If Tomorrow Comes (8 page)

A matron came up to Tracy and announced, “You got a visitor, Whitney.”

Tracy looked at her in surprise. “A visitor?” Who could it be? And suddenly she knew.
Charles.
He had come after all. But he was too late. He had not been there when she had so desperately needed him.
Well, I’ll never need him again. Or anyone else.

Tracy followed the matron down the corridor to the visitors’ room.

Tracy stepped inside.

A total stranger was seated at a small wooden table. He was one of the most unattractive men Tracy had ever seen. He was short, with a bloated, androgynous body, a long, pinched-in nose, and a small, bitter mouth. He had a high, bulging forehead and intense brown eyes, magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses.

He did not rise. “My name is Daniel Cooper. The warden gave me permission to speak to you.”

“About what?” Tracy asked suspiciously.

“I’m an investigator for IIPA—the International Insurance
Protection Association. One of our clients insured the Renoir that was stolen from Mr. Joseph Romano.”

Tracy drew a deep breath. “I can’t help you. I didn’t steal it.” She started for the door. Cooper’s next words stopped her. “I know that.”

Tracy turned and looked at him, wary, every sense alert

“No one stole it. You were framed, Miss Whitney.”

Slowly, Tracy sank into a chair.

Daniel Cooper’s involvement with the case had begun three weeks earlier when he had been summoned to the office of his superior, J. J. Reynolds, at IIPA headquarters in Manhattan.

“I’ve got an assignment for you, Dan,” Reynolds said.

Daniel Cooper loathed being called Dan.

“I’ll make this brief.” Reynolds intended to make it brief because Cooper made him nervous. In truth, Cooper made everyone in the organization nervous. He was a strange man—
weird
, was how many described him. Daniel Cooper kept entirely to himself. No one knew where he lived, whether he was married or had children. He socialized with no one, and never attended office parties or office meetings. He was a loner, and the only reason Reynolds tolerated him was because the man was a goddamned genius. He was a bulldog, with a computer for a brain. Daniel Cooper was single-handedly responsible for recovering more stolen merchandise, and exposing more insurance frauds, than all the other investigators in the organization put together. Reynolds just wished he knew what the hell Cooper was all about. Merely sitting across from the man with those fanatical brown eyes staring at him made him uneasy.

Reynolds said, “One of our client companies insured a painting for half a million dollars and—”

“The Renoir. New Orleans. Joe Romano. A woman named Tracy Whitney was convicted and sentenced to fifteen years. The painting hasn’t been recovered.”

The son of a bitch!
Reynolds thought.
If it were anyone else, I’d think he was showing off
. “That’s right,” Reynolds acknowledged grudgingly. “The Whitney woman has stashed that painting away somewhere, and we want it back. Go to it.”

Cooper turned and left the office without a word. Watching him leave, J. J. Reynolds thought, not for the first time,
Someday I’m going to find out what makes that bastard tick.

Cooper walked through the office, where fifty employees were working side by side, programming computers, typing reports, answering telephones. It was bedlam.

As Cooper passed a desk, a colleague said, “I hear you got the Romano assignment. Lucky you. New Orleans is—”

Cooper walked by without replying. Why couldn’t they leave him alone? That was all he asked of anybody, but they were always pestering him with their nosy overtures.

It had become a game in the office. They were determined to break through his mysterious reserve and find out who he really was.

“What are you doing for dinner Friday night, Dan…?”

“If you’re not married, Sarah and I know a wonderful girl, Dan…?”

Couldn’t they see he did not need any of them—didn’t
want
any of them?

“Come on, it’s only for a drink…”

But Daniel Cooper knew what that could lead to. An innocent drink could lead to dinner, and a dinner could start friendships, and friendships could lead to confidences. Too dangerous.

Daniel Cooper lived in mortal terror that one day someone would learn about his past.
Let the dead past bury its dead
was a lie. The dead never stayed buried. Every two or three years one of the scandal sheets would dig up the old scandal, and Daniel Cooper would disappear for several days. Those were the only times he ever got drunk.

Daniel Cooper could have kept a psychiatrist busy full-time had he been able to expose his emotions, but he could never bring himself to speak of the past to anyone. The one piece of physical evidence that he retained from that terrible day long ago was a faded, yellowed newspaper clipping, safely locked away in his room, where no one could ever find it. He looked at it from time to time as a punishment, but every word in the article was emblazoned on his mind.

He showered or bathed at least three times a day, but never
felt clean. He firmly believed in hell and hell’s fire, and he knew his only salvation on earth was expiation, atonement. He had tried to join the New York police force, but when he had failed the physical because he was four inches too short, he had become a private investigator. He thought of himself as a hunter, tracking down those who broke the law. He was the vengeance of God, the instrument that brought down God’s wrath on the heads of wrongdoers. It was the only way he could atone for the past, and prepare himself for eternity.

He wondered if there was time to take a shower before he caught his plane.

Daniel Cooper’s first stop was New Orleans. He spent five days in the city, and before he was through, he knew everything he needed to know about Joe Romano, Anthony Orsatti, Perry Pope, and Judge Henry Lawrence. Cooper read the transcripts of Tracy Whitney’s court hearing and sentencing. He interviewed Lieutenant Miller and learned about the suicide of Tracy Whitney’s mother. He talked to Otto Schmidt and found out how Whitney’s company had been stripped. During all these meetings, Daniel Cooper made not one note, yet he could have recited every conversation verbatim. He was 99 percent sure that Tracy Whitney was an innocent victim, but to Daniel Cooper, those were unacceptable odds. He flew to Philadelphia and talked to Clarence Desmond, vice-president of the bank where Tracy Whitney had worked. Charles Stanhope III had refused to meet with him.

Now, as Cooper looked at the woman seated across from him, he was 100 percent convinced that she had had nothing to do with the theft of the painting. He was ready to write his report.

“Romano framed you, Miss Whitney. Sooner or later, he would have put in a claim for the theft of that painting. You just happened to come along at the right moment to make it easy for him.”

Tracy could feel her heartbeat accelerate. This man
knew
she was innocent. He probably had enough evidence against Joe Romano to clear her. He would speak to the warden or the governor, and get her out of this nightmare. She found it suddenly difficult to breathe. “Then you’ll help me?”

Daniel Cooper was puzzled. “Help you?”

“Yes. Get a pardon or—”

“No.”

The word was like a slap. ‘No? But
why?
If you know I’m innocent—”

How could people be so stupid?
“My assignment is finished.”

When he returned to his hotel room, the first thing Cooper did was to undress and step into the shower. He scrubbed himself from head to foot, letting the steaming-hot spray wash over his body for almost half an hour. When he had dried himself and dressed, he sat down and wrote his report.

It is my conclusion that Tracy Whitney is in no way involved in the theft of above painting. I believe that Joe Romano took out the insurance policy with the intention of faking a burglary, collecting the insurance, and reselling the painting to a private party, and that by this time the painting is probably out of the country. Since the painting is well known, I would expect it to turn up in Switzerland, which has a good-faith purchase and protection law. If a purchaser says he bought a work of art in good faith, the Swiss government permits him to keep it, even though it is stolen.

Recommendation:
Since there is no concrete proof of Romano’s guilt, our client will have to pay him off on the policy. Further, it would be useless to look to Tracy Whitney for either the recovery of the painting or damages, since she has neither knowledge of the painting nor any assets that I have been able to uncover. In addition, she will be incarcerated in the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women for the next fifteen years.

Daniel Cooper stopped a moment to think about Tracy Whitney. He supposed other men would consider her beautiful. He wondered, without any real interest, what fifteen years in prison would do to her. It had nothing to do with him.

Daniel Cooper signed the memo and debated whether he had time to take another shower.

Old Iron Pants had Tracy Whitney assigned to the laundry. Of the thirty-five work assignments available to prisoners, the laundry was the worst. The enormous, hot room was filled with rows of washing machines and ironing boards, and the loads of laundry that poured in were endless. Filling and emptying the washing machines and toting heavy baskets to the ironing section was a mindless, backbreaking job.

Work began at 6:00
A.M.,
and prisoners were permitted one 10-minute rest period every two hours. By the end of the nine-hour day, most of the women were ready to drop from exhaustion. Tracy went about her work mechanically, speaking to no one, cocooned in her own thoughts.

When Ernestine Littlechap heard about Tracy’s assignment, she remarked, “Old Iron Pants is out for your ass.”

Tracy said, “She doesn’t bother me.”

Ernestine Littlechap was puzzled. This was a different woman from the terrified young girl who had been brought into the prison three weeks earlier. Something had changed her, and Ernestine Littlechap was curious to know what it was.

On Tracy’s eighth day working in the laundry, a guard came
up to her in the early afternoon. “I got a transfer here for you. You’re assigned to the kitchen.”
The most coveted job in the prison.

There were two standards of food in the penitentiary: The prisoners ate hash, hot dogs, beans, or inedible casseroles, while the meals for the guards and prison officials were prepared by professional chefs. Their range of meals included steaks, fresh fish, chops, chicken, fresh vegetables and fruits, and tempting desserts. The convicts who worked in the kitchen had access to those meals, and they took full advantage of it.

When Tracy reported to the kitchen, she was somehow not surprised to see Ernestine Littlechap there.

Tracy approached her. “Thank you.” With difficulty, she forced a friendly note into her voice.

Ernestine grunted and said nothing.

“How did you get me past Old Iron Pants?”

“She ain’t with us no mo’.”

“What happened to her?”

“We got a little system. If a guard is hard-ass and starts givin’ us too much of a bad time, we get rid of ‘em.”

“You mean the warden listens to—?”

“Shee-et. What’s the warden got to do with it?”

“Then how can you—?”

“It’s easy. When the guard you want to get rid of is on duty, hassles begin to happen. Complaints start comin’ in. A prisoner reports that Old Iron Pants grabbed her pussy. The next day ‘nother prisoner accuses her of brutality. Then someone complains she took somethin’ from her cell—say a radio—and sure enough, it turns up in Old Iron Pants’s room. Old Iron Pants is gone. The guards don’t run this prison,
we
do.”

“What are you in here for?” Tracy asked. She had no interest in the answer. The important thing was to establish a friendly relationship with this woman.

“Through no fault of Ernestine Littlechap, you’d better believe it. I had a whole bunch of girls workin’ for me.”

Tracy looked at her. “You mean as—?” She hesitated.

“Hookers?” She laughed. “Naw. They worked as maids in big homes. I opened me a employment agency. I had at least twenty girls. Rich folks have a hell of a time findin’ maids. I
did a lot of fancy advertisin’ in the best newspapers, and when they called me I placed my girls with ‘em. The girls would size up the houses, and when their employers was at work or outta town, the girls would gather up all the silver and jewelry and furs and whatever other goodies were around and skip.” Ernestine sighed. “If I told you how much fuckin’ tax-free money we was pullin’ down, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“How did you get caught?”

“It was the fickle finger of fate, honey. One of my maids was servin’ a luncheon at the mayor’s house, and one of the guests was a old lady the maid had worked for and cleaned out. When the police used hoses on her, my girl began singin’, and she sang the whole opera, and here’s poor ol Ernestine.”

They were standing at a stove by themselves. “I can’t stay in this place,” Tracy whispered. “I’ve got to take care of something on the outside. Will you help me escape? I—”

“Start slicin’ up them onions. We’re havin’ Irish stew tonight.”

And she walked away.

The prison grapevine was incredible. The prisoners knew everything that was going to happen long before it occurred. Inmates known as garbage rats picked up discarded memos, eavesdropped on phone calls, and read the warden’s mail, and all information was carefully digested and sent around to the inmates who were important. Ernestine Littlechap was at the head of the list. Tracy was aware of how the guards and prisoners deferred to Ernestine. Since the other inmates had decided that Ernestine had become Tracy’s protector, she was left strictly alone. Tracy waited warily for Ernestine to make advances toward her, but the big black kept her distance.
Why?
Tracy wondered.

Rule number 7 in the official ten-page pamphlet issued to new prisoners read, “Any form of sex is strictly forbidden. There will be no more than four inmates to a cell. Not more than one prisoner shall be permitted to be on a bunk at one time.”

The reality was so startlingly different that the prisoners referred
to the pamphlet as the prison joke book. As the weeks went by, Tracy watched new prisoners—fish—enter the prison every day, and the pattern was always the same. First offenders who were sexually normal never had a chance. They came in timid and frightened, and the bull-dykes were there, waiting. The drama was enacted in planned stages. In a terrifying and hostile world, the bull-dyke was friendly and sympathetic She would invite her victim to the recreation hall, where they would watch television together, and when the bull-dyke held her hand, the new prisoner would allow it, afraid of offending her only friend. The new prisoner quickly noticed that the other inmates left her alone, and as her dependence on the bull-dyke grew, so did the intimacies, until finally, she was willing to do anything to hold onto her only friend.

Those who refused to give in were raped. Ninety percent of the women who entered the prison were forced into homosexual activity—willingly or unwillingly—within the first thirty days. Tracy was horrified.

“How can the authorities allow it to happen?” she asked Ernestine.

“It’s the system,” Ernestine explained, “and it’s the same in every prison, baby. There ain’t no way you can separate twelve hundred women from their men and expect them not to fuck somebody. We don’t just rape for sex. We rape for power, to show ‘em right off who’s boss. The new fish who come in here are targets for everybody who wants to gang-fuck ‘em. The only protection they got is to become the wife of a bull-dyke. That way, nobody’ll mess with ‘em.”

Tracy had reason to know she was listening to an expert.

“It ain’t only the inmates,” Ernestine went on. “The guards are jest as bad. Some fresh meat comes in and she’s on H. She’s strung out and needs a fix real bad. She’s sweatin’ and shakin’ herself to pieces. Well, the matron can get heroin for her, but the matron wants a little favor in exchange, see? So the fish goes down on the matron and she gets her fix. The male guards are even worse. They got keys to these cells, and all they have to do is walk in at night and he’p themselves to free pussy. They might get you pregnant, but they can do a lot of favors. You want a candy bar or a visit from your boyfriend,
you give the guard a piece of ass. It’s called barterin’, and it goes on in every prison system in the country.”

“It’s horrible!”

“It’s survival.” The overhead cell light shone on Ernestine’s bald head. “You know why they don’t allow no chewin’ gum in this place?”

“No.”

“Because the girls use it to jam up the locks on the doors so they don’t close all the way, and at night they slip out and visit one another. We follow the rules we want to follow. The girls who make it out of here may be dumb, but they’re
smart
dumb.”

Love affairs within the prison walls flourished, and the protocol between lovers was even more strictly enforced than on the outside. In an unnatural world, the artificial roles of studs and wives were created and played out. The studs assumed a man’s role in a world where there were no men. They changed their names. Ernestine was called Ernie; Tessie was Tex; Barbara became Bob; Katherine was Kelly. The stud cut her hair short or shaved her head, and she did no chores. The Mary Femme, the wife, was expected to do the cleaning, mending, and ironing for her stud. Lola and Paulita competed fiercely for Ernestine’s attentions, each fighting to outdo the other.

The jealousy was fierce and frequently led to violence, and if the wife was caught looking at another stud or talking to one in the prison yard, tempers would flare. Love letters were constantly flying around the prison, delivered by the garbage rats.

The letters were folded into small triangular shapes, known as kites, so they could easily be hidden in a bra or a shoe. Tracy saw kites being passed among women as they brushed by one another entering the dining hall or on their way to work.

Time after time, Tracy watched inmates fall in love with their guards. It was a love born of despair and helplessness and submissiveness. The prisoners were dependent on the guards for everything: their food, their well-being, and sometimes, their lives. Tracy allowed herself to feel no emotion for anyone.

Sex went on day and night. It occurred in the shower room, in toilets, in cells, and at night there was oral sex through the bars. The Mary Femmes who belonged to guards were let out of their cells at night to go to the guards’ quarters.

After lights out, Tracy would lie in her bunk and put her hands over her ears to shut out the sounds.

One night Ernestine pulled out a box of Rice Krispies from under her bunk and began scattering them in the corridor outside the cell. Tracy could hear inmates from other cells doing the same thing.

“What’s going on?” Tracy asked.

Ernestine turned to her and said harshly, “Non’a your business. Jest stay in your bunk. Jest stay in your fuckin’ bunk.”

A few minutes later there was a terrified scream from a nearby cell, where a new prisoner had just arrived. “Oh, God, no. Don’t! Please leave me alone!”

Tracy knew then what was happening, and she was sick inside. The screams went on and on, until they finally diminished into helpless, racking sobs. Tracy squeezed her eyes tightly shut, filled with burning rage. How could women do this to one another? She had thought that prison had hardened her, but when she awoke in the morning, her face was stained with dried tears.

She was determined not to show her feelings to Ernestine. Tracy asked casually, “What were the Rice Krispies for?”

“That’s our early warnin’ system. If the guards try sneakin’ up on us, we kin hear ‘em comin’.”

Tracy soon learned why inmates referred to a term in the penitentiary as “going to college.” Prison was an educational experience, but what the prisoners learned was unorthodox.

The prison was filled with experts in every conceivable type of crime. They exchanged methods of grifting, shoplifting, and rolling drunks. They brought one another up to date on badger games and exchanged information on snitches and undercover cops.

In the recreation yard one morning, Tracy listened to an older inmate give a seminar on pickpocketing to a fascinated young group.

“The real pros come from Colombia. They got a school in Bogotá, called the school of the ten bells, where you pay twenty-five hundred bucks to learn to be a pickpocket. They hang a dummy from the ceilin’, dressed in a suit with ten pockets, filled with money and jewelry.”

“What’s the gimmick?”

“The gimmick is that each pocket has a bell on it. You don’t graduate till you kin empty every damn pocket without ringin’ the bell.”

Lola sighed, “I used to go with a guy who walked through crowds dressed in an overcoat, with both his hands out in the open, while he picked everybody’s pockets like crazy.”

“How the hell could he do that?”

“The right hand was a dummy. He slipped his real hand through a slit in the coat and picked his way through pockets and wallets and purses.”

In the recreation room the education continued.

“I like the locker-key rip-off,” a veteran said. “You hang around a railroad station till you see a little old lady tryin’ to lift a suitcase or a big package into one a them lockers. You put it in for her and hand her the key. Only it’s the key to an empty locker. When she leaves, you empty her locker and split.”

In the yard another afternoon, two inmates convicted of prostitution and possession of cocaine were talking to a new arrival, a pretty young girl who looked no more than seventeen.

“No wonder you got busted, honey,” one of the older women scolded. “Before you talk price to a John, you gotta pat him down to make sure he ain’t carryin’ a gun, and
never
tell him what you’re gonna do for him. Make
him
tell you what he wants. Then if he turns out to be a cop, it’s entrapment, see?”

The other pro added, “Yeah. And always look at their hands. If a trick says he’s a workin’ man, see if his hands are rough. That’s the tip-off. A lot of plainclothes cops wear workin’ men’s outfits, but when it comes to their hands, they forget, so their hands are smooth.”

Time went neither slowly nor quickly. It was simply time. Tracy though of St. Augustine’s aphorism: “What is time? If no one asks me, I know. But if I have to explain it, I do not know.”

The routine of the prison never varied: