by Amy Stewart
I froze. Sheriff Heath had spotted him from across the room and was coming toward us. Mr. Courter turned around and saw him.
“He doesn’t know, does he?”
I couldn’t gather my thoughts. What was his purpose?
“I went against his orders,” I said at last. Better to take the blame myself and spare Sheriff Heath.
He didn’t have time to answer before the sheriff was upon us. “Mr. Courter! Pardon me, I didn’t realize you’d be joining us tonight.”
He turned to Sheriff Heath and said, “I saw all the ladies being brought in and thought you’d arrested an entire garden club. What is this?”
It occurred to me that Mr. Courter might take a dim view of the sheriff holding a campaign social at the jail. Was there anything wrong with what we were doing?
“It’s a Salvation Army program for the inmates,” the sheriff said. “These ladies have taken an interest. They’re here to help.”
“Punishing criminals with entertainment and refreshments? I suppose that’s another of your modern ideas. I didn’t come for your party, although I notice I wasn’t invited, either.”
He turned to go, giving me one last glance as he did. “Your girl deputy keeps busy.”
Sheriff Heath looked a little puzzled at that, but he just called out to Mr. Courter’s retreating form. “She’s a hard worker.”
When he was gone, the sheriff turned back to me. “Strange for him to drop by of an evening like this.”
I hoped my face wasn’t as flushed as it felt. “I’d better get the ladies upstairs.”
20
a dozen or so of our guests were willing to make the climb to the fifth floor, up a narrow circular staircase lit only by the lanterns we carried. Those unable to manage the stairs went by elevator with Mrs. Heath.
I could only hope that I was behaving as if nothing unusual had happened, but inside I was boiling. What was John Courter’s purpose in coming to me? If he had a complaint against me, he could’ve taken it up with Sheriff Heath, or aired it in the papers as he had done so often before. Why keep it quiet? What effect did he hope to have on me?
There was no time to think about any of it. I had my inmates to consider now and Mrs. Heath’s guests. At the top of the stairs, we crowded together into a small room meant as a guard’s station, equipped with a bunk, a chair, and a desk. The women looked around them in awed silence.
“Is this where you spend the night?” Fleurette whispered.
That drew nervous laughter from the others, who must’ve assumed Fleurette was joking. I pulled myself together as best I could and said, “Most of the guards stationed on night duty would stay here. But I prefer to be out among my inmates. I sleep in a cell just like theirs. I want them to feel that they can talk to me, so it’s better if I live as they do.”
I waited while the women murmured and whispered to one another about that, then I made ready to tell them a little about the inmates they’d be meeting on our tour. Before I could, the elevator clattered into place behind us and the rest of the guests stepped out, accompanied by none other than William Conklin.
“Ladies! I hope somebody set aside a plate for me. Mrs. Higgins, is that your cinnamon loaf I smelled downstairs? Now, who’s ready for a jail-house tour?”
There were cries of delight and, I must admit, relief from the audience assembled around me. William Conklin made a far more attractive tour guide to a group like this. I could hardly object to letting him take center stage—after all, he was the one running for sheriff—but it did irk me that he turned up with no preparation, having asked me not a single question about my inmates, and never having bothered to even glance around at the fifth floor before that moment.
Nonetheless, he had full command of the group. He knew most of them by name and grinned down at them as they fluttered around him. Even Fleurette and Helen were drawn to him, and lined up to be introduced.
I put an arm around each girl and said, “Mr. Conklin, I’d like to present my sister Miss Fleurette Kopp and her friend Miss Helen Stewart. Captain Anderson was good enough to invite them to sing tonight.”
Mr. Conklin turned and took a step back in surprise when he saw them. He bent down slightly, his hands on his knees, the way one does when addressing a child. As Fleurette was only five feet in height, this was not entirely out of order.
“Just look at you girls!” he said, grinning at them. “In my day, we wouldn’t let a pretty girl set foot inside the jail. But don’t you worry—stay right here by my side and I’ll make sure you’re safe.”
He looked like he was ready to carry one of them away under each arm. I kept my grip on their elbows and said, “That’s fine, Mr. Conklin. The girls will stay with me. We have only a few minutes for our tour. Shall we begin?”
He looked at me like he thought I was spoiling all the fun. Maybe I was. The inmates could hear every word we said. I didn’t like the implication that they posed some threat, but were nonetheless to be put on display.
As he didn’t have a set of keys, I unlocked the gate that led to the inmates’ cell blocks and ushered the guests along. To one side of us was the grid of whitewashed steel bars that encircled the jail’s central rotunda. Through the bars one could hear the echo of the elevator clanging, the inmates shuffling along, and the guards calling out orders. On the other side, at intervals as we followed the rotunda around, were the entrances to each cell block.
I had told my inmates to expect special guests, and had promised them a smuggled portion of leftover refreshments as long as they kept quiet and gave only the shortest and most polite answers to any questions put to them. But I hadn’t had time to discourage the guests from asking questions about the inmates’ circumstances, as it would be nearly impossible for some of them to answer truthfully without speaking indelicately. There was no opportunity to say a word about that before Mr. Conklin swept into the first cell block he came to, and they all stood peering between the bars at Providencia Monafo.
It pained me to see her rise from her bunk and stand perfectly still in the middle of her cell, like a wild animal on observation at the zoo. She made quite a sight to those unprepared to greet her, with her unruly black hair falling almost to her waist, her stooped shoulders, crooked teeth, and an eye that hung half-closed and gave the impression that it could see beyond this world and into the next.
What could I do but make the best of it? I elbowed my way to the front of the crowd and said, “Mrs. Monafo, I’d like you to meet Mr. Conklin.”
Providencia turned and squinted at him, sizing him up in that mystical way she had. He seemed not to take her in particularly and merely said, in his pleasing baritone, “How do you do, ma’am?”
She didn’t answer but looked over the crowd of women behind him. “This is Mrs. Heath and some of her friends,” I said, my voice cracking a little under the strain of a pretense at good cheer. “They’ve come to see how we do things on the fifth floor.”
Cordelia Heath stepped forward and extended her hand, probably out of habit, for one does not generally shake hands through the bars of a jail cell. Providencia took it before she could change her mind and promptly turned it over to examine her palm. She traced a ragged old finger down the center of it and squinted up into Cordelia’s face.
“You live downstairs with your children. I see you.”
The ladies around her murmured, a little alarmed. “From the window,” I hastened to explain. “The windows open just a bit. As you can imagine, the inmates appreciate a little fresh air and sunshine, so they tend to crowd around on fair days and watch people come and go. I’m sure Mrs. Monafo has seen you from the window at the end of her cell block from time to time.”
“I never realized,” Mrs. Heath said, under her breath.
Providencia let go of her hand but kept staring at her. “This is not your home.” She said it with great conviction. Her words had a way of stabbing at a person.
“Mrs. Heath has made a fine home for her family,” I said brig
htly, and turned with the unreasonable hope that the rest of the crowd would follow me, but they seemed quite transfixed by Providencia.
It was at this moment that Mrs. Pattengill first made herself known to me. She stepped forward with a proprietary air and said, in the sort of loud, halting voice that wealthy women use to address their immigrant servants, “Please do tell us how you came to be here. What did you do—or rather, what was it in your circumstances—I mean to say . . .”
This was exactly the question I’d been fearing. The answer was that Providencia had been arrested for a murder she didn’t intend to commit. She shot and killed her tenant, but she’d been aiming for her ill-tempered, drunken husband. Never had a sheriff seen a killer so eager to confess and take up residence behind bars, but then again, never had a wife such good cause to fear her husband’s revenge. Providencia Monafo saw jail as a refuge and served her time contentedly.
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” I said hastily. “I’m sure our inmates would rather not revisit—”
Mr. Conklin interrupted. “Now, Miss Kopp, I believe Mrs. Pattengill asked a question, and she would like an answer. Go ahead and tell us, Mrs. . . .”
He had forgotten her name. Providencia didn’t bother to supply it. Her chin wobbled and her lips worked to put the words together.
“That poor man stepped in front of my gun,” she said solemnly.
Mrs. Pattengill’s mouth fell open. The ladies seemed to have heard quite enough and turned to shuffle away.
“Thank you, Mrs. Monafo,” I said. “Perhaps Mr. Conklin is ready to move along.”
A few of the women looked a little green, but they all scurried along behind Mr. Conklin, who marched over to the next cell block as if nothing irregular had happened. There they encountered Nancy Fyfe, who held her hand out graciously, but this time no one dared to take it.
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me, ladies!” she called cheerfully. “I’m only here for a night or two. The nice officer thought I didn’t know how to handle my automobile, and he brought me here so that I wouldn’t miss his point.”
This elicited a cheerfully sympathetic response from the guests, many of whom admitted that they didn’t know how to handle their automobiles, either, at least in the eyes of police officers.
“Didn’t they send for your father, dear, or anyone who could come and collect you?”
It was Mrs. Pattengill speaking again. She seemed to take pride in knowing how to address the inmates and wanted everyone to hear it. I confess that I was impatient with her from the beginning. She had a nosy and interfering manner about her and took a proprietary air with my inmates.
“I should remind our guests that these are sensitive legal matters best discussed in privacy, and only with those who need to know,” I said, a little too loudly. In the awkward silence that followed, Miss Fyfe took it upon herself to smooth things over.
“Oh, I don’t mind saying. My father would come to my rescue, but I don’t dare tell him. It’s all right, though. Miss Kopp has been awfully good to me and has helped me to post letters to every friend and acquaintance I know. Someone will be here in the morning, I’m sure. But I don’t mind, truly. I’ve been made quite comfortable.”
“I’ve never heard an inmate call a jail cell comfortable,” Mr. Conklin said, and moved down the block to Ruth Williams, who, even in her jail uniform, looked like an actress. She had a wide, flashy smile and had managed to style her hair into alluring waves, which was no small feat given how little the inmates had in the way of curlers and lotions. Her eyes were of an unnatural blue that could be mistaken for purple in the right light.
“Well, hello,” she called when Mr. Conklin came into view. “Is this the sheriff? I expected to have a private audience with the man who ran the jail, but I suppose that’s why you have a matron. The sheriff can’t be bothered to come up and have a look at us poor girls.”
This was exactly the sort of pouting and preening to which Mr. Conklin was susceptible. He took a step closer, leaned toward the bars, and said, “I’ll get to know each one of you once I’m sheriff. I’m on the ballot this November. You’ll tell every man in town to vote for William Conklin, won’t you?”
She lifted an eyebrow and said, “I might just know every man in town.”
A line like that would not have stood in ordinary society, but something about the jail-house tour was making the ladies feel a bit daring, and they laughed raucously at her remark.
Fleurette knew a trained actress when she saw one. She slid up next to me to have a better look. Ruth took stock of her in an instant and said, “Those are pretty little gloves, dear. Couldn’t I try them on?”
Fleurette raised her hands to show the pearl buttons at the wrist.
“Oh, I had a pair just like them once,” Ruth said, “but I’ve never had a dress as nice.”
Fleurette turned a little to the side to show it off and said, “But this is nothing. It’s so simple to make.”
“You’re a dear, but I know an easier way of getting a new frock.”
“I wonder if they’re ready for us downstairs,” I put in, before this line of conversation could go any further. I was hoping to herd the group back to the elevator, but they’d already moved on to the next cell block, like visitors at a museum going from painting to painting.
We came, therefore, to the unionists, who were nothing if not organized. Three of them called out, “Good evening!” in one voice. Before anyone could return the greeting, Marie stepped forward and delivered a speech that she’d obviously been rehearsing.
“Ladies, we are the shop workers who make your dresses and waists. At the factory where we work, we must pay a fine if we make the smallest mistake, even if the fault lies with poor equipment or cheap thread. The fines are far greater than the cost of the ruined garment. And if a spool of thread is lost, we must pay the full price of it, even if the spool was empty. Sometimes the fines leave us with no wages at all at the end of the week. Does that sound fair to you?”
Again came Mrs. Pattengill’s voice. “My stars and heavens! No, it does not. Shouldn’t there be some provision for . . . that is . . .”
A woman standing next to her, caught up in the community spirit, stepped forward and said, “What factory is this? Is it here in Hackensack?”
“It’s Daly Suit and Shirt Company,” the girl said, in a proud and defiant voice.
A gasp went up among the ladies. Everyone turned to a woman standing near the back with Mrs. Westervelt. I knew with a sinking feeling that it had to be Mrs. Daly.
“I’m sure there’s some misunderstanding,” the woman said, tight-lipped but forcing a smile.
Mr. Conklin was at her side in a flash. “Don’t give it a thought, Mrs. Daly. If you listened to everything a county jail inmate said, you’d have an awful ugly picture of the world. Leave this to the police and the courts. If I’d been told we had radical unionists up here, I never would’ve—”
Before he could come right out and blame me for Mrs. Daly’s discomfort, a bell rang downstairs to call our group back to the dining hall. I couldn’t have been more relieved.
“Mr. Conklin,” I said, a bit sharply, which seemed to be the only way I knew to address him, “would you do us the honor of leading us back the way we came?”
Fortunately, Mr. Conklin took my suggestion unhesitatingly, and we wrangled the women back downstairs in more or less the same manner in which they’d been led up.
That brought a close to the most difficult part of the evening. There was nothing left for me to do but to sit in the back of the room alongside the ladies, with the inmates lined up in front of us on benches, to hear a sermon and a song. After that, the guests would be escorted outside, into a line of waiting automobiles, and I could return home with Helen and Fleurette. When we reached the dining hall and put the ladies in their seats in the back of the room, I sank down into a chair, grateful that the worst was over.
Helen and Fleurette performed beautifully, standing stra
ight and tall behind the podium, their hands clasped in front of them, their voices ringing out like bells. The inmates had obviously been warned against pointing, whispering, or even winking at the girls. Sheriff Heath must’ve threatened them with the severest of punishments, because they sat like statues and did not even applaud until they were told to do so.
When they finished, Sheriff Heath took the podium. “Thank you, girls, for your singing, and to Captain Anderson for that fine sermon. I believe he hopes you’ll take a pledge with him. The men, that is, not you ladies.”
The women offered up a polite little laugh at that. Captain Anderson took the sheriff’s place at the podium, opened a cloth-bound book, and read from it. “Those of you who wish to join the Brighter Day League, now established in twenty prisons with a membership of over three thousand, will stand and recite with me.”
The men had been ordered not to stand. All eyes went over to Sheriff Heath, who called out, “Go ahead, boys.”
The inmates looked at each other hesitantly and shifted around on their benches before rising, a few at a time, to make a pledge about which they seemed none too certain.
“I pledge to read a portion of the Bible at least once a day and to kneel in prayer each morning and evening, asking God for help and guidance,” Captain Anderson recited.
There was quite a bit of nonsensical mumbling but most of them got through it.
“To refrain from the use of profane language, and to be kind to my associates.”
Sheriff Heath paced back and forth in front of the room to keep the men from making jokes. Captain Anderson continued his pledge. “To consider myself, from this day, an abstainer from all intoxicating liquors, except in the case of sickness, and to encourage others to do the same.”
Helen and Fleurette giggled at that, as did some of the ladies around them. A general grumble of dissent went up among the men, but the sheriff repeated the pledge loudly and some of them followed along.
“To obey the rules and regulations of the institution of which I am at present an inmate, and to obediently carry out the instructions of the officials at the same.”