Ernestine and Al had exchanged a glance. "They--er--know you're comin'?"
"No. But the vice-president likes me. There won't be a problem. Good computer operators are hard to find."
"Well, good luck. Keep in touch, ya hear? And stay out of trouble, girl."
Thirty minutes later Tracy had been in the air, bound for Philadelphia.
She checked into the Hilton Hotel and steamed out her one good dress over the hot tub. At 11:00 the following morning she walked into the bank and approached Clarence Desmond's secretary.
"Hello, Mae."
The girl stared at Tracy as though she were seeing a ghost. "Tracy!" She did not know where to look. "I--how are you?"
"Fine. Is Mr. Desmond in?"
"I--I don't know. Let me see. Excuse me." She rose from her chair, flustered, and hurried into the vice-president's office.
She came out a few moments later. "You may go in." She edged away as Tracy walked toward the door.
What's the matter with her? Tracy wondered.
Clarence Desmond was standing next to his desk.
"Hello, Mr. Desmond. Well, I've come back," Tracy said brightly.
"What for?" His tone was unfriendly. Definitely unfriendly.
It caught Tracy by surprise. She pressed on. "Well, you said I was the best computer operator you had ever seen, and I thought--"
"You thought I'd give you back your old job?"
"Well, yes, sir. I haven't forgotten any of my skills. I can still--"
"Miss Whitney." It was no longer Tracy. "I'm sorry, but what you're asking is quite out of the question. I'm sure you can understand that our customers would not wish to deal with someone who served time in the penitentiary for armed robbery and attempted murder. That would hardly fit in with our high ethical image. I think it unlikely that given your background, any bank would hire you. I would suggest that you try to find employment more suitable to your circumstances. I hope you understand there is nothing personal in this."
Tracy listened to his words, first with shock and then with growing anger. He made her sound like an outcast, a leper. We wouldn't want to lose you. You're one of our most valuable employees.
"Was there anything else, Miss Whitney?" It was a dismissal.
There were a hundred things Tracy wanted to say, but she knew they would do no good. "No. I think you've said it all." Tracy turned and walked out the office door, her face burning. All the bank employees seemed to be staring at her. Mae had spread the word: The convict had come back. Tracy moved toward the exit, head held high, dying inside. I can't let them do this to me. My pride is all I have left, and no one is going to take that away from me.
Tracy stayed in her room all day, miserable. How could she have been naive enough to believe that they would welcome her back with open arms? She was notorious now. "You're the headline in the Philadelphia Daily News." Well, to hell with Philadelphia, Tracy thought. She had some unfinished business there, but when that was done, she would leave. She would go to New York, where she would be anonymous. The decision made her feel better.
That evening, Tracy treated herself to dinner at the Cafe Royal. After the sordid meeting with Clarence Desmond that morning, she needed the reassuring atmosphere of soft lights, elegant surroundings, and soothing music. She ordered a vodka martini, and as the waiter brought it to her table, Tracy glanced up, and her heart suddenly skipped a beat. Seated in a booth across the room were Charles and his wife. They had not yet seen her. Tracy's first impulse was to get up and leave. She was not ready to face Charles, not until she had a chance to put her plan into action.
"Would you like to order now?" the captain was asking.
"I'll--I'll wait, thank you." She had to decide whether she was going to stay.
She looked over at Charles again, and an astonishing phenomenon occurred: It was as though she were looking at a stranger. She was seeing a sallow, drawn-looking, middle-aged, balding man, with stooped shoulders and an air of ineffable boredom on his face. It was impossible to believe that she had once thought she loved this man, that she had slept with him, planned to spend the rest of her life with him. Tracy glanced at his wife. She wore the same bored expression as Charles. They gave the impression of two people trapped together for eternity, frozen in time. They simply sat there, speaking not one word to each other. Tracy could visualize the endless, tedious years ahead of the two of them. No love. No joy. That is Charles's punishment, Tracy thought, and she felt a sudden surge of release, a freedom from the deep, dark, emotional chains that had bound her.
Tracy signaled to the captain and said, "I'm ready to order now."
It was over. The past was finally buried.
It was not until Tracy returned to her hotel room that evening that she remembered she was owed money from the bank's employees' fund. She sat down and calculated the amount. It came to $1,375.65.
She composed a letter to Clarence Desmond, and two days later she received a reply from Mae.
Dear Miss Whitney:
In response to your request, Mr. Desmond has asked me to inform you that because of the morals policy in the employees' financial plan, your share has reverted to the general fund. He wants to assure you that he bears no personal ill will toward you.
Sincerely, Mae Trenton Secretary to the Senior Vice-president
Tracy could not believe it. They were stealing her money, and doing it under the pretext of protecting the morals of the bank! She was outraged. I'm not going to let them cheat me, she vowed. No one is ever going to cheat me again.
Tracy stood outside the familiar entrance to the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank. She wore a long black wig and heavy, dark makeup, with a raw red scar on her chin. If anything went wrong, it would be the scar they remembered. Despite her disguise, Tracy felt naked, for she had worked in this bank for five years, and it was staffed with people who knew her well. She would have to be very careful not to give herself away.
She removed a bottle cap from her purse, placed it in her shoe, and limped into the bank. The bank was crowded with customers, for Tracy had carefully chosen a time when the bank would be doing peak business. She limped over to one of the customer-service desks, and the man seated behind it finished a phone call and said, "Yes?"
It was Jon Creighton, the bank bigot. He hated Jews, blacks, and Puerto Ricans, but not necessarily in that order. He had been an irritant to Tracy during the years she had worked there. Now there was no sign of recognition on his face.
"Buenos dias, senor. I would like to open a checking account, ahora," Tracy said. Her accent was Mexican, the accent she had heard for all those months from her cell mate Paulita.
There was a look of disdain on Creighton's face. "Name?"
"Rita Gonzales."
"And how much would you like to put in your account?"
"Ten dollars."
His voice was a sneer. "Will that be by check or cash?"
"Cash, I theenk."
She carefully took a crumpled, half-torn ten-dollar bill from her purse and handed it to him. He shoved a white form toward her.
"Fill this out--"
Tracy had no intention of putting anything in her handwriting. She frowned. "I'm sorry, senor. I hurt mi mano--my hand--in an accident. Would you min' writin' it for me, si se puede?"
Creighton snorted. These illiterate wetbacks! "Rita Gonzales, you said?"
"Si."
"Your address?"
She gave him the address and telephone number of her hotel.
"Your mother's maiden name?"
"Gonzales. My mother, she married her uncle."
"And your date of birth?"
"December twentieth, 1958."
"Place of birth?"
"Ciudad de Mexico."
"Mexico City. Sign here."
"I weel have to use my left hand," Tracy said. She picked up a pen and clumsily scrawled out an illegible signature. Jon Creighton wrote out a deposit slip.
"I'll give you a temporary checkbook. Your
printed checks will be mailed to you in three or four weeks."
"Bueno. Muchas gracias, senor."
"Yeah."
He watched her walk out of the bank. Fuckin' spic.
There are numerous illegal ways to gain entry to a computer, and Tracy was an expert. She had helped set up the security system at the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank, and now she was about to circumvent it.
Her first step was to find a computer store, where she could use a terminal to tap into the bank's computer. The store, several blocks from the bank, was almost empty.
An eager salesman approached Tracy. "May I help you, miss?"
"Eso si que no, senor. I am just looking."
His eye was caught by a teen-ager playing a computer game. "Excuse me." He hurried away.
Tracy turned to the desk-model computer in front of her, which was connected to a telephone. Getting into the system would be easy, but without the proper access code, she was stymied, and the access code was changed daily. Tracy had been at the meeting when the original authorization code had been decided on.
"We must keep changing it," Clarence Desmond had said, "so no one can break in; yet we want to keep it simple enough for people who are authorized to use it."
The code they had finally settled on used the four seasons of the year and the current day's date.
Tracy turned on the terminal and tapped out the code for the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank. She heard a high-pitched whine and placed the telephone receiver into the terminal modem. A sign flashed on the small screen: YOUR AUTHORIZATION CODE, PLEASE?
Today was the tenth.
FALL 10, Tracy tapped out.
THAT IS AN IMPROPER AUTHORIZATION CODE. The computer screen went blank.
Had they changed the code? Out of the corner of her eye, Tracy saw the salesman coming toward her again. She moved over to another computer, gave it a casual glance, and ambled along the aisle. The salesman checked his stride. A looker, he decided. He hurried forward to greet a prosperous-looking couple coming in the door. Tracy returned to the desk-model computer.
She tried to put herself into Clarence Desmond's mind. He was a creature of habit, and Tracy was sure he would not have varied the code too much. He had probably kept the original concept of the seasons and the numbers, but how had he changed them? It would have been too complicated to reverse all the numbers, so he had probably shifted the seasons around.
Tracy tried again.
YOUR AUTHORIZATION CODE, PLEASE?
WINTER 10.
THAT IS AN IMPROPER AUTHORIZATION CODE. The blank screen again.
It's not going to work, Tracy thought despairingly. I'll give it one more try.
YOUR AUTHORIZATION CODE, PLEASE?
SPRING 10.
The screen went blank for a moment, and then the message appeared: PLEASE PROCEED.
So he had switched the seasons. She quickly typed out: DOMESTIC MONEY TRANSACTION.
Instantly, the bank menu, the category of available transactions, flashed onto the screen: DO YOU WISH TO
A DEPOSIT MONEY
B TRANSFER MONEY
C WITHDRAW MONEY FROM SAVINGS ACCOUNT D INTERBRANCH TRANSFER
E WITHDRAW MONEY FROM CHECKING ACCOUNT
PLEASE ENTER YOUR CHOICE
Tracy chose B. The screen went blank and a new menu appeared.
AMOUNT OF TRANSFER?
WHERE TO?
WHERE FROM?
She typed in: FROM GENERAL RESERVE FUND TO RITA GONZALES. When she came to the amount, she hesitated for an instant. Tempting, Tracy thought. Since she had access, there was no limit to the amount the now subservient computer would give her. She could have taken millions. But she was no thief All she wanted was what was rightfully owed her.
She typed in $1,375.65, and added Rita Gonzales's account number.
The screen flashed: TRANSACTION COMPLETED. DO YOU WISH OTHER TRANSACTIONS?
NO.
SESSION COMPLETED. THANK YOU.
The money would automatically be transferred by CHIPS, the Clearing House Interbank Payment System that kept track of the $220 billion shifted from bank to bank every day.
The store clerk was approaching Tracy again, frowning. Tracy hurriedly pressed a key, and the screen went blank.
"Are you interested in purchasing this machine, miss?"
"No, gracias," Tracy apologized. "I don' understan' these computers."
She telephoned the bank from a corner drug store and asked to speak to the head cashier.
"Hola. Thees is Rita Gonzales. I would like to have my checkin' account transferred to the main branch of the First Hanover Bank of New York City, por favor."
"Your account number, Miss Gonzales?"
Tracy gave it to her.
An hour later Tracy had checked out of the Hilton and was on her way to New York City.
When the First Hanover Bank of New York opened at 10:00 the following morning, Rita Gonzales was there to withdraw all the money from her account.
"How much ees in it?" she asked.
The teller checked. "Thirteen hundred eighty-five dollars and sixty-five cents."
"Si, that ees correct."
"Would you like a certified check 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 want 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, a 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 the slip of paper that Betty Franciscus had given her in prison. CONRAD MORGAN, JEWELER, 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 Jewelers 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 inside, "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 sidewalk, uncertainly. Coming to New York had been a mistake. There was probably nothing Conrad Morgan 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 Jewelers. 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 gray 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 store.
"I've been waiting for you," Conrad Morgan said. "Let's go into my office where we can talk."
He led her through the store to a closed door, which he unlocked with a key. His office was elegantly furnished, and it looked more like an apartment 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. "Whiskey, 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.