The Harlot’s Pen Read Online Free Page B

the first money I had earned from my writing in three years, and I felt the thrill of publication almost as strong as the heady relief of knowing I could still earn a room’s worth of rent.
    Competing with my accomplishment was the tension among my friends as the date for Mrs. Whitney’s trial approached. We had taken on the mantle of supporters and spoke obsessively of the possible outcomes, almost as a sports fanatic weighed the potential of his team in the World Series of Baseball. At home, Sam was gone so much at work that I stopped doubting I would be able to escape to attend the trial. When he was home, he had begun talking about Argentina again, but I saw no forward action. Perhaps it was his dream of escape.
    Jacqueline, Leticia, and I took the ferry across the bay once again, this time in the frigid gloom of January. Francis Pemberton, Jacqueline’s husband, a lawyer himself, accompanied us, and explained the process as it transpired. I was grateful for the information, but it ultimately had the effect of eliminating any hope I had for Mrs. Whitney’s acquittal.
    At last, the trial for Mrs. Whitney started. The whole first day they picked a jury, and the men and women on the jury look like very severe, dutiful people. It took the entire day to satisfy the lawyers. Tom O’Connor was representing Mrs. Whitney. He’s a “damn good lawyer” according to Jacqueline’s Francis, who knew him from school, but to me he didn’t seem to have his heart in it. Then the lawyers made their opening arguments, or no, I was corrected, their opening statements, and Mrs. Whitney’s supporters were stunned. Mr. O’Connor basically admitted that Mrs. Whitney was a member of the Communist Labor Party. His entire defense would be based on the idea that the CLP was not connected with the two illegal groups, Communist International and Industrial Workers of the World. We were skeptical of the wisdom of this defense, but Francis explained that the choices were limited. We vowed to attend every day, even with the ferry ride across the bay, if we could.
     
    * * * *
     
    January 30, 1920
     
    Mr. O’Connor asked for a delay of the trial, explaining that his daughter was ill with influenza. The moment those words were out of his mouth, there was almost a stampede for the door. We had been lucky out in California, but the news across the nation had been horrific. People, hordes of them, were dying from influenza, and nothing could save them. Their lungs filled up, and they gasped to death within one or two days.
    It was obvious that Judge Quinn had it in for Mrs. Whitney. He refused to delay the trial. Mr. O’Connor was ashen and left the courtroom. The judge told Mr. Thompson, Mr. O’Connor’s young partner, to take over, and the trial went on.
    It was already dark when we left the courthouse. The cold had settled into the bricks of the buildings, and a fine drizzle fell, chilling us to the core. Francis kindly went to hail a cab for us to save us the long walk in the freezing rain. As we waited, I saw women in the shadows, shivering in their thin dresses, hoping for customers on this miserable night. I watched as one reached out a hand to Francis as he passed, but I could not hear her solicitation, nor his response. There was a woman who would likely not eat tonight, and her refuge from the elements would be meager, at best.
     
    * * * *
     
    February 10, 1920
     
    Despite the growing terror of the flu, the trial marched on, and Jacqueline, Leticia, and I stalwartly attended almost daily. Mr. O’Connor, Mrs. Whitney’s senior lawyer, died from the flu, having lost his daughter the week before. A lady juror died Monday, but Judge Quinn just swore in an alternate to take her place. There were no crowds at the trial. There were no crowds anywhere. The theaters shut down, waiting for the epidemic to pass, and each time someone cleared his throat, people ran in terror.
    Meanwhile, the trial continued, with the prosecutor calling a