“Incorrigible.”Emily tapped her pencil on the notepad again and stared at the text.She copied the final section and underlined the last word several times, the graphite shining dark grey on the page.
Ten minutes later, she was back in the brilliant sunlight of the spring afternoon, squinting as her blue eyes struggled to adjust.She wandered absently down the footpath toward College Street, ruminating on whatshe’d just read.The allegations from the note swirled in her mind along with a steady stream of as-yet unanswered questions.
Essentially, the Incorrigible Law allowed for women and girls under age thirty-five to be imprisoned for little more than subjective misbehaviour.But did such misbehaviour justify sentencing them to years of the sort of treatment the prisoner alleged in her note?Months-long isolation, medical experimentation, starvation, infestations?
She stopped at the corner of College and Queen’s Park Crescent, staring into the middle distance, thoughts whirring.
How many people knew of this law and its impact?It had been on the books since 1927; how many women and girls had been affected by it?How many women were housed at the prison right now?What were their alleged crimes or misdemeanours?And most importantly:Were the prisoner’s allegations of abuse true?If so, who would be culpable?The government, surely.The prison was a government institution.Emily’s heart skipped.If there was any credence to the claims in the note, there was a story here.Possibly a big one.
She glanced at her watch.It wasn’t lunchtime yet, so she might still catch Doris at her desk to debrief her on what she’d learned at the library.But as a small gaggle of students swarmed toward the streetcar that had screeched to a halt a few feet in front of her, a thought occurred and Emily reacted on impulse, rushing forward to join the back of the queue.This streetcar was heading west—the direction of the Mercer Women’s Prison.
She rode to College and Dufferin, then transferred to a bus down to King Street.She disembarked and walked two blocks east before the dark, looming facade of the prison came into view.She slowed her pace as she approached the building, then stopped outside the gate.The lock on it was bigger than her hand.
The property was massive, took up an entire city block in all directions, and was surrounded by a tall, bare, wrought-iron fence.A gravel path led from the gate to the front doors.The building was dark-brown brick, with identical windows lined up along all four storeys.Severalchimneys stood against the blue spring sky, some puffing smoke.Emily took it in, then continued along the sidewalk and around the corner.
This side of the prison was an exercise yard of some sort, though Emily couldn’t see any inmates out there, and the pitiful lawn appeared to be mostly mud and little grass.She tried to absorb every detail she could with her keen reporter’s eye, then walked to the southeast corner of the property and stopped beneath the street sign.
LIBERTY STREET, it declared in bold black lettering.Emily gazed up at it.She had never wondered why Liberty Village, the area she was now exploring, was so named.Was this some sort of joke?To name the area Liberty when its purpose was to incarcerate?And, as the anonymous whistleblower claimed, to incarcerate under the worst possible circumstances?
Emily went around to the back of the prison, which ran along Liberty Street.There was some kind of loading dock.This must be where the delivery driver picked up the note, Emily thought.She scanned the barred upper windows, but saw no one.She was tapping one finger against the side of her bag, considering her next move, when a back door opened, not near the loading dock but off to the side, on the southern wing of the cross-shaped building.Three women appeared: a tiny one in a loose-fitting dress and overcoat; a second with short, curly red hair and an impossibly large bust; and someone who Emily took to be a guard in uniform.They exchanged words, the guard nodded, and all three proceeded across the gravel toward the fence where Emily was standing.She stepped back, excited but unsure.
The guard eyed her suspiciously.“You here to pick up?”she barked.
Emily shook her head.“No, I was just passing,” she said, offering a weak smile that was not returned.
“Well, be on your way.”
Emily took a few steps to the side.The guard glared at her but said nothing as she removed a set of keys from her belt and the other two women stepped through the gate.
“Stay outta trouble, Jones,” the guard drawled.
The red-headed woman laughed deeply.“Oh, yeah.You know me.See ya again in a few weeks, Grimes.If I’m lucky.”
The guard shook her head, locked the gate again and retreated without a backward glance.
“Who the hell are you?”the large-busted woman demanded of Emily.The small one’s eyes flicked from Emily to the other woman and back again.
“My name is Emily Radcliffe, I’m a journalist,” she said, extending a hand.
The woman didn’t take it.“June Jones.But they call me Mama.”
Emily glanced at the smaller woman, who did not introduce herself, and seemed to shrink behind June.
“This is Lila.She’s not much for talking,” June said.“Now why are you down here, reporter?”
“Did you just get out?”Emily deflected.
“Obviously.”
“How long were you in?”
“Couple of months.Is this an interview?”June asked.
“I’d like it to be, yes,” Emily said with a lurch of excitement.“Is it as bad as they say in there?”
June squinted.“How bad do ‘they’ say it is?And who’s ‘they’?”
Emily licked her lips.Journalists didn’t talk about their sources—even anonymous ones.“How did you get that bruise?”she asked instead, gesturing to a greenish spot on the woman’s cheekbone.
