My cell was at the end of a center row, all opening front and back upon two corridors. The prisoners gathered in one of the aisles the next morning and I joined them. Most had been accused of minor offenses such as shoplifting and petty thievery. Many had weatherbeaten faces, were a class by themselves, laughing and unconcerned. But I heard no coarse language. Underneath the chatter I sensed a deep and bitter resentment; some of them had been there for three or four months without having been brought to trial. The more fortunate had a little money to engage lawyers; others had to wait for the court to assign them legal defenders. While I was talking to the girls, the matron bustled up with, “The ladies are coming!” and shooed us into our cells. The Ladies, a committee from a society for prison reform, peered at us as though we were animals in cages. A gentle voice cooed at me, “Did you come in during the night?” “Yes,” I returned, overlooking the assumption that I was a street walker. “Can we do anything for you?” The other inmates were sitting in their corners looking as innocent and sweet as they could, but I startled her by saying, “Yes, you can. Come in and clean up this place. It’s filthy and verminous.” The Committee departed hurriedly down the corridor. One more alert member, however, came back to ask, “Is it really very dirty?” Although I told her in some detail about the blankets, the odors, the roaches, she obviously could not picture the situation. “I’m terribly sorry, but we can’t change it.” I was still exasperated over this reply when I was called to the reception room to give an interview to reporters. In addition to answering questions about the raid I said I had a message to the tax-payers of Brooklyn; they were paying money to keep their prisons run in an orderly fashion as in any civilized community and should know it was being wasted, because the conditions at Raymond Street were intolerable. My bail was arranged by afternoon and when I emerged I saw waiting in front the woman who was going to swallow the glass; she had been there all that time. I went straight back to the clinic, reopened it, and more mothers came in. I had hoped a court decision might allow us to continue, but now Mr. Rabinowitz came downstairs apologetically. He said he was sorry, and he really was, but the police had made him sign ejection papers, on the ground that I was “maintaining a public nuisance.” In the Netherlands a clinic had been cited as a public benefaction; in the United States it was classed as a public nuisance.