“You’re a lucky bitch,” Big Bertha growled. “But you’ll be back here with the common folks one day soon. I’m work-in’ on it, littbarn.”
Three weeks after Amy’s rescue Tracy and Amy were playing tag in the yard when Sue Ellen Brannigan hurried out of the house. She stood there a moment watching them. “Tracy, the warden just telephoned. He would like to see you in his office right away.”
Tracy was filled with a sudden fear. Did it mean that she was going to be transferred back to the prison? Had Big Bertha used her influence to arrange it. Or had Mrs. Brannigan decided that Amy and Tracy were getting too close?
“Yes, Mrs. Brannigan.”
The warden was standing in the doorway of his office when Tracy was escorted in. “You’d better sit down,” he said.
Tracy tried to read the answer to her fate from the tone of his voice.
“I have some news for you.” He paused, filled with some emotion that Tracy did not understand. “I have just received an order from the governor of Louisiana,” Warden Brannigan went on, “giving you a full pardon, effective immediately.”
Dear God, did he say what I think he said? She was afraid to speak.
“I want you to know,” the warden continued, “that this is not being done because it was my child you saved. You acted instinctively in the way any decent citizen would have acted. By no stretch of the imagination could I ever believe that you would be a threat to society.” He smiled and added, “Amy is going to miss you. So are we.”
Tracy had no words. If the warden only knew the truth: that if the accident had not happened, the warden’s men would have been out hunting her as a fugitive.
“You’ll be released the day after tomorrow.”
Her “getup.” And still Tracy could not absorb it. “I—I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. Everyone here is very proud of you. Mrs. Brannigan and I expect you to do great things on the outside.”
So it was true: She was free. Tracy felt so weak that she had to steady herself against the arm of the chair. When she finally spoke, her voice was firm. “There’s a lot I want to do, Warden Brannigan.”
On Tracy’s last day in prison an inmate from Tracy’s old cell block walked up to her. “So you’re getting out.”
“That’s right.”
The woman, Betty Franciscus, was in her early forties, still attractive, with an air of pride about her.
“If you need any help on the outside, there’s a man you should see in New York. His name is Conrad Morgan.” She slipped Tracy a piece of paper. “He’s into criminal reform. He likes to give a hand to people who’ve been in prison.”
“Thank you, but I don’t think I’ll need—”
“You never know. Keep his address.”
Two hours later, Tracy was walking through the penitentiary gates, moving past the television cameras. She would not speak to the reporters, but when Amy broke away from her mother and threw herself into Tracy’s arms, the cameras whirred. That was the picture that came out over the evening news.
Freedom to Tracy was no longer simply an abstract word. It was something tangible, physical, a condition to be enjoyed and savored. Freedom meant breathing fresh air, privacy, not standing in lines for meals, not listening for bells. It meant hot baths and good-smelling soaps, soft lingerie, pretty dresses, and high-heeled shoes. It meant having a name instead of a number. Freedom meant escape from Big Bertha and fear of gang rapes and the deadly monotony of prison routine.
Tracy’s newfound freedom took getting used to. Walking along a street, she was careful not to jostle anyone. In the penitentiary bumping into another prisoner could be the spark that set off a conflagration. It was the absence of constant menace that Tracy found most difficult to adjust to. No one was threatening her.
She was free to carry out her plans.
In Philadelphia, Charles Stanhope III saw Tracy on television, leaving the prison. She’s still beautiful, he thought. Watching her, it seemed impossible that she had committed any of the crimes for which she had been convicted. He looked at his exemplary wife, placidly seated across the room, knitting. I wonder if I made a mistake.