Chapter 24
Celia’s hearing was set for Wednesday.
That morning, she dressed in her tidiest day dress, decent-looking but plain enough not to attract attention. Olivia was looking
sterner than usual in her gray poplin business suit, though Celia feared the heat would make her sick. Daphne changed dresses
several times, until Celia, unable to keep her nerves under control any longer, snapped, “Just pick one or stay home.”
“I wish I could.”
“Then do. You can watch the shop. Neither of you has to come. I’ll be fine.” Celia wouldn’t be fine until this was over and
she was back home, but she didn’t want to worry Olivia or Daphne.
“Of course she’ll come—we both will,” Olivia called from the parlor. “Where else would your family be while you’re in court.
We will be right there with you to lend our support.”
“Even though we didn’t get caught with questionable information on our persons,” said Daphne.
“They were flyers about vitamins for pregnant women!”
“Girls!” Olivia’s voice sounded strident from down the hall. “It’s time to go.”
Daphne’s lips quivered, though whether the emotion was for herself or for Celia was hard to tell.
Celia lifted her chin and proceeded Daphne out the bedroom door. She walked calmly to the elevator, wishing her legs weren’t
shaking so.
She was going to court. Mr. Henderson had offered to drive them to the courthouse, which they gladly accepted.
Hopefully, they would all be coming home together when the hearing was over.
Just driving down Essex Street had brought back the fear and disgust from the night of her arrest. But entering the crowded
courthouse, Celia suddenly thought about the women she’d shared a cell with for those long hours and wondered what had happened
to them. Would they be here today, too, having hearings for their cases? Would she even recognize them in the daylight?
A sick feeling rushed into her throat, and she swallowed it back, told herself to steel her nerves. She’d chosen this path,
and if she failed at the first setback . . . What if her first setback was her last? What if she was sentenced to forty-five
years like Margaret had been?
Her knees threatened to fail her. Mr. Kirsch took her arm. “You’re not to worry, Miss Celia. You did nothing wrong.”
Not wrong, but possibly illegal. Then she remembered Joshua sitting in that dingy café, and his voice echoed distantly in
her ears: “Then the law is an ass.” She hoped he was here, and she hoped he wasn’t.
The courthouse was packed with people, and there was a definite odor of cooking grease and fish in the room. But Mr. Henderson and Mr. Kirsch plowed their way down the aisle to the front row, where they squeezed themselves into seats among occupants more respectable looking than most.
Already Celia could feel sweat trickling down her back; she felt lightheaded. Don’t disgrace yourself. Don’t disgrace Margaret. Don’t disgrace the women who are counting on you.
That last thought gave her a bit of courage. She was glad Olivia was sitting between her and Daphne. Daphne would never forgive
Celia for putting them through this ordeal. She had no idea.
Celia’s case was not the first to be heard. But the others were dispatched fairly quickly by the judge, who sat behind a dark
wood banquette, which put him several feet above the people in the benches. He was wearing robes, and Celia wondered if he,
too, was sweating in the heat. There were fans blowing somewhere, and occasionally a feeble breeze fluttered past her, bringing
the distinct smell of onions.
The judge, looking more bored than threatening, as each case was announced, banged his gavel to announce a fine, incarceration
awaiting trial, or dismissal of charges.
Celia mainly looked at her hands, willing them not to fidget. She would steal glances at the judge but was afraid to look
around the courthouse to see if Anthony Comstock would be there, or if he left this unimportant female to one of his inferiors.
And then she heard her name called. She was helpless to answer, her throat so dry she couldn’t begin to speak.
From the other side of Daphne, Mr. Kirsch stood, looking very serious in his suit and pomaded hair.
The court clerk, a spindly man in an ill-fitting suit, stood. “State your name.”
“Mr. Ezekiel Kirsch, and I am here to speak for Miss Applebaum.”
“Mr. Kirsch,” the judge said wearily. “And is Miss Applebaum in attendance?”
“Yes she is, Your Honor.”
Olivia nudged Celia’s side. Mr. Kirsch had told her what to do.
She stood.
“Are you Celia Applebaum?” He asked her address, her profession, then read the summons. “Transporting and distributing licentious
birth control information to the settlement house on Henry Street, etcetera. How do you plead, Miss Applebaum?”
Celia was so shocked she couldn’t have responded even if Mr. Kirsch hadn’t answered “Not guilty” for her.
Across the aisle in the first row a man stood up.
“Yes, Mr. Comstock.”
Celia’s head snapped toward the man. Old, with white longish hair, muttonchop sideburns that reached to his chin, and a big
bushy mustache. He was wearing a three-piece black suit that strained over his stomach. This was the vicious morality man?
He was big, bullish-looking, but not at all as she had imagined him, not even from the cartoons in the paper. This was the
man causing them all so much trouble?
“She was caught in the act by agents of the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice.”
“Your Honor,” Mr. Kirsch said, “she was carrying one sheet of paper, on the back of which she had taken notes about courses
at New York University in preparation for applying to that esteemed institution. They happened to be written on the back of
a piece of paper containing a list of vitamins for use by expecting women. The vitamins have nothing to do with anything illegal
and can be purchased in any apothecary in the city, or ordered through the mail by the authority of the United States Post
Office.”
Comstock raised his finger in Mr. Kirsch’s direction. “Which is constantly being assaulted by those determined to break the law and undermine the morals of women and children throughout the nation.”
The judge held out his hand, not even bothering to ask for the evidence, and Comstock handed the clerk a piece of paper. Celia
recognized the paper Miss Renfroe had given her. She hadn’t even looked at the other side. But surely the women at the settlement
house were more careful than to openly give her anything incriminating.
The clerk handed the paper to the judge, who adjusted a pair of spectacles and frowned over the paper for a minute before
turning it over and reading the other side.
Then he looked up.
Celia braced herself. She couldn’t tell anything by his expression.
“Do you know what is on the list on this paper?”
Should she deny it? She couldn’t. She had printed those papers; it was even smudged where the burglar had stepped on them.
“They’re vitamins that will make women healthier when they aren’t able to eat correctly.” She lifted her chin and would have
explained further, but Mr. Kirsch pressed her foot.
The judge looked from her to the man across the aisle. “They look like vitamins to me, also. One sheet of vitamins.”
Celia blinked, swallowed, and stared forward.
“One sheet of paper,” the judge repeated. “Or is it the institution of higher learning that you object to, Mr. Comstock?”
Comstock, who had sat down, stood again. “It happened to be the only one on her person at the time. But it is part of a larger
treatise on birth control, and as Your Honor knows, the law clearly states—”
“I know what the law is, Mr. Comstock, better than you do.” The judge looked back at Celia. “Is this part of a larger treatise?”
“I have no idea, sir. That’s the only page I have seen. I had gone down to ask advice about college courses.” She remembered
at the last minute not to mention any names. “The lady there wrote some course information and how to register on the back
of a piece of paper.”
“Where are the other copies?”
“We didn’t confiscate the others,” volunteered Mr. Comstock. “But she had been carrying scores before she went into the settlement
house. She must have already delivered them inside, and we didn’t have the paperwork to search the premises.”
“I should hope not,” the judge said. “You have witnesses who saw her carrying these scores of paper?”
“She was carrying a fabric bag, large enough to—”
“But did you see other papers?”
“I wasn’t there. My appointed agents picked her up as she left the settlement house.”
The judge craned his neck and looked down at Comstock. “What led you to follow this young woman from her place of business?”
“An anonymous tip.”
This did cause Celia to turn to look at him. Who would betray her? No one who actually knew what she was really doing. They
would never. She looked down the row to Daphne, whose face was as white as the sheet of paper the vitamin list had been printed
on before the boot mark. Olivia stared straight ahead, as if she could bend the judge’s opinion to her will.
Joshua? Celia wouldn’t believe it. Not yet.
“It was suspected she was working with Margaret Sanger, who fled the country to escape trial.”
“And you know this how?”
Comstock hesitated, sucked in a breath that made him inflate like a balloon.
“An anonymous tip.”
“From the same source?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Sounds more like the cat fight between a couple of ladies than a reliable tip.”
“Meow,” yelled someone from the back of the courthouse. A flurry of laughter followed, and the gavel followed that.
“I will have no disruptions in my courtroom.”
The clerk ran up the aisle and handed him a second sheet of paper.
The judge sighed, looked down at the second sheet of paper.
Celia swayed against Mr. Kirsch. She didn’t remember another sheet. Had they found something she had left by mistake in the
knitting bag?
The judge squinted at the paper, looked up. “Where is Mr. Henderson?”
“Back here, Your Honor,” came the reply.