Sally did what many young girls would have done in a similar situation: She cried. “I am an FBI agent,” the man said to Sally. Sally’s initial nerves dissipated, replaced by the terror of being caught. Any adult would have sized him up as well past 50, but he looked positively ancient to Sally, who had turned 11 just two months before. The hand gripping Sally’s arm bore the traces of an even older, half-moon stamp forged by fire. A scar sliced across his cheek by the right side of his nose, while his shirt collar shrouded another mark on his throat. His eyes, set directly upon Sally’s, blazed a mix of steel blue and gray. A slender, hawk-faced man loomed above her, iron-gray hair peeking out from underneath a wide-brimmed fedora. Then, right before the getaway, came a hard tug on her arm. She stuffed it into her bag and sprinted away, careful to look straight ahead to the exit door. Once inside, she reached for the first notebook she could find on the gleaming white nickel counter. On the afternoon of June 13, 1948, she had no idea a simple act of shoplifting would destroy her life.
Despite her mounting dread at breaking the law, she believed them. Nobody would suspect a girl like Sally as a thief. But with days to go before the end of fifth grade, Sally was looking for a ticket to the ruling class, far removed from the babies below her at Northeast School in Camden, New Jersey. She’d never stolen anything in her life usually she went to that particular five-and-dime for school supplies and her favorite candy. She had to, if the girls’ club she desperately wanted to join were to accept her into its ranks. Sally Horner walked into the Woolworth’s on Broadway and Federal to steal a five-cent notebook.
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