The tall, quiet man had been standing at a table at the side gathering up some papers and putting them in a leather attaché case. As Carol stood there sobbing, he looked up and watched her for a moment. Then he spoke to Judge Murphy.
The judge called a recess and the two men disappeared into the judge’s chambers. Fifteen minutes later, the bailiff escorted Carol into the judge’s chambers, where the quiet man was earnestly talking to the judge.
“You’re a lucky girl, Carol,” Judge Murphy said. “You’re going to get another chance. The Court is remanding you to the personal custody of Dr. Stevens.”
So the tall mother wasn’t a mouthpiece—he was a quack. She wouldn’t have cared if he was Jack the Ripper. All she wanted was to get out of that stinking courtroom before they found out it wasn’t her birthday.
The doctor drove her to his apartment, making small talk that did not require any answers, giving Carol a chance to pull herself together and think things out. He stopped the car in front of a modern apartment building on Seventy-first Street overlooking the East River. The building had a doorman and an elevator operator, and from the calm way they greeted him, you would think he came home every morning at three A.M. with a sixteen-year-old black hooker.
Carol had never seen an apartment like the doctor’s. The living room was done in white with two long, low couches covered in oatmeal tweed. Between the couches was an enormous square coffee table with a thick glass top. On it was a large chessboard with carved Venetian figures. Modern paintings hung on the wall. In the foyer was a closed-circuit television monitor that showed the entrance to the lobby. In one corner of the living room was a smoked glass bar with shelves of crystal glasses and decanters. Looking out the window, Carol could see tiny boats, far below, tossing their way along the East River.
“Courts always make me hungry,” Judd said. “Why don’t I whip up a little birthday supper?” And he took her into the kitchen where she watched him skillfully put together a Mexican omelette, French-fried potatoes, toasted English muffins, a salad, and coffee. “That’s one of the advantages of being a bachelor,” he said. “I can cook when I feel like it.”
So he was a bachelor without any home pussy. If she played her cards right, this could turn out to be a bonanza. When she had finished devouring the meal, he had taken her into the guest bedroom. The bedroom was done in blue, dominated by a large double bed with a blue checked bedspread. There was a low Spanish dresser of dark wood with brass fittings.
“You can spend the night here,” he said. “I’ll rustle up a pair of pajamas for you.”
As Carol looked around the tastefully decorated room she thought, Carol, baby! You’ve hit the jackpot! This mother’s looking for a piece of jailbait black ass. And you’re the baby who is gonna give it to him.
She undressed and spent the next half hour in the shower. When she came out, a towel wrapped around her shining, voluptuous body, she saw that the motherfucking ofay had placed a pair of his pajamas on the bed. She laughed knowingly and left them there. She threw the towel down and strolled into the living room. He was not there. She looked through the door leading into a den. He was sitting at a large, comfortable desk with an old-fashioned desk lamp hanging over it. The den was crammed with books from floor to ceiling. She walked up behind him and kissed him on the neck. “Let’s get started, baby,” she whispered. “You got me so horny I can’t stand it.” She pressed closer to him. “What are we waitin’ for, big daddy? If you don’t ball me quick, I’ll go out of my cotton-pickin’ mind.”
He regarded her for a second with thoughtful dark gray eyes. “Haven’t you got enough trouble?” he asked mildly. “You can’t help being born a Negro, but who told you you had to be a black dropout pot-smoking sixteen-year-old whore?”
She stared at him, baffled, wondering what she had said wrong. Maybe he had to get himself worked up and whip her first to get his kicks. Or maybe it was the Reverend Davidson bit. He was going to pray over her black ass, reform her, and then lay her. She tried again. She reached between his legs and stroked him, whispering, “Go, baby. Sock it to me.”