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each other in front of Denison’s seat, and the woman saying to her husband, “Ain’t I got as much right to enjoy the pleasure of bein’ tried by Colonel Denison as you have?”
    Carrie knew none of this when Miss Mary Minty, the beefy, square-jawed Scotswoman who had become Toronto’s first female police constable in 1913, escorted her into the Women’s Court on the second floor of City Hall. Exhausted and traumatized after a night in the police cells, she barely understood that the stern, snappy man presiding over the court would decide whether she should be kept in custody or allowed out on bail.
    The women on the public benches craned forward to see the eighteen-year-old, as she sat on the prisoners’ bench alongside gaudily dressed prostitutes (“petticoated birds of paradise and prey,” in Wodson’s phrase), petty thieves, and haggard drunks. In her worn brown cloth coat and black hat, Carrie seemed out of place in such company. Her face was swollen with tears, and her hands played nervously with her knitted gloves as she looked around the large square room.
    Colonel Denison launched proceedings like a Gatling gun at full throttle. The morning’s case list began with a handful of cases involving drunkenness, vagrancy, and petty theft, which were dispatched before most people had drawn breath. The prisoners’ bench rapidly emptied, until only Carrie’s slight figure was left. Finally, Carrie’s name wascalled above the subdued whispering that filled the courtroom. She rose, and stumbled forward to stand in front of the magistrate. This case was too serious to give the Beak any cause to slow down. He fixed his eyes on her and, in his parade-ground bark, addressed her: “Carrie Davies, you are here accused of murder.”
    There was a collective gasp. The most serious accusation possible had been brought against Carrie—an accusation that, if upheld by trial, could take her to the gallows. In early-twentieth-century Canada, the death penalty was regularly invoked and frequently imposed. Only the previous year, thirty-one people had been sentenced to death: sixteen of them would see their petitions for clemency dismissed and would feel the noose around their necks.
    Had the court clerk, Mr. Chapman, not wedged a chair behind Carrie, she would have collapsed on the floor. She sat, hunched forward, without saying a word as Colonel Denison consulted the Crown attorney about the court calendar. He announced that Carrie should return to the Women’s Court in a week’s time, on February 16, after evidence had been gathered and the coroner’s inquest completed, so that the date for her criminal trial might be set. Meanwhile, she should be remanded in custody.
    Miss Minty stepped forward, took Carrie’s arm, and led her back to the bench. Denison made a few general remarks to his clerks, slammed his casebook shut, and strode out of the court. Miss Minty escorted Carrie back into the corridor. None of Carrie’s friends or family, nor any members of the Massey family, was present this morning, nor did Carrie have a lawyer. Accused of murder, she was not eligible for bail—but even if she had been, there was nobody to stand bail for her. At this point, she was completely alone in the justice system’s grip.
    Newspapers that catered to the city’s elite reported simply that Carrie had been remanded for a week. They devoted more ink to portraying the dead man as an agreeable bon vivant . The Globe described“the late Mr. Massey” as “well known about town. He was fond of motoring and took much enjoyment out of life … A diamond ring and stick pin worth several hundred dollars and some money were found on him.” The Toronto Daily News mentioned that he was educated at Albert College, Belleville, later attending an American preparatory school, and was a “prominent figure among the young social set.”
    But reporters from papers with a blue-collar readership put the spotlight on Carrie. Was her impassivity the