11. Estelle

11

Estelle

M y breath formed clouds in the frigid night air as I was thrown into the police wagon. I shivered, as they had not given me time to don a coat before hauling me out of the apartment.

At the police station, I was escorted inside the warm lobby, a bustling hub of activity with officers milling about and suspects being processed. The air was thick with the scent of tobacco smoke and sweat.

I was led to a wooden desk where an officer, his face a mask of disinterest, began the routine.

"Name?" he barked, his pen poised over a large, worn ledger.

"Estelle Sullivan," I replied, my voice barely a whisper.

The officer jotted down my name and then proceeded with a litany of questions. Age, address, place of birth—all documented meticulously. My fingerprints were taken, black ink staining my fingers like the damnation of a scarlet letter.

Next, a matronly woman with a stern expression led me to a small, dimly lit room where I was instructed to change into a plain, coarse prison dress. My clothes were taken away, folded, and stored as evidence. The material scratched against my skin, a constant reminder of my newfound reality.

The stone walls of the jailhouse itself felt like the inside of a cold hell. Bars lined the corridors, each cell with only a narrow cot, a thin blanket, and a small bucket for sanitation. The dim lighting cast long shadows, making me feel as if someone would jump out from the darkness.

I was placed in a cell near the end of the corridor. As the heavy door clanged shut behind me, I collapsed onto my cot and allowed myself to sob. How could I have expected anything else? My life was a series of tragedies. Would it end with a rope around my neck?

The cold seeped through the thin walls, and the lightweight blanket offered little warmth. I curled into a ball, shivering and praying for a miracle in equal measure. Occasionally, I heard the distant sounds of the city—carriages clattering over cobblestones. Life went on without me. It would go on without me. This was it, I thought. The end. I'd been on borrowed time, perhaps, since the birth of Mireille. I should have died in those days after leaving my sister and Pierre. Instead, Percival had found me and tried to rescue me, but it was not to be. I was doomed. I'd brought nothing but trouble to the Bancrofts, including Mary's murder. I had no doubt my father had something to do with it. He'd be only too happy to let me take the fall for it.

Had he done it simply to get rid of me once and for all? If I were in prison, he would not have to worry about me making trouble for him.

Would Percival and his mother and little Clara be convinced I was guilty? Although I was with them during the night in question, the cops could make an argument that I'd hired someone to kill her. After all, if my father had done this, he would have hired someone. Thus, it was not hard to believe that I would have done the same. I had the motive. I loved a married man. Getting rid of her would give me what I wanted.

A jury wouldn't know my heart. They wouldn't believe a woman like me, with nothing left to lose, could possibly be innocent. The prosecutor would make a solid case against me. A baby out of wedlock, and feeling as if I had no choice but to give her to my sister. All of which was enough to break me, they might say, but then I fell in love with my benefactor, plunging further into immorality. They would paint me as a woman accustomed to fine living who believed my only hope was to attach myself to the Bancrofts permanently. The only way to do that? Get rid of the wife. It would not be hard to make a jury believe it to be true.

Would Percival believe it too?

Not that. I could bear being hanged for a crime I didn't commit as long as he and Mrs. Bancroft believed me.

I fell asleep at some point, waking in the early morning to gray light filtering through the tiny window. I heard a commotion at the end of the corridor. Footsteps approached, and the heavy door creaked open to reveal a guard carrying a tray containing a lukewarm porridge and weak cup of coffee.

Although I wasn't hungry and the porridge was barely edible, I managed a few bites. If I were to be questioned again, I needed the energy to answer clearly.

Mortified, I used the bucket to urinate. Did the guard come to take it later, or would my cell now smell of urine?

I started to cry again, huddled on the bed. I wasn't strong enough or brave enough to face what was to come. It would be better if I were to die now. Could I use the blanket as a noose?

The guard arrived to take my tray and to my relief, the bucket. A few minutes later, he returned, his keys jangling as he unlocked the door. "You have a visitor," he said, his voice gruff but not all together unkind.

My heart leapt with hope. "Who is it?"

"No idea, ma'am. I only follow orders. Could be your attorney, I reckon."

He didn't say anything further; he simply guided me out of the cell and down a hallway that led to a private room. To my relief, it was Percival waiting for me. Beside him was a man I didn't recognize, middle-aged and serious looking, with salt-and-pepper hair. His intense green eyes settled on me, sizing me up. In those eyes, I saw a man with a past, a man who had seen many things, most of them ugly.

No doubt, this was an attorney.

Percival had brought him to me. He still believed in my innocence. I said a silent prayer of thanks.

The room was stark, a plain table and chairs the only furnishings. The guard gestured for me to sit, and I did, my hands clasped tightly in my lap.

I gazed at Percival, drinking him in as if he were clear mountain water and I had just walked across the desert. He looked worn, with worry etched into his handsome features. "Are you all right? Have they hurt you?" Percival asked.

"I'm fine." My voice wobbled, but I didn't have it in me to act brave. "It's cold and scary, but I got through the night."

Percival introduced me to William Whitman. "He's one of the finest defense attorneys in the city. I spoke to my family attorney, and he referred me to Mr. Whitman. Thankfully, he's agreed to take your case."

"Thank you for coming," I said to Mr. Whitman.

Whitman sat down across from me, opening a leather briefcase and pulling out a notepad. Percival took the seat beside him, his hand reaching across the table to squeeze mine reassuringly.

For the next twenty minutes, I answered Whitman's questions, going over everything that I'd already told the police. We went through the night in question, covering my alibi and those who could vouch for my whereabouts.

Mr. Whitman nodded, seemingly satisfied with my answers. "Can you think of any details you can recall about that evening? What did you talk about at dinner?"

"Why do you need to know that?" I asked.

"Because the prosecution will know that Percival and you have a personal relationship. One that would give you a clear motive. Meaning the two of you could have been in on it together. The more details you remember, the better."

I recounted the dinner and the conversation. "Clara was there. She was allowed to stay up late because of the holiday."

"What was served for dinner?" Whitman asked.

For a moment, I couldn't remember.

"Breathe," Percival said.

"Yes, right." It all came back to me in a flood of images. "Roast beef. Potatoes dripping with butter." I added in as many of the dishes as I could. "I stuffed myself."

"You'd been living quite lean before this, isn't that right?" Whitman asked. "Tell me about those weeks. The ones you spent away from the Bancrofts."

I did so. Some of the details I hadn't shared with Percival. Several times, he flinched at my description of the destitution I faced.

Whitman listened intently, his pen moving swiftly across the page. I found myself wondering if he ever smiled. Typically I would have felt intimidated by him, but I was too tired and discouraged to feel anything of the sort.

Seemingly satisfied with my answers, Whitman looked up, his green eyes piercing. "The prosecution is going to argue that you hired someone to kill Mary. They'll claim you had a motive because of your relationship with Percival. We need to prepare for this angle."

I felt a surge of panic, even though I'd already guessed this would be their tactic.

"Do you have any financial records?" Whitman asked. "From the bank."

"I don't. I don't have any money," I said. "Even if I did, I wouldn't be able to use a bank without a husband."

"Right, good. That will help us," Whitman said.

"Unless they say I gave it to her," Percival said.

"They must not think you were involved," Whitman said. "Or you would be arrested as well."

As the meeting drew to a close, Whitman stood, gathering his notes and briefcase. "Miss Sullivan, you must stay strong. In my experience, the truth usually comes out. Don't give up faith."

I nodded, feeling a glimmer of hope for the first time since my arrest. "Thank you, Mr. Whitman. I'll do my best."

"They have a very weak case," Whitman said. "But I have a feeling something else is going on here."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Your father's a powerful man in the underworld of this fine city. They may be after him, not you."

"For her murder?" I asked.

"No, for his activities in organized crime. He's been under scrutiny for some time." Whitman stuffed his notepad into his briefcase.

"I was told he had the police department in his pocket," I said.

Whitman snapped his briefcase closed. "That may be so, but there's a new district attorney, and he's not afraid to take the whole ring down. In fact, that's what he wants."

The guard returned, saying it was time for me to return to my cell.

"I tried to get you out on bail, but they declined my request," Percival said, taking my hands. "I'm sorry."

"It means so much you believe in my innocence. If you thought I'd done this, I couldn't bear it."

"Don't be ridiculous. I know you," Percival said. "I'm going to see your father and mother. He should know they've imprisoned you for a crime you didn't commit."

"You won't get anywhere. He doesn't care about me. Not more than money, anyway."

"We'll see about that." Percival kissed my hand. "I won't give up on you. Not ever."

I breathed in the scent of him before the guard led me away and back to my cell. The remembrance of his scent and touch might be enough to sustain me through another day and cold night. Or would it?