hurrying over.
Doris’s eyes had shadows beneath them and despite her impressive height, her shoulders were a little stooped. She was clearly already eager for the weekend. But at the sight of Emily, her eyebrows shot upward, and she stepped back a pace.
“Well, don’t you look like a woman with a story,” she said as she took in Emily’s bright eyes and breathlessness.
Emily nodded fervently. “Yes, ma’am.”
Doris smirked. “Come on, darlin’. I was headed out for lunch, but uh…let’s see what we can scrounge from the kitchen, and you can tell me all about it.”
Back in Doris’s office, Emily sat down across from her boss at the coffee table.
She held a glass of brandy poured with enthusiasm from the bottle in Doris’s desk drawer in one hand, a plate of slightly too-salty quiche that they’d swiped from the test kitchen in the other.
The rest of the office was silent, with almost everyone else gone for lunch or eating quietly at their desks, and the lack of voices, typewriters, and phones added a sense of gravitas to the impending conversation.
“All right,” Doris said. “Shoot.”
Emily took a deep breath. “Okay, so first of all, I read the Female Refuges Act at the Legislative Library. It’s not long, but the scope is huge, Doris. It’s practically a carte blanche to punish women and teenagers for subjective misbehaviour.”
“How so?” Doris took a bite of quiche.
Emily set hers down and flipped a page of her notebook. “Anyone—anyone—can bring a woman under age thirty-five before a judge if they think she’s ‘unmanageable or incorrigible.’ ”
Doris chuckled darkly. “Indeed. So, failure to abide by societal rules dictating the lives of women. Continue.”
“Well, exactly,” Emily said. “And they can be incarcerated for up to two years. Without ever committing any real crime.”
She handed the notes across the table to her boss, then shoved a large forkful of quiche into her mouth. She didn’t even care that it was too salty. Brainpower and adrenaline always fuelled her appetite.
Doris leaned back in the large green wing chair, legs crossed at the ankles above her chunky black heels, eyes on Emily’s notes.
“Goodness,” she said finally. “That’s a fair bit to go on. Well done.”
Emily flushed a little. “Thank you.”
Doris took a long swig of her drink, and Emily copied her.
She wasn’t used to the potency of the liquor—she only ever had wine at Sunday dinner.
The brandy burned her throat, but she didn’t let on.
She was sitting in her boss’s office, just the two of them, discussing what Emily desperately hoped would be her first-ever scoop.
She was at the grown-up table now, and it was time to ditch the Shirley Temples.
She waited until Doris set the notes down again before launching back in.
“So after I got all that, I went to see the prison,” she said.
Doris nodded slowly, mouth twitching with amused approval. “Naturally. And?”
“Obviously I couldn’t go in. But two women were being released. One was named June Jones. She’s a madam, actually.” She waited for Doris to react, but she didn’t. “She told me the police have to pretend to be shutting down the brothels while, she claims, they patronize them on the side.”
“I would not be at all surprised.” Doris sighed. “What else did she tell you? Did you get a proper interview?”
“I tried. She got a bit emotional, but she wouldn’t do it. She did say, though,” Emily steeled herself for her pitch, “that it’s easy to get sent to the Mercer under this law, and that maybe I should try to get myself committed to find out what it’s like.”
She chewed her lip and watched Doris, unblinking. “Maybe I should do that.”
“Oh, Emily,” Doris said, shaking her head. “You have no idea what you’re suggesting. Let’s back up a moment.” She ran a thumb up and down her glass, eyes narrowed on Emily, whose gut clenched, but she didn’t want to back down.
“Doris, there are women in that prison because of a hugely unjust law!” Emily argued.
“A law that every woman under thirty-five is subject to, and we didn’t even know it existed.
The general public must not know, either.
Our readers don’t know, and I think it’s important that they do.
” She heaved a breath. “You’ve said this sort of thing yourself,” she pressed, keenly aware that she might be overstepping.
“When women are under attack from any quarter, it matters to all women. Unmarried women should still care about the inequities of divorce, you said. Women who want children should still care about access to birth control. Women who would never dream of being sent to prison need to care about this, because clearly it is too easy for them—for us all—to be incarcerated. This law allows for it within ludicrously broad parameters.” She swallowed hard, fighting the heat in her cheeks.
“It matters. I think this matters. I want this story. Please.”
Doris’s dark brows popped, reluctantly impressed.
She leaned forward and tossed Emily’s notes onto the coffee table with a swish.
“Well, you’ve got clout. But this is higher stakes than I think you realize.
With respect, you have lived a sheltered life, Emily.
And I don’t mean that as an insult; it is simply a fact. ”
Emily nodded tightly. “You’re right,” she admitted. “But Doris, if I don’t take on some risk, really get out there, how will I gain experience? How will I get out from under that shelter?”
Doris gestured her acknowledgment. “Fair. But you saw that prisoner’s note, and this Jones woman told you herself: the conditions in there could be ghastly.”
“I know.”
Noises were beginning to filter in from the hallway now. Lunch hour was nearly over.
“What would you suggest we do next?” Doris asked her. “You came in here looking like you had a plan.”
Emily had thought this through on the streetcar.
“Well, we’ve validated the existence of this law.
Next, I think we need to contact the prison, see if we can get some kind of statement on the claims. Although I don’t imagine they’re going to admit to anything.
They may not even talk to us. And I do worry a bit that us digging around might come back on the inmates. ”
Doris watched her thoughtfully. “Well, if these claims are indeed true, I’m not sure what more the administration could do to make these women’s lives a misery. But I take your point. We would need to be careful not to tip our hand.”
“So…” Emily began with a swoop of nerves. “Are you saying I can—”
“I am absolutely not saying that,” Doris said firmly, and Emily felt herself deflate. “But…” She shook her head, clearly considering something. “Let’s get the writers in here. We need to bat this around a little.”
Twenty minutes later, they were back in Doris’s office with a pot of tea and Virginia, Maeve, and Sonya all clustered around them. Doris shut the door, which she rarely did. The staff writers looked curiously at Emily. Assistants didn’t often have one-on-one meetings with the editor.
“All right, girls,” Doris said, sitting back down and leaning forward to pour herself a cup. “I’d like your input on a matter of some delicacy.”
“Did one of the men upstairs make an advance on her?” Sonya asked, indicating Emily.
“Uh, no,” Emily said quickly, taken aback. “Nothing like that.”
“Only it wouldn’t be the first time,” Sonya replied darkly.
“Emily has a scoop,” Doris said, taking a careful sip of tea. Emily seized a cup and saucer for herself, too, mostly to give her fingers something to do other than tap on the sofa beside her.
“A scoop, eh?” Maeve asked, smiling at Emily, impressed. “Well done, junior.”