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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, sweetie." She unlocked the cell door.
"I must make a call,[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,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], a slight man in his forties, with crinkly salt-and-pepper hair cut en brosse,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], 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, 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,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], 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,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], she shot him in cold blood and left him for dead."

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