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.