money from her account.
‘How much ees in it?’ she asked.
The cashier checked. ‘Thirteen hundred and eighty-five dollars and sixty-five cents.’
‘Sí, that ees correct.’
‘Would you like a certified cheque for that, Miss Gonzales?’
‘No, gracias,’ Tracy said. ‘I don’ trust banks. I weel take the cash.’
Tracy had received the standard two hundred dollars from the state prison upon her release, plus the small amount of money she had earned taking care of Amy, but even with her money from the bank fund, she had no financial security. It was imperative she get a job as quickly as possible.
She checked into an inexpensive hotel on Lexington Avenue and began sending out applications to New York banks, applying for a job as a computer expert. But Tracy found that the computer had suddenly become her enemy. Her life was no longer private. The computer banks held her life’s story, and readily told it to everyone who pressed the right buttons. The moment Tracy’s criminal record was revealed, her application was automatically rejected.
I think it unlikely that given your background, any bank would hire you. Clarence Desmond had been right.
Tracy sent in more job applications to insurance companies and dozens of other computer-oriented businesses. The replies were always the same: negative.
Very well, Tracy thought, I can always do something else. She bought a copy of The New York Times and began searching the situations vacant ads.
There was a position listed as secretary in an export firm.
The moment Tracy walked in the door, the personnel manager said, ‘Hey, I seen you on television. You saved a kid in prison, didn’t you?’
Tracy turned and fled.
The following day she was hired as a saleswoman in the children’s department at Saks Fifth Avenue. The salary was a great deal less than she had been used to, but at least it was enough to support herself.
On her second day, an hysterical customer recognized her and informed the floor manager that she refused to be waited on by a murderess who had drowned a small child. Tracy was given no chance to explain. She was discharged immediately.
It seemed to Tracy that the men upon whom she had exacted vengeance had had the last word after all. They had turned her into a public criminal, an outcast. The unfairness of what was happening to her was corrosive. She had no idea how she was going to live, and for the first time she began to have a feeling of desperation. That night she looked through her purse to see how much money remained, and tucked away in a corner of her wallet she came across a slip of paper that Betty Franciscus had given her in prison. CONRAD MORGAN, JEWELLER, 640 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY. He’s into criminal reform. He likes to give a hand to people who’ve been in prison.
Conrad Morgan et Cie Jewellers was an elegant establishment, with a liveried doorman on the outside and an armed guard on the inside. The shop itself was tastefully understated, but the jewels were exquisite and expensive.
Tracy told the receptionist, ‘I’d like to see Mr Conrad Morgan, please.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No. A – a mutual friend suggested that I see him.’
‘Your name?’
‘Tracy Whitney.’
‘Just a moment, please.’
The receptionist picked up a telephone and murmured something into it that Tracy could not hear. She replaced the receiver. ‘Mr Morgan is occupied just now. He wonders if you could come back at six o’clock.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Tracy said.
She walked out of the shop and stood on the pavement, uncertainly. Coming to New York had been a mistake. There was probably nothing Conrad could do for her. And why should he? She was a complete stranger to him. He’ll give me a lecture and a handout. Well, I don’t need either. Not from him or anyone else. I’m a survivor. Somehow I’m going to make it. To hell with Conrad Morgan. I won’t go back to see him.
Tracy wandered the streets aimlessly, passing the glittering salons of Fifth Avenue, the guarded apartment buildings on Park Avenue, the bustling shops on Lexington and Third. She walked the streets of New York mindlessly, seeing nothing, filled with a bitter frustration.
At 6:00 she found herself back on Fifth Avenue, in front of Conrad Morgan et Cie Jewellers. The doorman was gone, and the door was locked. Tracy pounded on the door in a gesture of defiance and then turned away, but to her surprise, the door suddenly opened.
An avuncular-looking man stood there looking at her. He was bald, with ragged tufts of grey hair above his ears, and he had a jolly, rubicund face and twinkling blue eyes. He looked like a cheery little gnome. ‘You must be Miss Whitney?’
‘Yes …’
‘I’m Conrad Morgan. Please, do come in, won’t you?’
Tracy entered the deserted shop.
‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ Conrad Morgan said. ‘Let’s go into my office where we can talk.’
He led her through the shop to a closed door, which he unlocked with a key. His office was elegantly furnished, and it looked more like a flat than a place of business, with no desk, just couches, chairs, and tables artfully placed. The walls were covered with old masters.
‘Would you care for a drink?’ Conrad Morgan offered. ‘Whisky, cognac, or perhaps sherry?’
‘No, nothing, thank you.’
Tracy was suddenly nervous. She had dismissed the idea that this man would do anything to help her, yet at the same time she found herself desperately hoping that he could.
‘Betty Franciscus suggested that I look you up, Mr Morgan. She said you – you helped people who have been in … trouble.’ She could not bring herself to say prison.
Conrad Morgan clasped his hands together, and Tracy noticed how beautifully manicured they were.
‘Poor Betty. Such a lovely lady. She was unlucky, you know.’
‘Unlucky?’
‘Yes. She got caught.’
‘I – I don’t understand.’
‘It’s really quite simple, Miss Whitney. Betty used to work for me. She was well protected. Then the poor dear fell in love with a chauffeur from New Orleans and went off on her own. And, well … they caught her.’
Tracy was confused. ‘She worked for you here as a saleslady?’
Conrad Morgan sat back and laughed until his eyes filled with tears. ‘No, my dear,’ he said, wiping the tears away. ‘Obviously, Betty didn’t explain everything to you.’ He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. ‘I have a very profitable little sideline, Miss
