Chapter 59
AS SHERIFF RIGBY ESCORTED HER into the Fulton County Jail in downtown Atlanta, Josephine scanned the streets for Dodge. He was here. Somewhere. And though knowing she wasn’t entirely alone softened the dread of what lay ahead, it couldn’t erase her fear.
The jail, a grim five-story brick building, looked more like a fortress with rows of barred windows and a heavy iron gate at the entrance.
The cramped foyer was overcrowded, bustling with activity, and the stagnant air reeked of stale sweat, carbolic acid, and unwashed bodies—and stripped away another layer of her courage.
Sheriff Rigby spoke with someone when they entered, and they didn’t have to wait long for the desk sergeant. Murdering the mayor’s son clearly hastened matters.
“I’ll field the questions.” Sheriff Rigby’s grip on her arm tightened.
Fountain pen in hand, the sergeant logged the details in a ledger. “Lastly, any personal effects on her?”
Sheriff Rigby shook his head, none the wiser to the recipe tucked inside her sleeve.
The sergeant eyed her hand. “That ring’s got to go, ma’am.” He reached for an envelope. “Put it in here. We’ll catalog and file it.”
“Will I get it back?” she asked.
“When you’re released.” He wrote her name and case number on the front.
“So, in other words, no,” Sheriff Rigby said beneath his breath.
“And the reward money?” the sergeant inquired. “You collecting that today, Sheriff?”
“Darn right I am.” He looked at Josephine. “And my first stop? A tavern for a drink.”
Focus forward, she didn’t react.
Female jail staff approached, and Sheriff Rigby removed the handcuffs, tipped his hat, and walked away.
The women—formidable in height and weight—slipped restraining ties around her wrists and led her to a room where they searched her pockets and the folds of her skirt.
One of the women ran a hand over her sleeves and then, apparently feeling nothing, removed her bandage.
Part of the cloth had adhered to raw flesh, and Josephine gritted her teeth as the woman tugged it loose.
They led her down a long hallway and up three flights of stairs to the women’s section of the prison, and she thought of her suffrage sisters who had walked this same path. Knowing that should have given her strength, but she gained little comfort in the moment.
They moved past cell after cell, most inmates either sleeping or turned away from the corridor.
The jail matrons stopped, and Josephine’s trembling returned, her feet frozen at the threshold of the open cell.
The taller, sterner woman on her left unfastened the restraints and shoved her forward with force, then slammed and locked the door behind her.
“An attorney will be appointed to your case. If bail is granted, you’ll hear from him within three days.
If not, it’ll be longer. And before you ask how much bail will be, that depends on the severity of the charge, whether you’re deemed a flight risk, and on your standing in the community.
Evening cell check is at seven, lights out at nine, and no talking after that. ”
The matrons walked away, their keys jangling, and too late, questions flooded her mind. Not that she would have been given answers. She eyed the cell—a stained cot with a tattered straw mattress and thin blanket, a foul sanitation bucket in the corner, and a small barred window. Her panic swelled.
She knew enough about how the system worked, thanks to her father and Todd, to understand that bail would never be granted.
The charge was murder. She had already proven to be a flight risk.
And her reputation as a suffragist preceded her.
But even without all of that, Mayor Darden would see that bail was denied—just as he’d likely arranged every future decision against her.
Exhausted and hurting, she sank down on the cot, hope slipping away.
She tried to take comfort in knowing that Dodge was somewhere close, working to find a way to get her out.
But the thick masonry walls and the solid iron bars—thick as broom handles and spaced just wide enough for a hand to get through—told her not to trust that possibility.
Later that night, following an uneaten supper of watery cowpeas with what smelled like rancid fatback, she laid on the cot, hungry and shivering, despite the heavy heat.
The caged light bulb humming and flickering on the ceiling of her cell had been shut off promptly at nine o’clock, along with all the others, and darkness kept creeping closer, as did the scurry of something in the far corner.
Only a faint glow at the end of the corridor remained.
She turned toward the wall. Perhaps not staring at the bars would hasten sleep.
She pulled the recipe from her sleeve and though she couldn’t see the words in the dark, she’d already committed them to memory.
Especially his note at the bottom. Two are better than one. But I can’t be better without you.
He was the one who had made her better. Who had helped her see beyond her own small world and her great big causes. Dodge had—
The tread of footsteps carried down the darkened corridor, and she lay motionless, listening, sensing the same hush settle over the rest of the prisoners, as the steps came closer, closer, then went silent.
“So you’re the woman who killed my son.”