“Do the ‘Garden of Love’ dresses first. They’re in tatters. She’s been doing that number since 1909,” said Eliza, as she smoothed her copper-colored hair in the window’s reflection.
“Oh, ‘The Cash Girl’ petticoats are the worst. She’s been doing that number since 1809,” said Bernice. She had a low voice scratchy from overuse.
“I can put another dart in that dress, too, if you like,” Fleurette offered to Bernice, whose dress hung awkwardly around her shoulders.
“It’s not mine, so you’d better not,” Bernice said, “but you can have a go at every single thing in my trunk once you’re finished with the costumes.”
Fleurette might have agreed a little too eagerly to tackle what was sure to be a mountain of tattered frills, but at that moment, as Mr. Bernstein waved a hasty good-bye to his wife and hopped off the train, and she felt the rail-car shudder and jerk forward, she had no doubt that she could do it. Her stomach might have lurched a little as the station slid past her window and the familiar city streets fell away, but she swallowed that fluttery feeling and bestowed her most winning smile on Charlotte, who’d settled in next to her.
“I’ve never been to Scranton before,” Fleurette offered.
“You haven’t?” Charlotte said, in mock surprise, as it was perfectly obvious that Fleurette hadn’t been anywhere. “Well. It has its diversions.”
25
“SORRY, MA’AM. Policewives don’t ride free.”
Constance stared down at the trolley car driver. “It’s a sheriff’s badge. And it’s mine. You’re new on this route, aren’t you?”
“I know the rules. Free fares for sworn officers only. Not wives and stenographers and the like.”
Constance was in no mood to argue. She opened her coat and showed him her gun and handcuffs. He startled and leaned away from her when he saw them.
“Lady, that’s an awful lot of trouble for a free ride. You ought to give those back before someone gets hurt.”
“It’s trouble for you, if you give me any nonsense about my badge again.”
Constance took her seat, which, she reasoned, gave him no choice but to allow it. He was a short, scrawny man who couldn’t have thrown her off the trolley if he’d tried.
Her spirits did not improve when she arrived at the jail and saw Sheriff Heath and Carrie Hart walking toward the courthouse.
“The prosecutor’s office is holding a press conference on the Minnie Davis case,” Sheriff Heath said. “Miss Hart was kind enough to come and tell me, because no one else did.”
“Have they filed charges?” Constance asked.
“You might as well come along and find out.”
For once, the courthouse steps were devoid of reporters swapping stories. They had all filed into a large meeting room on the second floor, one of those dignified, high-ceilinged affairs with tall windows and mahogany panels. A series of judges’ portraits, painted in oil, hung between the windows. Detective Courter stood at a lectern in front of an American flag, the yellow New Jersey flag, and a wall plaque bearing the Bergen County seal. Alongside him was his boss, Prosecutor Wright.
Sitting near the front, at an angle so that she looked out over the assembled crowd, was Belle Headison, Paterson’s lady police officer. Mrs. Headison was a woman of strict moral codes who kept a sharp eye on train stations, dance halls, and amusement palaces, always on the lookout for girls at risk of being led astray. She did manage to catch a criminal every now and then: last year, she caught a man advertising for girls in the newspaper, under the pretense that he was looking for a housekeeper who might also like to audition to be his wife. Constance and Sheriff Heath were called in to help with the arrest. Such cases needed to be brought to light, and Belle Headison, fueled by righteous outrage over the continued assaults to feminine virtue she saw perpetuated all around her, was the woman for the job.
Constance nodded at her from the back of the room, and Mrs. Headison gave a stiff smile of recognition. Constance knew that she made Mrs. Headison uncomfortable: the policewoman had been shocked to see Constance arrest a man and to otherwise carry out the responsibilities of her job the way a man would.
Prosecutor Wright had just finished some preparatory remarks as they walked in, and now Mr. Courter began.
“Last week, constables in Fort Lee were investigating a report of gunfire when they found twenty-five-year-old Anthony Leo, of Fort Lee, and sixteen-year-old Minnie Davis, formerly of Catskill, New York, in a furnished room above a bakery. They posed as man and wife when they rented the room, although they were not married and Mr. Leo apparently had no intention of remedying that situation. He was found with a forged marriage license in his pocket.”
There arose from the crowd a series of gasps, murmurs, and the scribbling of pencils. Detective Courter paused and spelled the names of the two parties.
“The source of the gunshots was never found and does not pertain to the business of which I speak today. Here we have a white slave case. Anyone who is familiar with the laws of this country will readily see that Mr. Leo transported Miss Davis across state lines for an immoral purpose. Her parents reported her missing months ago. The prosecutor’s office has learned that Mr. Leo worked on board a pleasure boat plying the Hudson River in the summertime. We believe he coerced Miss Davis on board and employed such deceptive means as might be necessary to keep her there until the boat was bound for New York City. She obviously had no means of escape short of jumping overboard. When she found herself in a big city such as she had never seen before, penniless and lost, she fell entirely under Mr. Leo’s control and was forced into a disreputable house in Fort Lee, where witnesses report seeing her entertain a series of male visitors in the evenings.”
The room erupted then, with reporters all talking at once and shouting out questions. Constance looked over at Carrie, who rolled her eyes and shook her head sorrowfully. Sheriff Heath stood stiffly, without expression, as he always did in a place like this one, where so many people would be watching for his reaction.
Detective Courter went on with the fervor of a preacher. “It’s well known that in every large city in the world, thousands of women are so set aside as outcasts from decent society that it is considered an impropriety to speak the very word which designates them. Now this disgrace has come to the respectable small towns of Bergen County. The commerce in white slaves was first seen in this country as coming from abroad and involving the importation of immigrant girls who spoke no English and possessed no means of escape. The Immigration Act made that illegal in 1907, and in large part, the practice has stopped. But an even more vile menace has risen up in its stead. This new depravity comes from within our own shores, as girls are lured away from their homes by these traffickers and drawn into a life of debasement from which there is little hope of rescue or recovery.”
Mr. Courter mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. The reporters gave murmurs of assent.