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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,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], sweetie." She unlocked the cell door.
"I must make a call,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych],[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]," 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,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], 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,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]," and Tracy found herself moving toward the bench. The judge was scanning a sheet of paper in front of him,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], 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,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], 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,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], 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."