If Tomorrow Comes

She needed time. Time to think, time to plan her next move. She could not bear to go back to the despoiled house, so she hecked into a small hotel on Magazine Street, far from the French Quarter, where the mad parades were still going on. She had no luggage, and the suspicious clerk behind the desk said, "You'll have to pay in advance. That'll be forty dollars for the night."



From her room Tracy telephoned Clarence Desmond to tell him she would be unable to come to work for a few days.



He concealed his irritation at being inconvenienced. "Don't worry about it," he told Tracy. "I'll find someone to fill in until you return." He hoped she would remember to tell Charles Stanhope how understanding he had been.



Tracy's next call was to Charles. "Charles, darling  - "



"Where the devil are you, Tracy? Mother has been trying to reach you all morning. She wanted to have lunch with you today. You two have a lot of arrangements to go over."



"I'm sorry, darling. I'm in New Orleans."



"You're where? What are you doing in New Orleans?"



"My mother  -  died." The word stuck in her throat.



"Oh." The tone of his voice changed instantly. "I'm sorry, Tracy. It must have been very sudden. She was quite young, wasn't she?"



She was very young, Tracy thought miserably. Aloud she said, "Yes. Yes, she was."



"What happened? Are you all right?"



Somehow Tracy could not bring herself to tell Charles that it was suicide. She wanted desperately to cry out the whole terrible story about what they had done to her mother, but she stopped herself. It's my problem, she thought. I can't throw my burden on Charles. She said, "Don't worry I'm all right, darling."



"Would you like me to come down there, Tracy?"



"No. Thank you. I can handle it. I'm burying Mama tomorrow. I'll be back in Philadelphia on Monday."



When she hung up, she lay on the hotel bed, her thoughts unfocused. She counted the stained acoustical tiles on the ceiling. One... two... three... Romano... four... five... Joe Romano... six... seven... he was going to pay. She had no plan. She knew only that she was not going to let Joe Romano get away with what he had done, that she would find some way to avenge her mother.



Tracy left her hotel in the late afternoon and walked along Canal Street until she came to a pawn shop. A cadaverous-looking man wearing an old-fashioned green eyeshade sat in a cage behind a counter.



"Help you?"



"I  -  I want to buy a gun."



"What kind of gun?"



"You know... a... revolver."



"You want a thirty-two, a forty-five, a  - "



Tracy had never even held a gun. "A  -  a thirty-two will do."



"I have a nice thirty-two caliber Smith and Wesson here for two hundred twenty-nine dollars, or a Charter Arms thirty-two for a hundred fifty-nine..."



She had not brought much cash with her. "Have you got something cheaper?"



He shrugged. "Cheaper is a slingshot, lady. Tell you what. I'll let you have the thirty-two for a hundred fifty, and I'll throw in a box of bullets."



"All right." Tracy watched as he moved over to an arsenal on a table behind him and selected a revolver. He brought it to the counter. "You know how to use it?"



"You  -  you pull the trigger."



He grunted. "Do you want me to show you how to load it?"



She started to say no, that she was not going to use it, that she just wanted to frighten someone, but she realized how foolish that would sound. "Yes, please."



Tracy watched as he inserted the bullets into the chamber. "Thank you." She reached in tier purse and counted out the money.



"I'll need your name and address for the police records."



That had not occurred to Tracy. Threatening Joe Romano with a gun was a criminal act. But he's the criminal, not I.



The green eyeshade made the man's eyes a pale yellow as he watched her. "Name?"



"Smith. Joan Smith."



He made a note on a card. "Address?"



"Dowman Road. Thirty-twenty Dowman Road."



Without looking up he said, "There is no Thirty-twenty Dowman Road. That would be in the middle of the river. We'll make it Fifty-twenty." He pushed the receipt in front of her.



She signed JOAN SMITH. "Is that it?"



"That's it." He carefully pushed the revolver through the cage. Tracy stared at it, then picked it up, put it in her purse, turned and hurried out of the shop.



"Hey, lady," he yelled after her. "Don't forget that gun is loaded!"



Jackson Square is in the heart of the French Quarter, with the beautiful St. Louis Cathedral towering over it like a benediction. Lovely old homes and estates in the square are sheltered from the bustling street traffic by tall hedges and graceful magnolia trees. Joe Romano lived in one of those houses.



Tracy waited until dark before she set out. The parades had moved on to Chartres Street, and in the distance Tracy could hear an echo of the pandemonium she had been swept up in earlier.



She stood in the shadows, studying the house, conscious of the heavy weight of the gun in her purse. The plan she had worked out was simple. She was going to reason with Joe Romano, ask him to clear her mother's name. If he refused, she would threaten him with the gun and force him to write out a confession. She would take it to Lieutenant Miller, and he would arrest Romano, and her mother's name would be protected. She wished desperately that Charles were there with her, but it was best to do it alone. Charles had to be left out of it. She would tell him about it when it was all over and Joe Romano was behind bars, where he belonged. A pedestrian was approaching. Tracy waited until he had walked past and the street was deserted.



She walked up to the house and pressed the doorbell. There was no answer. He's probably at one of the private krewes balls given during Mardi Gras. But I can wait, Tracy thought. I can wait until he gets home. Suddenly, the porch light snapped on, the front door opened, and a man stood in the doorway. His appearance was a surprise to Tracy. She had envisioned a sinister-looking mobster, evil written all over his face. Instead, she found herself facing an attractive, pleasant-looking man who could easily have been mistaken for a university professor. His voice was low and friendly. "Hello. May I help you?"



"Are you Joseph Romano?" Her voice was shaky.



"Yes. What can I do for you?" He had an easy, engaging manner. No wonder my mother was taken in by this man, Tracy thought.



"I  -  I'd like to talk to you, Mr. Romano."



He studied her figure for a moment. "Certainly. Please come in."



Tracy walked into a living room filled with beautiful, burnished antique furniture. Joseph Romano lived well. On my mother's money, Tracy thought bitterly.



"I was just about to mix myself a drink. What would you like?"



"Nothing."



He looked at her curiously.. "What was it you wanted to see me about, Miss  - ?"



"Tracy Whitney. I'm Doris Whitney's daughter."



He stared at her blankly for an instant, and then a look of recognition flashed across his face. "Oh, yes. I heard about your mother. Too bad."



Too bad! He had caused the death of her mother, and his only comment was: "Too bad."



"Mr. Romano, the district attorney believes that my mother was guilty of fraud. You know that's not true. I want you to help me clear her name."



He shrugged. "I never talk business during Mardi Gras. It's against my religion." Romano walked over to the bar and began mixing two drinks. "I think you'll feel better after you've had a drink."



He was leaving her no choice. Tracy opened her purse and pulled out the revolver. She pointed it at him. "I'll tell you what will make me feel better, Mr. Romano. Having you confess to exactly what you did to my mother."



Joseph Romano turned and saw the gun. "You'd better put that away, Miss Whitney. It could go off."



"It's going to go off if you don't do exactly what I tell you to. You're going to write down how you stripped the company, put it into bankruptcy, and drove my mother to suicide."



He was watching her carefully now, his dark eyes wary. "I see. What if I refuse?"



"Then I'm going to kill you." She could feel the gun shaking in her hand.



"You don't took like a killer, Miss Whitney." He was moving toward her now, a drink in his hand. His voice was soft and sincere. "I had nothing to do with your mother's death, and believe me, I  - " He threw the drink in her face.



Tracy felt the sharp sting of the alcohol in her eyes, and an instant later the gun was knocked from her hand.



"Your old lady held out on me," Joe Romano said. "She didn't tell me she had a horny-looking daughter."



He was holding her, pinning her arms, and Tracy was blinded and terrified. She tried to move away from him, but he backed her into a wall, pressing against her.



"You have guts, baby. I like that. It turns me on." His voice was hoarse. Tracy could feel his body hard against hers, and she tried to twist away, but she was helpless in his grip.



"You came here for a little excitement, huh? Well, Joe's going to give it to you."



She tried to scream, but her voice came out in a gasp. "Let me go!"



He ripped her blouse away. "Hey! Look at those tits," he whispered. He began pinching her nipples. "Fight me, baby," he whispered. "I love it!"



"Let go of me!"



He was squeezing harder, hurting her. She felt herself being forced down to the floor.



"I'll bet you've never been fucked by a real man," he said. He was astride her now, his body heavy on hers, his hands moving up her thighs. Tracy pushed out blindly, and her fingers touched the gun. She grabbed for it, and there was a sudden, loud explosion.



"Oh, Jesus!" Romano cried. His grip suddenly relaxed. Through a red mist, Tracy watched in horror as he fell off her and slumped to the floor, clutching his side. "You shot me... you bitch. You shot me...."



Tracy was transfixed, unable to move. She felt she was going to be sick, and her eyes were blinded by stabbing pain. She pulled herself to her feet, turned, and stumbled to a door at the far end of the room. She pushed it open. It was a bathroom. She staggered over to the sink, filled the basin with cold water, and bathed her eyes until the pain began to subside and her vision cleared. She looked into the cabinet mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot and wild looking. My God, I've just killed a man. She ran back into the living room.



Joe Romano lay on the floor, his blood seeping onto the white rug. Tracy stood over him, white-faced. "I'm sorry," she said inanely. "I didn't mean to  - "



"Ambulance..." His breathing was ragged.



Tracy hurried to the telephone on the desk and dialed the operator. When she tried to speak, her voice was choked. "Operator, send an ambulance right away. The address is Four-twenty-one Jackson Square. A man has been shot."



She replaced the receiver and looked down at Joe Romano. Oh, God, she prayed, please don't let him die. You know I didn't meal: to kill him. She knelt beside the body on the floor to see if he was still alive. His eyes were closed, but he was breathing. "An ambulance is on its way," Tracy promised.



She fled.



She tried not to run, afraid of attracting attention. She pulled her jacket close around her to conceal her ripped blouse. Four blocks from the house Tracy tried to hail a taxi. Half a dozen sped past her, filled with happy, laughing passengers. In the distance Tracy heard the sound of an approaching siren, and seconds later an ambulance raced past her, headed in the direction of Joe Romano's house. I've got to get away from here, Tracy thought. Ahead of her, a taxi pulled to the curb and discharged its passengers. Tracy ran toward it, afraid of losing it. "Are you free?"



"That depends. Where you goin'?"



"The airport." She held her breath.



"Get in."



On the way to the airport, Tracy thought about the ambulance. What if they were too late and Joe Romano was dead? She would be a murderess. She had left the gun back at the house, and her fingerprints were on it. She could tell the police that Romano had tried to rape her and that the gun had gone off accidentally, but they would never believe her. She had purchased the gun that was lying on the floor beside Joe Romano. How much time had passed? Half an hour? An hour? She had to get out of New Orleans as quickly as possible.



"Enjoy the carnival?" the driver asked.



Tracy swallowed. "I  -  yes." She pulled out her hand mirror and did what she could to make herself presentable. She had been stupid to try to make Joe Romano confess. Everything had gone wrong. How can I tell Charles what happened? She knew how shocked he would be, but after she explained, he would understand. Charles would know what to do.



When the taxi arrived at New Orleans International Airport, Tracy wondered, Was it only this morning that I was here? Did all this happen in just one day? Her mother's suicide... the horror of being swept up in the carnival... the man snarling, "You shot me... you bitch...."



When Tracy walked into the terminal, it seemed to her that everyone was staring at her accusingly. That's what a guilty conscience does, she thought. She wished there were some way she could learn about Joe Romano's condition, but she had no idea what hospital he would be taken to or whom she could call. He's going to be all right. Charles and I will come back for Mother's funeral, and Joe Romano will be fine. She tried to push from her mind the vision of the man lying on the white rug, his blood staining it red. She had to hurry home to Charles.



Tracy approached the Delta Airlines counter. "I'd like a one-way ticket on the next flight to Philadelphia, please. Tourist."



The passenger representative consulted his computer. "That will be Flight three-o-four. You're in luck. I have one seat left."



"What time does the plane leave?"



"In twenty minutes. You just have time to board."



As Tracy reached into her purse, she sensed rather than saw two uniformed police officers step up on either side of her. One of them said, "Tracy Whitney?"



Her heart stopped beating for an instant. It would be stupid to deny my identity. "Yes..."



"You're under arrest."



And Tracy felt the cold steel of handcuffs snapped on her wrists.



Everything was happening in slow motion to someone else. Tracy watched herself being led through the airport, manacled to one of the policemen, while passersby turned to stare. She was shoved into the back of a black-and-white squad car with steel mesh separating the front seat from the rear. The police car sped away from the curb with red lights flashing and sirens screaming. She huddled in the backseat, trying to become invisible. She was a murderess. Joseph Romano had died. But it had been an accident. She would explain how it had happened. They had to believe her. They had to.



The police station Tracy was taken to was in the Algiers district, on the west bank of New Orleans, a grim and foreboding building with a look of hopelessness about it. The booking room was crowded with seedy-looking characters  -  prostitutes, pimps, muggers, and their victims. Tracy was marched to the desk of the sergeant-on-watch.



One of her captors said, "The Whitney woman, Sarge. We caught her at the airport tryin' to escape."



"I wasn't  - "



"Take the cuffs off."



The handcuffs were removed. Tracy found her voice. "It was an accident. I didn't mean to kill him. He tried to rape me and  - " She could not control the hysteria in her voice.



The desk sergeant said curtly, "Are you Tracy Whitney?"



"Yes. I  - "



"Lock her up."



"No! Wait a minute," she pleaded. "I have to call someone. I  -  I'm entitled to make a phone call."



The desk sergeant grunted, "You know the routine, huh? How many times you been in the stammer, honey?"



"None. This is  - "



"You get one call. Three minutes. What number do you want?"



She was so nervous that she could not remember Charles's telephone number. She could not even recall the area code for Philadelphia. Was it two-five-one? No. That was not right. She was trembling.



"Come on. I haven't got all night."



Two-one-five. That was it! "Two-one-five-five-five-five-nine-three-zero-one."



The desk sergeant dialed the number and handed the phone to Tracy. She could hear the phone ringing. And ringing. There was no answer. Charles had to be home.



The desk sergeant said, "Time's up." He started to take the phone from her.



"Please wait!" she cried. But she suddenly remembered that Charles shut off his phone at night so that he would not be disturbed. She listened to the hollow ringing and realized there was no way she could reach him.



The desk sergeant asked, "You through?"



Tracy looked up at him and said dully, "I'm through."



A policeman in shirt-sleeves took Tracy. into a room where she was booked and fingerprinted, then led down a corridor and locked in a holding cell, by herself.



"You'll have a hearing in the morning," the policeman told her. He walked away, leaving her alone.



None of this is happening, Tracy thought. This is all a terrible dream. Oh, please, God, don't let any of this be real.



But the stinking cot in the cell was real, and the seatless toilet in the corner was real, and the bars were real.



The hours of the night dragged by endlessly. If only I could have reached Charles. She needed him now more than she had ever needed anyone in her life. I should have confided in him in the first place. If I had, none of this would have happened.



At 6:00 A.M. a bored guard brought Tracy a breakfast of tepid coffee and cold oatmeal. She could not touch it. Her stomach was in knots. At 9:00 a matron came for her.



"Time to go, sweetie." She unlocked the cell door.



"I must make a call," Tracy said. "It's very  - "



"Later," the matron told her. "You don't want to keep the judge waiting. He's a mean son of a bitch."



She escorted Tracy down a corridor and through a door that led into a courtroom. An elderly judge was seated on the bench. His head and hands kept moving in small, quick jerks. In front of him stood the district attorney, Ed Topper, a slight man in his forties, with crinkly salt-and-pepper hair cut en brosse, and cold, black eyes.



Tracy was led to a seat, and a moment later the bailiff called out, "People against Tracy Whitney," and Tracy found herself moving toward the bench. The judge was scanning a sheet of paper in front of him, his head bobbing up and down.



Now. Now was Tracy's moment to explain to someone in authority the truth about what had happened. She pressed her hands together to keep them from trembling. "Your Honor, it wasn't murder. I shot him, but it was an accident. I only meant to frighten him. He tried to rape me and  - "



The district attorney interrupted. "Your Honor, I see no point in wasting the court's time. This woman broke into Mr. Romano's home, armed with a thirty-two-caliber revolver, stole a Renoir painting worth half a million dollars, and when Mr. Romano caught her in the act, she shot him in cold blood and left him for dead."



Tracy felt the color draining from her face. "What  -  what are you talking about?"



None of this was making any sense.



The district attorney rapped out, "We have the gun with which she wounded Mr. Romano. Her fingerprints are on it."



Wounded! Then Joseph Romano was alive! She had not killed anyone.



"She escaped with the painting. Your Honor. It's probably in the hands of a fence by now. For that reason, the state is requesting that Tracy Whitney be held for attempted murder and armed robbery and that bail be set at half a million dollars."



The judge turned to Tracy, who stood there in shock. "Are you represented by counsel?"



She did not even hear him.



He raised his voice. "Do you have an attorney?"



Tracy shook her head. "No. I  -  what  -  what this man said isn't true. I never  - "



"Do you have money for an attorney?"



There was her employees' fund at the bank. There was Charles. "I... no, Your Honor, but I don't understand  - "



"The court will appoint one for you. You are ordered held in jail, in lieu of five hundred thousand dollars bail. Next case."



"Wait! This is all a mistake! I'm not  - "



She had no recollection of being led from the courtroom.



The name of the attorney appointed by the court was Perry Pope. He was in his late thirties, with a craggy, intelligent face and sympathetic blue eyes. Tracy liked him immediately.



He walked into her cell, sat on the cot, and said, "Well! You've created quite a sensation for a lady who's been in town only twenty-four hours." He grinned. "But you're lucky. You're a lousy shot. It's only a flesh wound. Romano's going to live." He took out a pipe. "Mind?"



"No."



He filled his pipe with tobacco, lit it, and studied Tracy. "You don't look like the average desperate criminal. Miss Whitney."



"I'm not. I swear I'm not."



"Convince me," he said. "Tell me what happened. From the beginning. Take your time."



Tracy told him. Everything. Perry Pope sat quietly listening to her story, not speaking until Tracy was finished. Then he leaned back against the wall of the cell, a grim expression on his face. "That bastard," Pope said softly.



"I don't understand what they were talking about." There was confusion in Tracy's eyes. "I don't know anything about a painting."



"It's really very simple. Joe Romano used you as a patsy, the same way he used your mother. You walked right into a setup."



"I still don't understand."



"Then let me lay it out for you. Romano will put in an insurance claim for half a million dollars for the Renoir he's hidden away somewhere, and he'll collect. The insurance company will be after you, not him. When things cool down, he'll sell the painting to a private patty and make another half million, thanks to your do-it-yourself approach. Didn't you realize that a confession obtained at the point of a gun is worthless?"



"I  -  I suppose so. I just thought that if I could get the truth out of him, someone would start an investigation."



His pipe had gone out. He relit it. "How did you enter his house?"



"I rang the front doorbell, and Mr. Romano let me in."



"That's not his story. There's a smashed window at the back of the house, where he says you broke in. He told the police he caught you sneaking out with the Renoir, and when he tried to stop you, you shot him and ran."



"That's a lie! I  - "



"But it's his lie, and his house, and your gun. Do you have any idea with whom you're dealing?"



Tracy shook her head mutely.



"Then let me tell you the facts of life, Miss Whitney. This town is sewn up tight by the Orsatti Family. Nothing goes down here without Anthony Orsatti's okay. If you want a permit to put up a building, pave a highway, run girls, numbers, or dope, you see Orsatti. Joe Romano started out as his hit man. Now he's the top man in Orsatti's organization." He looked at her in wonder. "And you walked into Romano's house and pulled a gun on him."



Tracy sat there, numb and exhausted. Finally she asked, "Do you believe my story?"



He smiled. "You're damned right. It's so dumb it has to be true."



"Can you help me?"



He said slowly, "I'm going to try. I'd give anything to put them all behind bars. They own this town and most of the judges in it. If you go to trial, they'll bury you so deep you'll sever see daylight again."



Tracy looked at him, puzzled. "If I go to trial?"



Pope stood and paced up and down in the small cell. "I don't want to put you in front of a jury, because, believe me, it will be his jury. There's only one judge Orsatti has never been able to buy. His name is Henry Lawrence. If I can arrange for him to hear this case, I'm pretty sure I can make a deal for you. It's not strictly ethical, but I'm going to speak to him privately. He hates Orsatti and Romano as much as I do. Now all we've got to do is get to Judge Lawrence."



Perry Pope arranged for Tracy to place a telephone call to Charles. Tracy heard the familiar voice of Charles's secretary. "Mr. Stanhope's office."



"Harriet. This is Tracy Whitney. Is  - ?"



"Oh! He's been trying to reach you, Miss Whitney, but we didn't have a telephone number for you. Mrs. Stanhope is most anxious to discuss the wedding arrangements with you. If you could call her as soon as possible  - "



"Harriet, may I speak to Mr. Stanhope, please?"



"I'm sorry, Miss Whitney. He's on his way to Houston for a meeting. If you'll give me your number, I'm sure he'll telephone you as soon as he can."



"I  - " There was no way she could have him telephone her at the jail. Not until she had a chance to explain things to him first.



"I  -  I'll have to call Mr. Stanhope back." She slowly replaced the receiver.



Tomorrow, Tracy thought wearily. I'll explain it all to Charles tomorrow.



That afternoon Tracy was moved to a larger cell. A delicious hot dinner appeared from Galatoire's, and a short time later fresh flowers arrived with a note attached. Tracy opened the envelope and pulled out the card. CHIN UP, WE'RE GOING TO BEAT THE BASTARDS. PERRY POPE.



He came to visit Tracy the following morning. The instant she saw the smile on his face, she knew there was good news.



"We got lucky," he exclaimed. "I've just left Judge Lawrence and Topper, the district attorney. Topper screamed like a banshee, but we've got a deal."



"A deal?"



"I told Judge Lawrence your whole story. He's agreed to accept a guilty plea from you."



Tracy stared at him in shock. "A guilty plea? But I'm not  - "



He raised a hand. "Hear me out. By pleading guilty, you save the state the expense of a trial. I've persuaded the judge that you didn't steal the painting. He knows Joe Romano, and he believes me."



"But... if I plead guilty," Tracy asked slowly, "what will they do to me?"



"Judge Lawrence will sentence you to three months in prison with  - "



"Prison!"



"Wait a minute. He'll suspend the sentence, and you can do your probation out of the state."



"But then I'll  -  I'll have a record."



Perry Pope sighed. "If they put you on trial for armed robbery and attempted murder during the commission of a felony, you could be sentenced to ten years."



Ten years in jail!



Perry Pope was patiently watching her. "It's your decision," he'said. "I can only give you my best advice. It's a miracle that I got away with this. They want an answer now. You don't have to take the deal. You can get another lawyer and  - "



"No." She knew that this man was honest. Under the circumstances, considering her insane behavior, he had done everything possible for her. If only she could talk to Charles. But they needed an answer now. She was probably lucky to get off with a three-month suspended sentence.



"I'll  -  I'll take the deal," Tracy said. She had to force the words out.



He nodded. "Smart girl."



She was not permitted to make any phone calls before she was returned to the courtroom. Ed Topper stood on one side of her, and Perry Pope on the other. Seated on the bench was a distinguished-looking man in his fifties, with a smooth, unlined face and thick, styled hair.



Judge Henry Lawrence said to Tracy, "The court has been informed that the defendant wishes to change her plea from not guilty to guilty. Is that correct?"



"Yes, Your Honor."



"Are all parties in agreement?"



Perry Pope nodded. "Yes, Your Honor."



"The state agrees, Your Honor," the district attorney said.



Judge Lawrence sat there in silence for a long moment. Then he leaned forward and looked into Tracy's eyes. "One of the reasons this great country of ours is in such pitiful shape is that the streets are crawling with vermin who think they can get away with anything. People who laugh at the law. Some judicial systems in this country coddle criminals. Well, in Louisiana, we don't believe in that. When, during the commission of a felony, someone tries to kill in cold blood, we believe that that person should be properly punished."



Tracy began to feel the first stirrings of panic. She turned to look at Perry Pope. His eyes were fixed on the judge.



"The defendant has admitted that she attempted to murder one of the outstanding citizens of this community  -  a man noted for his philanthropy and good works. The defendant shot him while in the act of stealing an art object worth half a million dollars." His voice grew harsher. "Well, this court is going to see to it that you don't get to enjoy that money  -  not for the next fifteen years, because for the next fifteen years you're going to be incarcerated in the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women."



Tracy felt the courtroom begin to spin. Some horrible joke was being played. The judge was an actor typecast for the part, but he was reading the wrong lines. He was not supposed to say any of those things. She turned to explain that to Perry Pope, but his eyes were averted. He was juggling papers in his briefcase, and for the first time, Tracy noticed that his fingernails were bitten to the quick. Judge Lawrence had risen and was gathering up his notes. Tracy stood there, numb, unable to comprehend what was happening to her.



A bailiff stepped to Tracy's side and took her arm. "Come along," he said.



"No," Tracy cried. "No, please!" She looked up at the judge. "There's been a terrible mistake, Your Honor. I  - "



And as she felt the bailiff's grip tighten on her arm, Tracy realized there had been no mistake. She had been tricked. They were going to destroy her.



Just as they had destroyed her mother.