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.