For the Love of Mike Page 21

  “Very possible,” Jacob said. “They often use gangs to do their dirty work.”

  “The police stand by and watch while gang members beat up young women?” I demanded. I was still hot enough to explode. “What sort of society is this?”

  Jacob shrugged. “Much the same the world over. The poor have no voice. The rich have the money and power. Money buys anything.”

  “Then it’s a rotten world,” I snapped. I looked across at the three girls who had been arrested with us, frail little girls who had done nothing, now clinging to each other in a terrified huddle.

  “Don’t worry, it will be all right,” I said to them. “I’ll tell the policemen that you did nothing wrong.”

  One of them had her hand up to her mouth, sobbing. “My family will be ashamed when they hear I go to prison. My papa, he will throw me out.”

  “Nobody’s going to throw you out. Jacob and I will come and talk to your family and let them know the truth if you want. Once we get to headquarters and we can talk to some uncorrupt policemen, they’ll let us go right away, and we’ll be home in time for supper, I’m sure.”

  The girls gazed at me, wanting to believe me. One managed a watery smile.

  The wagon came to an abrupt halt, almost throwing us onto the floor. The door opened.

  “Okay, you lot. Out you get and no funny business,” a voice ordered.

  Jacob stepped down first then held out his hand to escort us women down the steps. His calm demeanor was reassuring and he handed each of us down like a society lady, arriving at a ball.

  I glanced around as we stepped out into the dark street.

  “This isn’t police headquarters,” I said. “Where have they taken us?”

  “I rather fear it’s the courthouse,” Jacob said.

  “Courthouse? They’re going to try us as common criminals—without a proper investigation?”

  “It looks that way,” Jacob said. “Now remember, Molly, stay calm. They’ll say things to try and make you blow up. Act like these other girls will—confused, innocent, scared. That’s what might work on the judge, not hotheaded and indignant.”

  “I’ve never played the helpless female in my life,” I said, tossing back my hair.

  “No, I don’t suppose you have,” he admitted, smiling, “but this would be a good time to learn.”

  “Come on now. Move it. Up the steps.” A constable swung his baton to chivvy us along.

  “We are not cattle, Officer,” I said, “and we do not need driving.”

  “What have I just been telling you?” Jacob whispered. “This is serious, Molly. If you annoy the judge, you could find yourself in prison.”

  “Nonsense. You can’t send someone to jail without proof that they’ve done something wrong.”

  “But that’s just what I’m trying to tell you. They will manufacture proof. Now, please, keep quiet and act submissively, I beg you.”

  “No talking. In you go,” The voice behind the cattle prod said.

  We were marshaled into a long hallway and then into a small holding room. A clerk was sitting at a high, old-fashioned desk. He took down our names and addresses, then left us with just a police guard.

  One by one the three girls were taken out and did not return. Jacob and I sat on the hard bench waiting. It must have been well past my suppertime and my insides were growling with hunger. I was also cold and tired, and just a little bit scared too, if the truth be known. I had always been a staunch believer in right and wrong, and the ultimate triumph of right. Now it seemed that right might not be about to triumph. Should I do what I had sworn never to do again and summon Daniel to my aid? A disturbing thought crossed my mind. He might not wish to go against the official police position.

  I had heard, of course, that the New York police could be bribed, but I had never seen it in action until now. I went through that scene again in my mind, those constables standing on the opposite corner, arms folded, smirking, as the louts came at us. I could almost smell that foul breath again and I shuddered. I tried to picture their faces—were any of them gang members I had seen before? Could the police really be working with a gang? That one familiar face at the back of the crowd—where and when had I seen him before? Then it hit me like an ice-cold shower. He was in shadow, at the back of the group, and I hadn’t had a chance to see him clearly before the brawl began. In fact I had never seen his face clearly. The only time I had seen it before was on a newspaper cutting from Ireland, standing at Katherine’s side as she prepared for a day’s hunting. If I was not completely mistaken, the man I had spotted today was Michael Kelly.

  Twenty-two

  If Michael Kelly was still alive, and working with the Eastmans, then that changed everything. He would probably know who killed Katherine. Was he out to get revenge right now, and did this mean that the Eastmans had no part in her death? Somehow I would have to find him and talk to him. Then I reminded myself that a lot of Irishmen have that sort of face—the typical look of what they call Black Irish. Daniel himself looked not unlike Michael Kelly. And I had only glimpsed him for a moment in the shadows, hardly enough to make a positive identification.

  “Miss Murphy.” I jumped to my feet as my name was called.

  Jacob reached across and touched my arm. “Now remember,” he said. “Helpless, innocent, frail. No outbursts.”

  I nodded, hung my head, and looked coy, making him smile.

  I was taken into a drafty, dimly lit courtroom. It was empty apart from a judge, sitting at a high bench, and a couple of policemen. My footsteps clattered on the marble floor as I was led forward.

  “Miss Molly Murphy, Your Honor,” the bailiff said. “She is charged with disturbing the peace.”

  The judge peered down at me. He had a cold, beaklike face, like a stone eagle, and I couldn’t tell if he might be moved by my youth and frailty. Did he know that I had been framed? Had he also been bribed?

  “I understand that you were part of a street disturbance, earlier this evening.”

  “I was part of a picket line. My coworkers and I are on strike against Lowenstein’s garment factory, Your Honor.”

  “I also understand that you struck passersby with a wooden sign.” His voice matched his face in coldness.

  “Only after I was struck myself by a very large loutish bully. It was self-defense, Your Honor.”

  He glanced down. “The witness’s statement only mentions your attack with the sign. The complaint says that you were blocking the sidewalk, preventing pedestrians from passing by. When one attempted to pass, you hit him with your sign. So I ask you now, Miss Murphy, did you or did you not attack a person with a sign?”

  “Yes, but it was after . . .”

  He held up his hand. “I’m not asking what preceded it. This is America, Miss Murphy, not Ireland. You can’t just go around brawling in the streets here. We have laws to protect innocent citizens.”

  “Innocent citizens?” My voice rose. “You call those louts innocent citizens? They were baiting us and you know very well that they were paid to bait us, just as the police were paid to watch them. If this is American law, then I don’t think very much of it.”

  “Nobody asked you to come here, Miss Murphy,” the judge said. For an awful moment I thought he was going to send me back to Ireland. “I can be lenient with you and charge you with disturbing the peace. That carries with it a ten-dollar fine and a night in jail. I could also add to it a charge of inflicting grievous bodily harm which would mean a month in women’s prison and a hundred-dollar fine. It’s up to you.”

  He paused and frowned down at me, like a parent appealing to a naughty child. “If you swear to me that you will not attempt to disturb the peace again, then I’ll let you off lightly this time. However, if I catch you back on the street protesting and harassing innocent passersby, I won’t be so generous next time. It will be a month in prison, and I think you’ll find that prison isn’t a very pleasant place to be, especially not at this time of year.”

 
He leaned forward. “So what is it to be, Miss Murphy? Do I have your solemn word that you will not attempt to disturb the peace again?”

  I was not going to have anyone to speak for me. I was not going to find justice in this court. I looked down at my feet, playing the repentant child. “Yes, Your Honor,” I said.

  “In that case I sentence you to one night in jail and a ten-dollar fine.” He brought down his gavel. “Take her away. Bring in the next case.”

  Hands led me away. I was still seething with anger. If this was America, did I really want to be part of it? The moment I got out of jail, I’d take the first boat anywhere—South America, Africa, Australia. . . .

  I was led down a flight of stone steps, then a door was opened with a big key. It felt cold and clammy down there, dimly lit and very unpleasant.

  “Another one for you, Bert,” the man with me said cheerfully as he presented me at the half door of a small cubbyhole. An elderly, toothless man got to his feet. “What’s she done? Killed her old man?”

  “Disturbing the peace. She’s in for the night.”

  “Okay. Just a moment while I get the featherbeds in the guest room ready.” He gave a wheezy laugh as he shuffled down the corridor ahead of me. An iron door squeaked open. “In you go, honey. All modern conveniences. Bucket in the corner. Breakfast at seven.” I was propelled inside with a hefty shove and the door clanged shut behind me.

  I looked around, afraid to see with whom I might be sharing this cell. But I was alone. A narrow wooden plank ran along one wall. There was a bucket in the corner. That was it. I sat on the bench and hugged my arms to me. It was miserably cold and I was sick with hunger. I was also sick with anger that I was so powerless. Were those three little girls also in similar cells, I wondered? Was Jacob also locked up here? I longed for the comforting calm of his presence, but I didn’t wish him in this place. After what he had been through in Russia, a night in a cell like this must be like reliving a nightmare.

  I sat on my plank, hugging my knees to me to try to keep warm. There was no way I was going to be able to sleep on this thing. As my anger dissipated I began to feel wretched and alone. My chosen profession was not turning out to be what I had wanted at all. I seemed to be going to prison with monotonous regularity. And it wasn’t as if I was much closer to solving any cases either. When I got out, my next step would be to prove to my own satisfaction that Michael Kelly was alive, and I wasn’t sure how I was going to do that safely. If he was still alive, then who killed Katherine and how did Letitia Lowenstein get her locket? Every step forward I took, things just became more muddled.

  I started as something scurried across the floor. It was too dark to make out what it was—either a rat or a mouse or a very large cockroach. Either way I had no intention of letting it anywhere near me. I hugged my knees tighter to myself and kept watch.

  It was a long cold night. Several times I nodded off, only to wake myself as my head banged against the cold damp stone of the wall. At times voices cried out in sleep, waking me from my doze. And in my half consciousness I saw phantom rats about to eat my toes. I wanted to spend a penny, but not into that bucket, not having to cross that floor.

  “It’s only one night,” I told myself. “I can put up with anything for one night.” Then I shifted myself into the corner and touched a spider’s web. If there’s one thing in the world that I hate, it’s spiders. Without warning I started to cry. It was all so shocking and unfair and I was being punished for something I didn’t do when I was trying to do was help people . . . I sat there sniveling and feeling pretty sorry for myself until I gave myself a stern talking-to. “Just listen to you, behaving like a proper ninny,” I said out loud. “Poor Jacob had to endure far worse than this. They tortured him, they tried to kill him when he was only a boy, and he’s come through it all right. He’s even brave enough to go on fighting, so the least you can do is stick this out for one night.”

  Thus fortified I rested my head on top of my knees and fell asleep. At first light I woke to the rattle of something against bars and a mug and piece of bread were shoved through. I drank the hot coffee, and ate all of the bread. Then I spruced myself up in preparation for my release. I was not going to let them see that my night in jail had upset me or dampened my spirits.

  An hour or so later old toothless-mouth shuffled up to my door and opened it. “Out you go then, girlie. You’re free.”

  A guard escorted me up the flight of steps, through to the front of the building, and out into the gray morning air. I stood, breathing deeply and watching the pigeons flapping and pecking in the little park opposite. As I came down the flight of steps I saw a figure sitting on a bench in the little park. He got to his feet.

  “Molly!” He called and ran to me.

  “Jacob!” I was enveloped in his arms.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Never felt better. The food rivaled Delmonico’s, the bed was softer than at the Waldorf-Astoria.”

  He gazed at me. “I am in awe of you. What does it take to dampen your spirits?”

  I neglected to mention my weeping session in the small hours of the morning. “What’s one lousy night in jail?” I said with a good attempt at a carefree smile. “Uncomfortable maybe, but not unbearable. I’m ready to go right back on duty and let them see that they can’t crush us so easily.”

  “You are not going back on duty,” he said firmly. “You are going straight home to bed and you are going to stay there.”

  “But the girls will think I’ve deserted them.”

  He put his hands on my shoulders and held me securely. “Didn’t you understand what the judge said? The first offence is minor. If you are arrested again for the same offence, it will be off to prison for a long while. People die in prison, Molly—typhoid and any number of foul diseases are rampant. And you’d be sharing a cell with the dregs of society—violent, conscienceless criminals. I am not going to let that happen to you. If necessary I’m going to lock you in your room and take away the key.”

  “You can’t stop me,” I said defiantly.

  “Molly, you seem to have forgotten. This is not even your fight. It was brave of you to help in this way, but you are not one of them.” He was shouting at me now.

  “Oh, and you’re a lady garment worker yourself, are you?” I demanded. “You could have fooled me.”

  “I help them because I have the knowledge. It is the business of the United Hebrew Trades to help all unions. I paid your fine, by the way.”

  “You didn’t have to do that. I’m not a pauper.” I was still angry with him.

  “It wasn’t my money. We have a fund to assist strikers who run afoul of the law.”

  “Then save your money for the real strikers, since I’m not really one of them.”

  “So your present job makes you a millionaire, does it?”

  I couldn’t come up with a ready answer to that one.

  “Molly,” he said quietly now. “Don’t be so stubborn. I admire the way you have taken these girls’ cause as your own. As I said before, I am in awe at the way you toss off a night in jail as if it were no more inconvenience than a broken fingernail, but when it comes to your common sense—” He shook his head and I had to laugh.

  “Come,” he said, taking my arm. “First things first. You need a good breakfast, then I am taking you home.”

  I gave him an embarrassed grin. “If it’s first things first, then I need to find a public convenience in a hurry. I wasn’t about to use that bucket in my cell.”

  Jacob laughed and escorted me across the public garden where a wrought-iron-decorated public lavatory was indeed a welcome sight. Then I allowed myself to be led up Broadway, away from city hall, away from Lowenstein’s.

  “But what about the other girls? Do you know what happened to them? And what about you? Did they release you last night?”

  “The three girls were sent home with just a warning, so I understand. I was detained for the night just like you.”

&n
bsp; “But that wasn’t fair, Jacob. You did nothing. At least I hit that great lout.”

  He shrugged. “I am used to it by now.”

  “Do you think the those strong-arm bullyboys—starkes, did you call them—managed to break up the strike without us there?”

  “We’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?” he said. “Although I rather think that their behavior last night was merely a warning. They wanted to show us how rough they could get if we keep going.”

  “All the more reason for me to go back and help.”

  We stood at the curb, waiting for a milk wagon to pass with churns and harness jangling merrily. “We will not go through this again.” He swung me to the right and marched me into a café, seating me at an oilcloth-covered table then ordering coffee and sweet rolls for us. We were both equally hungry and ate in silence until the plate was empty.

  “More?” Jacob asked.

  I shook my head. “Sufficient unto the day, as my mother always said. Now I’m back to my old self and ready to tackle anything.”

  “All right, I’ll make a deal with you,” Jacob said. “We will visit the strike scene and let the girls see that you have come through your ordeal with flying colors. That itself will boost their spirits. Then I will escort you straight home, where you will stay. Understood?”

  “For a gentle soul, you can be quite forceful when you want to,” I said.

  He smiled. “When I care about something or somebody enough, I can be passionate.”

  We walked close beside each other in companionable silence.

  “Jacob?”

  He looked up.

  “Do you think there is any way to find out about Michael Kelly—without getting involved with the Eastmans, I mean?”

  “Straight home,” he repeated, “and stay there.”

  Twenty-three

  I fell into a dreamless sleep the moment my head hit the pillow and was not conscious of the hours passing. I came to, like a diver coming up from deep water, to a rhythmic hammering. I lay for a while, trying to remember where I was and what I was doing lying in bed with the setting sun glowing red onto my face. Then I realized that the hammering was someone pounding on my front door.