The police station Tracy was taken to was in the Algiers district, on the west bank of New Orleans, a grim and foreboding building with a look of hopelessness about it. The booking room was crowded with seedy-looking characters--prostitutes, pimps, muggers, and their victims. Tracy was marched to the desk of the sergeant-on-watch.
One of her captors said, "The Whitney woman, Sarge. We caught her at the airport tryin' to escape."
"I wasn't--"
"Take the cuffs off."
The handcuffs were removed. Tracy found her voice. "It was an accident. I didn't mean to kill him. He tried to rape me and--" She could not control the hysteria in her voice.
The desk sergeant said curtly, "Are you Tracy Whitney?"
"Yes. I--"
"Lock her up."
"No! Wait a minute," she pleaded. "I have to call someone. I--I'm entitled to make a phone call."
The desk sergeant grunted, "You know the routine, huh? How many times you been in the slammer, honey?"
"None. This is--"
"You get one call. Three minutes. What number do you want?"
She was so nervous that she could not remember Charles's telephone number. She could not even recall the area code for Philadelphia. Was it two-five-one? No. That was not right. She was trembling.
"Come on. I haven't got all night."
Two-one-five. That was it! "Two-one-five-five-five-five-nine-three-zero-one."
The desk sergeant dialed the number and handed the phone to Tracy. She could hear the phone ringing. And ringing. There was no answer. Charles had to be home.
The desk sergeant said, "Time's up." He started to take the phone from her.
"Please wait!" she cried. But she suddenly remembered that Charles shut off his phone at night so that he would not be disturbed. She listened to the hollow ringing and realized there was no way she could reach him.
The desk sergeant asked, "You through?"
Tracy looked up at him and said dully, "I'm through."
A policeman in shirt-sleeves took Tracy into a room where she was booked and fingerprinted, then led down a corridor and locked in a holding cell, by herself.
"You'll have a hearing in the morning," the policeman told her. He walked away, leaving her alone.
None of this is happening, Tracy thought. This is all a terrible dream. Oh, please, God, don't let any of this be real.
But the stinking cot in the cell was real, and the seatless toilet in the corner was real, and the bars were real.
The hours of the night dragged by endlessly. If only I could have reached Charles. She needed him now more than she had ever needed anyone in her life. I should have confided in him in the first place. If I had, none of this would have happened.
At 6:00 A.M. a bored guard brought Tracy a breakfast of tepid coffee and cold oatmeal. She could not touch it. Her stomach was in knots. At 9:00 a matron came for her.
"Time to go, sweetie." She unlocked the cell door.
"I must make a call," Tracy said. "It's very--"
"Later," the matron told her. "You don't want to keep the judge waiting. He's a mean son of a bitch."
She escorted Tracy down a corridor and through a door that led into a courtroom. An elderly judge was seated on the bench. His head and hands kept moving in small, quick jerks. In front of him stood the district attorney, Ed Topper, a slight man in his forties, with crinkly salt-and-pepper hair cut en brosse, and cold, black eyes.
Tracy was led to a seat, and a moment later the bailiff called out, "People against Tracy Whitney," and Tracy found herself moving toward the bench. The judge was scanning a sheet of paper in front of him, his head bobbing up and down.
Now. Now was Tracy's moment to explain to someone in authority the truth about what had happened. She pressed her hands together to keep them from trembling. "Your Honor, it wasn't murder. I shot him, but it was an accident. I only meant to frighten him. He tried to rape me and--"
The district attorney interrupted. "Your Honor, I see no point in wasting the court's time. This woman broke into Mr. Romano's home, armed with a thirty-two-caliber revolver, stole a Renoir painting worth half a million dollars, and when Mr. Romano caught her in the act, she shot him in cold blood and left him for dead."
Tracy felt the color draining from her face. "What--what are you talking about?"
None of this was making any sense.
The district attorney rapped out, "We have the gun with which she wounded Mr. Romano. Her fingerprints are on it."
Wounded! Then Joseph Romano was alive! She had not killed anyone.
"She escaped with the painting, Your Honor. It's probably in the hands of a fence by now. For that reason, the state is requesting that Tracy Whitney be held for attempted murder and armed robbery and that bail be set at half a million dollars."
The judge turned to Tracy, who stood there in shock. "Are you represented by counsel?"
She did not even hear him.
He raised his voice. "Do you have an attorney?"
Tracy shook her head. "No. I--what--what this man said isn't true. I never--"
"Do you have money for an attorney?"
There was her employees' fund at the bank. There was Charles. "I...no, Your Honor, but I don't understand--"
"The court will appoint one for you. You are ordered held in jail, in lieu of five hundred thousand dollars bail. Next case."
"Wait! This is all a mistake! I'm not--"
She had no recollection of being led from the courtroom.
The name of the attorney appointed by the court was Perry Pope. He was in his late thirties, with a craggy, intelligent face and sympathetic blue eyes. Tracy liked him immediately.
He walked into her cell, sat on the cot, and said, "Well! You've created quite a sensation for a lady who's been in town only twenty-four hours." He grinned. "But you're lucky. You're a lousy shot. It's only a flesh wound. Romano's going to live." He took out a pipe. "Mind?"
"No."
He filled his pipe with tobacco, lit it, and studied Tracy. "You don't look like the average desperate criminal, Miss Whitney."
"I'm not. I swear I'm not."
"Convince me," he said. "Tell me what happened. From the beginning. Take your time."
Tracy told him. Everything. Perry Pope sat quietly listening to her story, not speaking until Tracy was finished. Then he leaned back against the wall of the cell, a grim expression on his face. "That bastard," Pope said softly.
"I don't understand what they were talking about." There was confusion in Tracy's eyes. "I don't know anything about a painting."
"It's really very simple. Joe Romano used you as a patsy, the same way he used your mother. You walked right into a setup."
"I still don't understand."
"Then let me lay it out for you. Romano will put in an insurance claim for half a million dollars for the Renoir he's hidden away somewhere, and he'll collect. The insurance company will be after you, not him. When things cool down, he'll sell the painting to a private party and make another half million, thanks to your do-it-yourself approach. Didn't you realize that a confession obtained at the point of a gun is worthless?"
"I--I suppose so. I just thought that if I could get the truth out of him, someone would start an investigation."
His pipe had gone out. He relit it. "How did you enter his house?"
"I rang the front doorbell, and Mr. Romano let me in."
"That's not his story. There's a smashed window at the back of the house, where he says you broke in. He told the police he caught you sneaking out with the Renoir, and when he tried to stop you, you shot him and ran."
"That's a lie! I--"
"But it's his lie, and his house, and your gun. Do you have any idea with whom you're dealing?"
Tracy shook her head mutely.
"Then let me tell you the facts of life, Miss Whitney. This town is sewn up tight by the Orsatti Family. Nothing goes down here without Anthony Orsatti's okay. If you want a permit to put up a building, pa
ve a highway, run girls, numbers, or dope, you see Orsatti. Joe Romano started out as his hit man. Now he's the top man in Orsatti's organization." He looked at her in wonder. "And you walked into Romano's house and pulled a gun on him."
Tracy sat there, numb and exhausted. Finally she asked, "Do you believe my story?"
He smiled. "You're damned right. It's so dumb it has to be true."
"Can you help me?"
He said slowly, "I'm going to try. I'd give anything to put them all behind bars. They own this town and most of the judges in it. If you go to trial, they'll bury you so deep you'll never see daylight again."
Tracy looked at him, puzzled. "If I go to trial?"
Pope stood and paced up and down in the small cell. "I don't want to put you in front of a jury, because, believe me, it will be his jury. There's only one judge Orsatti has never been able to buy. His name is Henry Lawrence. If I can arrange for him to hear this case, I'm pretty sure I can make a deal for you. It's not strictly ethical, but I'm going to speak to him privately. He hates Orsatti and Romano as much as I do. Now all we've got to do is get to Judge Lawrence."
Perry Pope arranged for Tracy to place a telephone call to Charles. Tracy heard the familiar voice of Charles's secretary. "Mr. Stanhope's office."
"Harriet. This is Tracy Whitney. Is--?"
"Oh! He's been trying to reach you, Miss Whitney, but we didn't have a telephone number for you. Mrs. Stanhope is most anxious to discuss the wedding arrangements with you. If you could call her as soon as possible--"
"Harriet, may I speak to Mr. Stanhope, please?"
"I'm sorry, Miss Whitney. He's on his way to Houston for a meeting. If you'll give me your number, I'm sure he'll telephone you as soon as he can."
"I--" There was no way she could have him telephone her at the jail. Not until she had a chance to explain things to him first.
"I--I'll have to call Mr. Stanhope back." She slowly replaced the receiver.
Tomorrow, Tracy thought wearily. I'll explain it all to Charles tomorrow.
That afternoon Tracy was moved to a larger cell. A delicious hot dinner appeared from Galatoire's, and a short time later fresh flowers arrived with a note attached. Tracy opened the envelope and pulled out the card. CHIN UP, WE'RE GOING TO BEAT THE BASTARDS. PERRY POPE.
He came to visit Tracy the following morning. The instant she saw the smile on his face, she knew there was good news.
"We got lucky," he exclaimed. "I've just left Judge Lawrence and Topper, the district attorney. Topper screamed like a banshee, but we've got a deal."
"A deal?"
"I told Judge Lawrence your whole story. He's agreed to accept a guilty plea from you."
Tracy stared at him in shock. "A guilty plea? But I'm not--"
He raised a hand. "Hear me out. By pleading guilty, you save the state the expense of a trial. I've persuaded the judge that you didn't steal the painting. He knows Joe Romano, and he believes me."
"But...if I plead guilty," Tracy asked slowly, "what will they do to me?"
"Judge Lawrence will sentence you to three months in prison with--"
"Prison!"
"Wait a minute. He'll suspend the sentence, and you can do your probation out of the state."
"But then I'll--I'll have a record."
Perry Pope sighed. "If they put you on trial for armed robbery and attempted murder during the commission of a felony, you could be sentenced to ten years."
Ten years in jail!
Perry Pope was patiently watching her. "It's your decision," he said. "I can only give you my best advice. It's a miracle that I got away with this. They want an answer now. You don't have to take the deal. You can get another lawyer and--"
"No." She knew that this man was honest. Under the circumstances, considering her insane behavior, he had done everything possible for her. If only she could talk to Charles. But they needed an answer now. She was probably lucky to get off with a three-month suspended sentence.
"I'll--I'll take the deal," Tracy said. She had to force the words out.
He nodded. "Smart girl."
She was not permitted to make any phone calls before she was returned to the courtroom. Ed Topper stood on one side of her, and Perry Pope on the other. Seated on the bench was a distinguished-looking man in his fifties, with a smooth, unlined face and thick, styled hair.
Judge Henry Lawrence said to Tracy, "The court has been informed that the defendant wishes to change her plea from not guilty to guilty. Is that correct?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
"Are all parties in agreement?"
Perry Pope nodded. "Yes, Your Honor."
"The state agrees, Your Honor," the district attorney said.
Judge Lawrence sat there in silence for a long moment. Then he leaned forward and looked into Tracy's eyes. "One of the reasons this great country of ours is in such pitiful shape is that the streets are crawling with vermin who think they can get away with anything. People who laugh at the law. Some judicial systems in this country coddle criminals. Well, in Louisiana, we don't believe in that. When, during the commission of a felony, someone tries to kill in cold blood, we believe that that person should be properly punished."
Tracy began to feel the first stirrings of panic. She turned to look at Perry Pope. His eyes were fixed on the judge.
"The defendant has admitted that she attempted to murder one of the outstanding citizens of this community--a man noted for his philanthropy and good works. The defendant shot him while in the act of stealing an art object worth half a million dollars." His voice grew harsher. "Well, this court is going to see to it that you don't get to enjoy that money--not for the next fifteen years, because for the next fifteen years you're going to be incarcerated in the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women."
Tracy felt the courtroom begin to spin. Some horrible joke was being played. The judge was an actor typecast for the part, but he was reading the wrong lines. He was not supposed to say any of those things. She turned to explain that to Perry Pope, but his eyes were averted. He was juggling papers in his briefcase, and for the first time, Tracy noticed that his fingernails were bitten to the quick. Judge Lawrence had risen and was gathering up his notes. Tracy stood there, numb, unable to comprehend what was happening to her.
A bailiff stepped to Tracy's side and took her arm. "Come along," he said.
"No," Tracy cried. "No, please!" She looked up at the judge. "There's been a terrible mistake, Your Honor. I--"
And as she felt the bailiff's grip tighten on her arm, Tracy realized there had been no mistake. She had been tricked. They were going to destroy her.
Just as they had destroyed her mother.
4
The news of Tracy Whitney's crime and sentencing appeared on the front page of the New Orleans Courier, accompanied by a police photograph of her. The major wire services picked up the story and flashed it to correspondent newspapers around the country, and when Tracy was taken from the courtroom to await transfer to the state penitentiary, she was confronted by a crew of television reporters. She hid her face in humiliation, but there was no escape from the cameras. Joe Romano was big news, and the attempt on his life by a beautiful female burglar was even bigger news. It seemed to Tracy that she was surrounded by enemies. Charles will get me out, she kept repeating to herself. Oh, please, God, let Charles get me out. I can't have our baby born in prison.
It was not until the following afternoon that the desk sergeant would permit Tracy to use the telephone. Harriet answered. "Mr. Stanhope's office."
"Harriet, this is Tracy Whitney. I'd like to speak to Mr. Stanhope."
"Just a moment, Miss Whitney." She heard the hesitation in the secretary's voice. "I'll--I'll see if Mr. Stanhope is in."
After a long, harrowing wait, Tracy finally heard Charles's voice. She could have wept with relief. "Charles--"
"Tracy? Is that you, Tracy?"
"Yes, darling. Oh, Charles, I've been trying to reach--"
"I've
been going crazy, Tracy! The newspapers here are full of wild stories about you. I can't believe what they're saying."
"None of it is true, darling. None of it. I--"
"Why didn't you call me?"
"I tried. I couldn't reach you. I--"
"Where are you now?"
"I'm--I'm in a jail in New Orleans. Charles, they're going to send me to prison for something I didn't do." To her horror, she was weeping.
"Hold on. Listen to me. The papers say that you shot a man. That's not true, is it?"
"I did shoot him, but--"
"Then it is true."
"It's not the way it sounds, darling. It's not like that at all. I can explain everything to you. I--"
"Tracy, did you plead guilty to attempted murder and stealing a painting?"
"Yes, Charles, but only because--"
"My God, if you needed money that badly, you should have discussed it with me...And trying to kill someone...I can't believe this. Neither can my parents. You're the headline in this morning's Philadelphia Daily News. This is the first time a breath of scandal has ever touched the Stanhope family."
It was the bitter self-control of Charles's voice that made Tracy aware of the depth of his feelings. She had counted on him so desperately, and he was on their side. She forced herself not to scream. "Darling, I need you. Please come down here. You can straighten all this out."
There was a long silence. "It doesn't sound like there's much to straighten out. Not if you've confessed to doing all those things. The family can't afford to get mixed up in a thing like this. Surely you can see that. This has been a terrible shock for us. Obviously, I never really knew you."
Each word was a hammerblow. The world was falling in on her. She felt more alone than she had ever felt in her life. There was no one to turn to now, no one. "What--what about the baby?"
"You'll have to do whatever you think best with your baby," Charles said. "I'm sorry, Tracy." And the connection was broken.
She stood there holding the dead receiver in her hand.