I live my life under the radar. I am a widow whose husband died two years ago. My life is jail cells, pillories, moldy burnt bread, dirty ditches, running for my life, and death. I watched my husband, the most acclaimed judge in Williamsburg, die at the hands of a madman. I’ve watched my only daughter die at birth, almost taking me with her. I have barely any soul left, and I walk around like a hollow shell of a person. My name is Jane Harris.

Today is a warm, sunny day on the bustling streets of WIlliamsburg. I see dignified women walking with their parasols, I hear men shouting at their horses, beseeching them to move. I sit quietly on the sidewalk, waiting for someone to notice me. Sometimes people will throw me a coin or a piece of bread. There is a nice family down the block with two kids. One of the kids, their teenage daughter, will sometimes bring me some leftover bread, or rotten fruit. Well, to them, it’s rotten; to me, it’s marvelous. I see a couple walking serenely down the sidewalk, arm in arm. My heart fills with sorrow, thinking back to when my husband and I used to go on long walks through the town, sometimes stopping at the bakery for some Queens cake. I miss those times, when my husband was alive and we were prosperous. Neither of those things are true anymore, all thanks to that man who killed my husband. Not only did he kill him, he also robbed us of everything we owned; and the county sheriff was unable to track him down.

Unfortunately, the family that brings me food went away on a vacation, and I haven’t eaten anything in 2 days. My legs feel faint, and I can’t bring myself to move. The baker comes out, carrying a fresh tray of bread. Just as he places the bread down to cool, there is a crash in the bakery. He hurries inside, leaving the tray unwatched. The bread sits there, completely unwatched. I feel myself moving towards the tray. I look around, no one is watching me. Against my will, my arm reaches out and grabs a piece of warm, fresh bread. Riddled with guilt and excitement, I run with all my might towards the edges of the town, where I live.

I sleep in a gutter, that is usually dry, but there is the occasional rat. It is not as comfortable as my down bed, but it is acceptable. I sleep well that night, my stomach full with the warm bread. Suddenly, I feel hands grabbing me and pulling me out of my sleep. I look up to see the angry face of the sheriff! I immediately start to struggle, but the sheriff is strong and I am weak. No matter how much I protest, the man maintains a strong grip on my arms. “Stop fighting!” he demands. I keep struggling. He takes out a stick and everything goes black.

Chapter 3

I wake up in a jail cell. I immediately go to the window and start banging on the bars. A man comes into my cell. I look up at him pleadingly. “All I did was take one piece of bread. I’ll pay back the baker, I promise.” He gives me a stern look. “Since you have admitted to stealing bread, you will be released. But you owe the baker the money for the bread, and you must spend one hour in the local stock.” As he says stock, I don’t know whether to feel happy or sad. Since this is my punishment, I will have to spend one hour with my feet trapped. That part isn’t that bad, but I will also be mocked by all the townspeople. At least it’s not the pillory, where I would have my ears cut off. I might as well make the best of the situation, and I allow the man to lead me to the horse and wagon waiting at the entrance of the jail.

The jail is at the outskirts of town, and the ride takes several minutes. I sit timidly in the back. The jailer turns to me. “What is your name?” he asks. I know that I should not answer, but all hope and will has left me, and I oblige. “Jane Harris.” I say with a sigh. His eyes widen. “Wife of the late Judge John Harris?” I nod. “Hmmm.” he said. “How did you go from the wife of the most prosperous judge Williamsburg to a thief?” he inquires. “After the murderer killed my husband, he then took every valuable item from our house, and our money.” I look down as I say this, as it does still pain me.

We arrive at the local square. The jailer stops the horse, and I step off the wagon, looking at the stock in dread. The jailer looks at me with pity in his eyes. He hands me a coin. “For the bread.” he says. “I can’t do anything about your punishment. I will surely be replaced if the sheriff finds that I am pitying criminals.” I look at him with gratefulness, and take the coin. “I am forever in debt to you.” I say; my eyes shining. He looks down. “It was nothing. Now I suppose I must put you in the stock.” He leads me over to the stock, and lowers the wooden board over my legs. I struggle slightly, but my feet are stuck in the two holes. An hour later, the sheriff comes and releases me. I am covered in bruises and rotten tomato juice. More than five people have hit me or thrown something at me. I am miserable. The sheriff leads me back to my gutter, and asks for the money to pay back the baker. I hand him the coin that the jailer gave me. He looks at me with contempt. “If I catch you stealing anything again, it will be the pillory for you.” I nod, and he walks away. I look around. Is this where my husband’s death has brought me? I have allowed myself to be turned into a thief, and I will never let that happen again.