Sidney Sheldon - If Tomorrow Comes

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 slashed 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 starting 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 ain't 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 in 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 civic 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 odor 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 Littlechap and Tracy were seated there, drinking coffee during their ten-minute break.

“I think it's about time you tol' me what your big hurry is to bust outta here,” Ernestine suggested.

Tracy hesitated. Could she trust Ernestine? She had no choice. “There — there are some people who did things to my family and me. I've got to get out to pay them back.”

“Yeah? What'd they do?”

Tracy's words came out slowly, each one a drop of pain. “They killed my mother.”

“Who's they?”

“I don't think the names would mean anything to you. Joe Romano, Perry Pope, a judge named Henry Lawrence; Anthony Orsatti —”

Ernestine was staring at her with her mouth open. “Jesus H. Christ! You puttin' me on, girl?”

Tracy was surprised. “You've heard of them?”

“Heard of 'em! Who hasn't heard of 'em? Nothin' goes down in New Or-fuckin'-leans unless Orsatti or Romano says so. You can't mess with them. They'll blow you away like smoke.”

Tracy said tonelessly, “They've already blown me away.”

Ernestine looked around to make sure they could not be overheard. “You're either crazy or you're the dumbest broad I've ever met. Talk about the untouchables!” She shook her head. “Forget about 'em. Fast!”

“No. I can't. I have to break out of here. Can it be done?”

Ernestine was silent for a long time. When she finally spoke, she said, “We'll talk in the yard.”

They were in the yard, off in a corner by themselves.

“There've been twelve bust-outs from this joint,” Ernestine said. “Two of the prisoners were shot and killed. The other ten were caught and brought back.” Tracy made no comment. “The tower's manned twenty-four hours by guards with machine guns, and they're mean sons of bitches. If anyone escapes, it costs the guards their jobs, so they'd just as soon kill you as look at you. There's barbed wire all around the prison, and if you get through that and past the machine guns, they got hound dogs that can track a mosquito's fart. There's a National Guard station a few miles away, and when a prisoner escapes from here they send up helicopters with guns and searchlights. Nobody gives a shit if they bring you back dead or alive, girl. They figure dead is better. It discourages anyone else with plans.”

“But people still try,” Tracy said stubbornly.

“The ones who broke out had help from the outside — friends who smuggled in guns and money and clothes. They had getaway cars waltin' for 'em.” She paused for effect. “And they still got caught.”

“They won't catch me,” Tracy swore.

A matron was approaching. She called out to Tracy, “Warden Brannigan wants you. On the double.”

“We need someone to take care of our young daughter,” Warden Brannigan said. “It's a voluntary job. You don't have to take it if you don't wish to.”

Someone to take care of our young daughter. Tracy's mind was racing. This might make her escape easier. Working in the warden's house, she could probably learn a great deal more about the prison setup.

“Yes,” Tracy said. “I'd like to take the job.”

George Brannigan was pleased. He had an odd, unreasonable feeling that he owed this woman something. “Good. It pays sixty cents an hour. The money will be put in your account at the end of each month.”

Prisoners were not allowed to handle cash, and all monies accumulated were handed over upon the prisoner's release.