Lady Sings the Blues - Billie Holiday [57]
Maybe they would have been kinder to me if they’d been nasty; then I wouldn’t have trusted them enough to believe what they told me. While I was in their hands they gave me decent food, always kept me in someone’s office while they questioned me. I was never behind bars the whole time. I’ve seen a federal judge bawl out one of them when they brought a sick man into court. He said to take the man to a doctor, get him out of there. That’s better than they’re allowed to do under the law. Under the law they have got to treat sick people like criminals. But they treat them like sick people, too, whenever they can.
It reminded me of Welfare Island. If someone’s got eyes for you, it’s easier for them to treat you like a human being. The matron at Welfare Island was nice to me and saved my life because she was on the make. Philly. I wasn’t too much of a drug addict for some of these federal men not to make passes at me. And it was the same way at the Federal Building. They might not speak to me in the street, but they’d gladly sleep with me in the Federal Building.
Chapter 17
Don’t Know if I’m Coming or Going
It was called “The United States of America versus Billie Holiday.” And that’s just the way it felt.
They brought me into a courtroom in the U.S. District Courthouse at Ninth and Market streets in Philly—only two blocks from the Earle Theater where it had all begun eleven days before. But those two damn blocks seemed like the Atlantic Ocean. It was Tuesday, May 27, 1947.
Somebody read off the charge: “On or about May 16, 1947, and divers dates theretofore in the Eastern District of Pennsylvania, Billie Holiday, did receive, conceal, carry and facilitate the transportation and concealment of … drugs … fraudulently imported and brought into the United States contrary to law, in violation of Section 174, Title 21, U.S.C.A.”
An assistant U.S. district attorney opened. “All right, Billie Holiday,” he said. “You are charged with violation of the Narcotics Act and you have been shown a copy of the information and have indicated your desire to waive the presentation of an indictment by the Grand Jury. You are entitled to a lawyer.”
“I have none,” I said. And that was the truth. I hadn’t seen one, talked to one.
“Do you want a lawyer, Miss Holiday?” the D.A. asked.
“No,” I answered.
I didn’t think there was anyone who would help me. And worse, I had been convinced that nobody could help me.
“Then this is a waiver of appointment of counsel if you will sign ‘Billie Holiday’ on that line.”
They shoved me a pink paper to sign and I signed it.
I would have signed anything, no matter what. I hadn’t eaten anything for a week. I couldn’t even keep water down. Every time I tried to take a nap, some big old officer would come around and wake me up to sign something, make me dress, go to another office.
When it came time for me to appear in court I couldn’t even walk. I was in no shape to go before the judge. So they agreed to give me a shot to keep me from getting sick. It turned out to be morphine.
Then the judge spoke up. “Was this woman ever represented by counsel?” he asked.
The district attorney replied, “I had a call today from a man who had been her counsel, and I explained the matter to him and then he returned a call and stated they were not interested in coming down and wanted the matter handled as it is being handled now.”
I can read that sentence today and weep. “They were not interested in coming down and wanted the matter handled as it is being handled.” In plain English that meant that no one in the world was interested in looking out for me at this point.
If a woman drowns her baby, about the worst