There was something that had been puzzling Tracy. She decided to bring it up now. ‘Ernie, you keep protecting me. Why?’
Ernestine shrugged. ‘Beats the shit out of me.’
‘I really want to know.’ Tracy chose her words carefully. ‘Everyone else who’s your – your friend belongs to you. They do whatever you tell them to do.’
‘If they don’t want to walk around with half an ass, yeah.’
‘But not me. Why?’
‘You complainin’?’
‘No. I’m curious.’
Ernestine thought about it for a moment. ‘Okay. You got somethin’ I want.’ She saw the look on Tracy’s face. ‘No, not that. I get all that I want, baby. You got class. I mean, real, honest-to-God class. Like those cool ladies you see in Vogue and Town and Country, all dressed up and servin’ tea from silver pots. That’s where you belong. This ain’t your world. I don’t know how you got mixed up with all that rat shit on the outside, but my guess is you got suckered by somebody.’ She looked at Tracy and said, almost shyly, ‘I ain’t come across many decent things in my life. You’re one of ’em.’ She turned away so that her next words were almost inaudible. ‘And I’m sorry about your kid. I really am …’
That night, after lights out, Tracy whispered in the dark, ‘Ernie, I’ve got to escape. Help me. Please.’
‘I’m tryin’ to sleep, for Christ’s sake! Shut up now, hear?’
Ernestine initiated Tracy into the arcane language of the prison. Groups of women in the yard were talking: ‘This bull-dyker dropped the belt on the grey broad, and from then on you had to feed her with a long-handled spoon …’
‘She was short, but they caught her in a snowstorm, and a stoned cop turned her over to the butcher. That ended her getup. Good-bye, Ruby-do …’
To Tracy, it was like listening to a group of Martians. ‘What are they talking about?’ she asked.
Ernestine roared with laughter. ‘Don’t you speak no English, girl? When the lesbian “dropped the belt”, it meant she switched from bein’ the guy to bein’ a Mary Femme. She got involved with a “grey broad” – that’s a honky, like you. She couldn’t be trusted, so that meant you stayed away from her. She was “short”, meanin’ she was near the end of her prison sentence, but she got caught takin’ heroin by a stoned cop – that’s someone who lives by the rules and can’t be bought – and they sent her to the “butcher”, the prison doctor.’
‘What’s a “Ruby-do” and a “getup”?’
‘Ain’t you learned nothin’? A “Ruby-do” is a parole. A “getup” is the day of release.’
Tracy knew she would wait for neither.
The explosion between Ernestine Littlechap and Big Bertha happened in the yard the following day. The prisoners were playing a game of softball, supervised by the guards. Big Bertha, at bat with two strikes against her, hit a hard line drive on the third pitch and ran to first base, which Tracy was covering. Big Bertha slammed into Tracy, knocking her down, and then was on top of her. Her hands snaked up between Tracy’s legs, and she whispered, ‘Nobody says no to me, you cunt. I’m comin’ to get you tonight, littbarn, and I’m gonna fuck your ass off.’
Tracy fought wildly to get loose. Suddenly she felt Big Bertha being lifted off her. Ernestine had the huge Swede by the neck and was throttling her.
‘You goddamn bitch!’ Ernestine was screaming. ‘I warned you!’ She lashed her fingernails across Big Bertha’s face, clawing at her eyes.
‘I’m blind!’ Big Bertha screamed. ‘I’m blind!’ She grabbed Ernestine’s breasts and started pulling them. The two women were punching and clawing at each other as four guards came running up. It took the guards five minutes to pull them apart. Both women were taken to the infirmary. It was late that night when Ernestine was returned to her cell. Lola and Paulita hurried to her bunk to console her.
‘Are you all right?’ Tracy whispered.
‘Damned right,’ Ernestine told her. Her voice sounded muffled, and Tracy wondered how badly she had been hurt. ‘I made my Ruby-do yesterday. I’m gettin’ outta this joint. You got a problem. That mother aint gonna leave you alone now. No way. And when she’s finished fuckin’ with you, she’s gonna kill you.’
They lay there in the silent darkness. Finally, Ernestine spoke again. ‘Maybe it’s time you and me talked about bustin’ you the hell outta here.’
‘You’re going to lose your governess tomorrow,’ Warden Brannigan announced to his wife.
Sue Ellen Brannigan looked up in surprise. ‘Why? Judy’s very good with Amy.’
‘I know, but her sentence is up. She’s being released in the morning.’
They were having breakfast in the comfortable cottage that was one of the perquisites of Warden Brannigan’s job. Other benefits included a cook, a maid, a chauffeur, and a governess for their daughter, Amy, who was almost five. All the servants were trusties. When Sue Ellen Brannigan had arrived there five years earlier, she had been nervous about living on the grounds of the penitentiary, and even more apprehensive about having a house full of servants who were all convicted criminals.
‘How do you know they won’t rob us and cut our throats in the middle of the night?’ she had demanded.
‘If they do,’ Warden Brannigan had promised, ‘I’ll put them on report.’
He had persuaded his wife, without convincing her, but Sue Ellen’s fears had proved groundless. The trusties were anxious to make a good impression and cut their time down as much as possible, so they were very conscientious.
‘I was just getting comfortable with the idea of leaving Amy in Judy’s care,’ Mrs Brannigan complained. She wished Judy well, but she did not want her to leave. Who knew what kind of woman would be Amy’s next governess? There were so many horror stories about the terrible things strangers did to children.
‘Do you have anyone in particular in mind to replace Judy, George?’
The warden had given it considerable thought. There were a dozen trusties suitable for the job of taking care of their daughter. But he had not been able to get Tracy Whitney out of his mind. There was something about her case that he found deeply disturbing. He had been a professional criminologist for fifteen years, and he prided himself that one of his strengths was his ability to assess prisoners. Some of the convicts in his care were hardened criminals, others were in prison because they had committed crimes of passion or succumbed to a momentary temptation, but it seemed to Warden Brannigan that Tracy Whitney belonged to neither category. He had not been swayed by her protests of innocence, for that was standard operating procedure for all convicts. What bothered him was the people who had conspired to send Tracy Whitney to prison. The warden had been appointed by a New Orleans civil commission headed by the governor of the state, and although he steadfastly refused to become involved in politics, he was aware of all the players. Joe Romano was Mafia, a runner for Anthony Orsatti. Perry Pope, the attorney who had defended Tracy Whitney, was on their payroll, and so was Judge Henry Lawrence. Tracy Whitney’s conviction had a decidedly rank odour to it.
Now Warden Brannigan made his decision. He said to his wife, ‘Yes. I do have someone in mind.’
There was an alcove in the prison kitchen with a small Formica-topped dining table and four chairs, the only place where it was possible to have a reasonable amount of privacy. Ernestine