SIDNEY SHELDON
RAGE OF ANGELS

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated with love to MaryThe Eighth Wonder of the World

CONTENTS

COVER

TITLE PAGE

DEDICATION

EPIGRAPH

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

PART TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

CHAPTER SIXTY

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

BOOKS BY SIDNEY SHELDON

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

COPYRIGHT

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

EPIGRAPH

‘… Tell us of the secret hosts of evil, O

Cimon …’

‘Their names may not be spake aloud

lest they profane mortal lips,

for they came out of unholy darknesses

and attacked the heavens,

but they were driven away by the rage of

angels …’

from Dialogues of Chios

PART ONE

Chapter One

New York: September 4, 1969

The hunters were closing in for the kill.

Two thousand years ago in Rome, the contest would have been staged at the Circus Neronis or the Colosseum, where voracious lions would have been stalking the victim in an arena of blood and sand, eager to tear him to pieces. But this was the civilized twentieth century, and the circus was being staged in the Criminal Courts Building of downtown Manhattan, Courtroom Number 16.

In place of Suetonius was a court stenographer, to record the event for posterity, and there were dozens of members of the press and visitors attracted by the daily headlines about the murder trial, who queued up outside the courtroom at seven o’clock in the morning to be assured of a seat.

The quarry, Michael Moretti, sat at the defendant’s table, a silent, handsome man in his early thirties. He was tall and lean, with a face formed of converging planes that gave him a rugged, feral look. He had fashionably styled black hair, a prominent chin with an unexpected dimple in it and deeply set olive-black eyes. He wore a tailored gray suit, a light blue shirt with a darker blue silk tie, and polished, custom-made shoes. Except for his eyes, which constantly swept over the courtroom, Michael Moretti was still.

The lion attacking him was Robert Di Silva, the fiery District Attorney for the County of New York, representative of The People. If Michael Moretti radiated stillness, Robert Di Silva radiated dynamic movement; he went through life as though he were five minutes late for an appointment. He was in constant motion, shadowboxing with invisible opponents. He was short and powerfully built, with an unfashionable graying crew cut. Di Silva had been a boxer in his youth and his nose and face bore the scars of it. He had once killed a man in the ring and he had never regretted it. In the years since then, he had yet to learn compassion.

Robert Di Silva was a fiercely ambitious man who had fought his way up to his present position with neither money nor connections to help him. During his climb, he had assumed the veneer of a civilized servant of the people; but underneath, he was a gutter fighter, a man who neither forgot nor forgave.

Under ordinary circumstances, District Attorney Di Silva would not have been in this courtroom on this day. He had a large staff, and any one of his senior assistants was capable of prosecuting this case. But Di Silva had known from the beginning that he was going to handle the Moretti case himself.

Michael Moretti was front-page news, the son-in-law of Antonio Granelli, capo di capi, head of the largest of the five eastern Mafia Families. Antonio Granelli was getting old and the street word was that Michael Moretti was being groomed to take his father-in-law’s place. Moretti had been involved in dozens of crimes ranging from mayhem to murder, but no district attorney had ever been able to prove anything. There were too many careful layers between Moretti and those who carried out his orders. Di Silva himself had spent three frustrating years trying to get evidence against Moretti. Then, suddenly, Di Silva had gotten lucky.

Camillo Stela, one of Moretti’s soldati, had been caught in a murder committed during a robbery. In exchange for his life, Stela agreed to sing. It was the most beautiful music Di Silva had ever heard, a song that was going to bring the most powerful Mafia Family in the east to its knees, send Michael Moretti to the electric chair, and elevate Robert Di Silva to the governor’s office in Albany. Other New York governors had made it to the White House: Martin Van Buren, Grover Cleveland, Teddy Roosevelt and Franklin Roosevelt. Di Silva intended to be the next.

The timing was perfect. The gubernatorial elections were coming up next year.

Di Silva had been approached by the state’s most powerful political boss. ‘With all the publicity you’re getting on this case, you’ll be a shoo-in to be nominated and then elected governor, Bobby. Nail Moretti and you’re our candidate.’

Robert Di Silva had taken no chances. He prepared the case against Michael Moretti with meticulous care. He put his assistants to work assembling evidence, cleaning up every loose end, cutting off each legal avenue of escape that Moretti’s attorney might attempt to explore. One by one, every loophole had been closed.

It had taken almost two weeks to select the jury, and the District Attorney had insisted upon selecting six ‘spare tires’ – alternate jurors – as a precaution against a possible mistrial. In cases where important Mafia figures were involved, jurors had been known to disappear or to have unexplained fatal accidents. Di Silva had seen to it that this jury was sequestered from the beginning, locked away every night where no one could get to it.

The key to the case against Michael Moretti was Camillo Stela, and Di Silva’s star witness was heavily protected. The District Attorney remembered only too vividly the example of Abe ‘Kid Twist’ Reles, the government witness who had ‘fallen’ out of a sixth-floor window of the Half Moon Hotel in Coney Island while being guarded by half a dozen policemen. Robert Di Silva had selected Camillo Stela’s guards personally, and before the trial Stela had been secretly moved to a different location every night. Now, with the trial under way, Stela was kept in an isolated holding cell, guarded by four armed deputies. No one was allowed to get near him, for Stela’s willingness to testify rested on his belief that District Attorney Di Silva was capable of protecting him from the vengeance of Michael Moretti.

It was the morning of the fifth day of the trial.

It was Jennifer Parker’s first day at the trial. She was seated at the prosecutor’s table with five other young assistant district attorneys who had been sworn in with her that morning.

Jennifer Parker was a slender, dark-haired girl of twenty-four with a pale skin, an intelligent, mobile face, and green, thoughtful eyes. It was a face that was attractive rather than beautiful, a face that reflected pride and courage and sensitivity, a face that would be hard to forget. She sat ramrod straight, as though bracing herself against unseen ghosts of the past.

Jennifer Parker’s day had started disastrously. The swearing-in ceremony at the District Attorney’s office had been scheduled for eight A.M. Jennifer had carefully laid out her clothes the night before and had set the alarm for six so that she would have time to wash her hair.

The alarm had failed to go off. Jennifer had awakened at seven-thirty and panicked. She had gotten a run in her stocking when she broke the heel of her shoe, and had had to change clothes. She had slammed the door of her tiny apartment at the same instant she remembered she had left her keys inside. She had planned to take a bus to the Criminal Courts Building, but now that was out of the question, and she had raced to get a taxi she could not afford and had been trapped with a cab driver who explained during the entire trip why the world was about to come to an end.

When Jennifer had finally arrived, breathless, at the Criminal Courts Building at 155 Leonard Street, she was fifteen minutes late.

There were twenty-five lawyers gathered in the District Attorney’s office, most of them newly out of law school, young and eager and excited about going to work for the District Attorney of the County of New York.

The office was impressive, paneled and decorated in quiet good taste. There was a large desk with three chairs in front of it and a comfortable leather chair behind it, a conference table with a dozen chairs around it, and wall cabinets filled with law books.

On the walls were framed autographed pictures of J. Edgar Hoover, John Lindsay, Richard Nixon and Jack Dempsey.

When Jennifer hurried into the office, full of apologies, Di Silva was in the middle of a speech. He stopped, turned his attention on Jennifer and said, ‘What the hell do you think this is – a tea party?’

‘I’m terribly sorry, I –’

‘I don’t give a damn whether you’re sorry. Don’t you ever be late again!’

The others looked at Jennifer, carefully hiding their sympathy.

Di Silva turned to the group and snapped, ‘I know why you’re all here. You’ll stick around long enough to pick my brains and learn a few courtroom tricks, and then when you think you’re ready, you’ll leave to become hotshot criminal lawyers. But there may be one of you – maybe – who will be good enough to take my place one day.’ Di Silva nodded to his assistant. ‘Swear them in.’

They took the oath, their voices subdued.

When it was over, Di Silva said, ‘All right. You’re sworn officers of the court, God help us. This office is where the action is, but don’t get your hopes up. You’re going to bury your noses in legal research, and draft documents – subpoenas, warrants – all those wonderful things they taught you in law school. You won’t get to handle a trial for the next year or two.’

Di Silva stopped to light a short, stubby cigar. ‘I’m prosecuting a case now. Some of you may have read about it.’ His voice was edged with sarcasm. ‘I can use half a dozen of you to run errands for me.’ Jennifer’s hand was the first one up. Di Silva hesitated a moment, then selected her and five others.

‘Get down to Courtroom Sixteen.’

As they left the room, they were issued identification cards. Jennifer had not been discouraged by the District Attorney’s attitude. He has to be tough, she thought. He’s in a tough job. And she was working for him now. She was a member of the staff of the District Attorney of the County of New York! The interminable years of law school drudgery were over. Somehow her professors had managed to make the law seem abstract and ancient, but Jennifer had always managed to glimpse the Promised Land beyond: the real law that dealt with human beings and their follies. Jennifer had been graduated second in her class and had been on Law Review. She had passed the bar examination on the first try, while a third of those who had taken it with her had failed. She felt that she understood Robert Di Silva, and she was sure she would be able to handle any job he gave her.

Jennifer had done her homework. She knew there were four different bureaus under the District Attorney – Trials, Appeals, Rackets and Frauds – and she wondered to which one she would be assigned. There were over two hundred assistant district attorneys in New York City and five district attorneys, one for each borough. But the most important borough, of course, was Manhattan: Robert Di Silva.

Jennifer sat in the courtroom now, at the prosecutor’s table, watching Robert Di Silva at work, a powerful, relentless inquisitor.

Jennifer glanced over at the defendant, Michael Moretti. Even with everything Jennifer had read about him, she could not convince herself that Michael Moretti was a murderer. He looks like a young movie star in a courtroom set, Jennifer thought. He sat there motionless, only his deep, black eyes giving away whatever inner turmoil he might have felt. They moved ceaselessly, examining every corner of the room as though trying to calculate a means of escape. There was no escape. Di Silva had seen to that.

Camillo Stela was on the witness stand. If Stela had been an animal, he would have been a weasel. He had a narrow, pinched face, with thin lips and yellow buckteeth. His eyes were darting and furtive and you disbelieved him before he even opened his mouth. Robert Di Silva was aware of his witness’s shortcomings, but they did not matter. What mattered was what Stela had to say. He had horror stories to tell that had never been told before, and they had the unmistakable ring of truth.

The District Attorney walked over to the witness box where Camillo Stela had been sworn in.

‘Mr Stela, I want this jury to be aware that you are a reluctant witness and that in order to persuade you to testify, the State has agreed to allow you to plead to the lesser charge of involuntary manslaughter in the murder you are charged with. Is that true?’

‘Yes, sir.’ His right arm was twitching.

‘Mr Stela, are you acquainted with the defendant, Michael Moretti?’

‘Yes, sir.’ He kept his eyes away from the defendant’s table where Michael Moretti was sitting.

‘What was the nature of your relationship?’

‘I worked for Mike.’

‘How long have you known Michael Moretti?’

‘About ten years.’ His voice was almost inaudible.

‘Would you speak up, please?’

‘About ten years.’ His neck was twitching now.

‘Would you say you were close to the defendant?’

‘Objection!’ Thomas Colfax rose to his feet. Michael Moretti’s attorney was a tall, silver-haired man in his fifties, the consigliere for the Syndicate, and one of the shrewdest criminal lawyers in the country. ‘The District Attorney is attempting to lead the witness.’

Judge Lawrence Waldman said, ‘Sustained.’

‘I’ll rephrase the question. In what capacity did you work for Mr Moretti?’

‘I was kind of what you might call a troubleshooter.’

‘Would you be a little more explicit?’

‘Yeah. If a problem comes up – someone gets out of line, like – Mike would tell me to go straighten this party out.’

‘How would you do that?’

‘You know – muscle.’

‘Could you give the jury an example?’

Thomas Colfax was on his feet. ‘Objection, Your Honor. This line of questioning is immaterial.’

‘Overruled. The witness may answer.’

‘Well, Mike’s into loan-sharkin’, right? A coupla years ago Jimmy Serrano gets behind in his payments, so Mike sends me over to teach Jimmy a lesson.’

‘What did that lesson consist of?’

‘I broke his legs. You see,’ Stela explained earnestly, ‘if you let one guy get away with it, they’re all gonna try it.’

From the corner of his eye, Robert Di Silva could see the shocked reactions on the faces of the jurors.

‘What other business was Michael Moretti involved in besides loan-sharking?’

‘Jesus! You name it.’

‘I would like you to name it, Mr Stela.’

‘Yeah. Well, like on the waterfront, Mike got a pretty good fix in with the union. Likewise the garment industry. Mike’s into gamblin’, juke boxes, garbage collectin’, linen supplies. Like that.’

‘Mr Stela, Michael Moretti is on trial for the murders of Eddie and Albert Ramos. Did you know them?’

‘Oh, sure.’

‘Were you present when they were killed?’

‘Yeah.’ His whole body seemed to twitch.

‘Who did the actual killing?’

‘Mike.’ For a second, his eyes caught Michael Moretti’s eyes and Stela quickly looked away.

‘Michael Moretti?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Why did the defendant tell you he wanted the Ramos brothers killed?’

‘Well, Eddie and Al handled a book for –’

‘That’s a bookmaking operation? Illegal betting?’

‘Yeah. Mike found out they was skimmin’. He had to teach ’em a lesson ’cause they was his boys, you know? He thought –’

‘Objection!’

‘Sustained. The witness will stick to the facts.’

‘The facts was that Mike tells me to invite the boys –’

‘Eddie and Albert Ramos?’

‘Yeah. To a little party down at The Pelican. That’s a private beach club.’ His arm started to twitch again and Stela, suddenly aware of it, pressed against it with his other hand.

Jennifer Parker turned to look at Michael Moretti. He was watching impassively, his face and body immobile.

‘What happened then, Mr Stela?’

‘I picked Eddie and Al up and drove ’em to the parkin’ lot. Mike was there, waitin’. When the boys got outta the car, I moved outta the way and Mike started blastin’.’

‘Did you see the Ramos brothers fall to the ground?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And they were dead?’

‘They sure buried ’em like they was dead.’

There was a ripple of sound through the courtroom. Di Silva waited until there was silence.

‘Mr Stela, you are aware that the testimony you have given in this courtroom is self-incriminating?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And that you are under oath and that a man’s life is at stake?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You witnessed the defendant, Michael Moretti, cold-bloodedly shoot to death two men because they had withheld money from him?’

‘Objection! He’s leading the witness.’

‘Sustained.’

District Attorney Di Silva looked at the faces of the jurors and what he saw there told him he had won the case. He turned to Camillo Stela.

‘Mr Stela, I know that it took a great deal of courage for you to come into this courtroom and testify. On behalf of the people of this state, I want to thank you.’ Di Silva turned to Thomas Colfax. ‘Your witness for cross.’

Thomas Colfax rose gracefully to his feet. ‘Thank you, Mr Di Silva.’ He glanced at the clock on the wall, then turned to the bench. ‘If it please Your Honor, it is now almost noon. I would prefer not to have my cross-examination interrupted. Might I request that the court recess for lunch now and I’ll cross-examine this afternoon?’

‘Very well.’ Judge Lawrence Waldman rapped his gavel on the bench. ‘This court stands adjourned until two o’clock.’

Everyone in the courtroom rose as the judge stood up and walked through the side door to his chambers. The jurors began to file out of the room. Four armed deputies surrounded Camillo Stela and escorted him through a door near the front of the courtroom that led to the witness room.

At once, Di Silva was engulfed by reporters.

‘Will you give us a statement?’

‘How do you think the case is going so far, Mr District Attorney?’

‘How are you going to protect Stela when this is over?’

Ordinarily Robert Di Silva would not have tolerated such an intrusion in the courtroom, but he needed now, with his political ambitions, to keep the press on his side, and so he went out of his way to be polite to them.

Jennifer Parker sat there, watching the District Attorney parrying the reporters’ questions.

‘Are you going to get a conviction?’

‘I’m not a fortune teller,’ Jennifer heard Di Silva say modestly. ‘That’s what we have juries for, ladies and gentlemen. The jurors will have to decide whether Mr Moretti is innocent or guilty.’

Jennifer watched as Michael Moretti rose to his feet. He looked calm and relaxed. Boyish was the word that came to Jennifer’s mind. It was difficult for her to believe that he was guilty of all the terrible things of which he was accused. If I had to choose the guilty one, Jennifer thought, I’d choose Stela, the Twitcher.

The reporters had moved off and Di Silva was in conference with members of his staff. Jennifer would have given anything to hear what they were discussing.

Jennifer watched as a man said something to Di Silva, detached himself from the group around the District Attorney, and hurried over toward Jennifer. He was carrying a large manila envelope. ‘Miss Parker?’

Jennifer looked up in surprise. ‘Yes.’

‘The Chief wants you to give this to Stela. Tell him to refresh his memory about these dates. Colfax is going to try to tear his testimony apart this afternoon and the Chief wants to make sure Stela doesn’t foul up.’

He handed the envelope to Jennifer and she looked over at Di Silva. He remembered my name, she thought. It’s a good omen.

‘Better get moving. The D.A. doesn’t think Stela’s that fast a study.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Jennifer hurried to her feet.

She walked over to the door she had seen Stela go through. An armed deputy blocked her way.

‘Can I help you, miss?’

‘District Attorney’s office,’ Jennifer said crisply. She took out her identification card and showed it. ‘I have an envelope to deliver to Mr Stela from Mr Di Silva.’

The guard examined the card carefully, then opened the door, and Jennifer found herself inside the witness room. It was a small, uncomfortable-looking room containing a battered desk, an old sofa and wooden chairs. Stela was seated in one of them, his arm twitching wildly. There were four armed deputies in the room.

As Jennifer entered, one of the guards said, ‘Hey! Nobody’s allowed in here.’

The outside guard called, ‘It’s okay, Al. D.A.’s office.’

Jennifer handed Stela the envelope. ‘Mr Di Silva wants you to refresh your recollection about these dates.’

Stela blinked at her and kept twitching.

Chapter Two

As Jennifer was making her way out of the Criminal Courts Building on her way to lunch, she passed the open door of a deserted courtroom. She could not resist stepping inside the room for a moment.

There were fifteen rows of spectators’ benches on each side of the rear area. Facing the judge’s bench were two long tables, the one on the left marked Plaintiff and the one on the right marked Defendant. The jury box contained two rows of eight chairs each. It’s an ordinary courtroom, Jennifer thought, plain – even ugly – but it’s the heart of freedom. This room and all the courtrooms like it represented the difference between civilization and savagery. The right to a trial by a jury of one’s peers was what lay at the heart of every free nation. Jennifer thought of all the countries in the world that did not have this little room, countries where citizens were taken from their beds in the middle of the night and tortured and murdered by anonymous enemies for undisclosed reasons: Iran, Uganda, Argentina, Peru, Brazil, Romania, Russia, Czechoslovakia … the list was depressingly long.

If the American courts were ever stripped of their power, Jennifer thought, if citizens were ever denied the right to a trial by jury, then America would cease to exist as a free nation. She was a part of the system now and, standing there, Jennifer was filled with an overwhelming feeling of pride. She would do everything she could to honor it, to help preserve it. She stood there for a long moment, then turned to leave.

From the far end of the hall there was a distant hum that got louder and louder, and became pandemonium. Alarm bells began to ring. Jennifer heard the sound of running feet in the corridor and saw policemen with drawn guns racing toward the front entrance of the courthouse. Jennifer’s instant thought was that Michael Moretti had escaped, had somehow gotten past the barrier of guards. She hurried out into the corridor. It was bedlam. People were racing around frantically, shouting orders over the din of the clanging bells. Guards armed with riot guns had taken up positions at the exit doors. Reporters who had been telephoning in their stories were hurrying into the corridor to find out what was happening. Far down the hall, Jennifer saw District Attorney Robert Di Silva wildly issuing instructions to half a dozen policemen, his face drained of color.

My God! He’s going to have a heart attack, Jennifer thought.

She pushed her way through the crowd and moved toward him, thinking that perhaps she could be of some use. As she approached, one of the deputies who had been guarding Camillo Stela looked up and saw Jennifer. He raised an arm and pointed to her, and five seconds later Jennifer Parker found herself being grabbed, handcuffed and placed under arrest.

There were four people in Judge Lawrence Waldman’s chambers: Judge Waldman, District Attorney Robert Di Silva, Thomas Colfax, and Jennifer.

‘You have the right to have an attorney present before you make any statement,’ Judge Waldman informed Jennifer, ‘and you have the right to remain silent. If you –’

‘I don’t need an attorney, Your Honor! I can explain what happened.’

Robert Di Silva was leaning so close to her that Jennifer could see the throbbing of a vein in his temple. ‘Who paid you to give that package to Camillo Stela?’

‘Paid me? Nobody paid me!’ Jennifer’s voice was quavering with indignation.

Di Silva picked up a familiar looking manila envelope from Judge Waldman’s desk. ‘No one paid you? You just walked up to my witness and delivered this?’ He shook the envelope and the body of a yellow canary fluttered onto the desk. Its neck had been broken.

Jennifer stared at it, horrified. ‘I – one of your men – gave me –’

‘Which one of my men?’

‘I – I don’t know.’

‘But you know he was one of my men.’ His voice rang with disbelief.

‘Yes. I saw him talking to you and then he walked over to me and handed me the envelope and said you wanted me to give it to Mr Stela. He – he even knew my name.’

‘I’ll bet he did. How much did they pay you?’

It’s all a nightmare, Jennifer thought. I’m going to wake up any minute and it’s going to be six o’clock in the morning, and I’m going to get dressed and go to be sworn in on the District Attorney’s staff.

‘How much?’ The anger in him was so violent that it forced Jennifer to her feet.

‘Are you accusing me of –?’

‘Accusing you!’ Robert Di Silva clenched his fists. ‘Lady, I haven’t even started on you. By the time you get out of prison you’ll be too old to spend that money.’

‘There is no money.’ Jennifer stared at him defiantly.

Thomas Colfax had been sitting back, quietly listening to the conversation. He interrupted now to say, ‘Excuse me, Your Honor, but I’m afraid this isn’t getting us anywhere.’

‘I agree,’ Judge Waldman replied. He turned to the District Attorney. ‘Where do you stand, Bobby? Is Stela still willing to be cross-examined?’

‘Cross-examined? He’s a basket case! Scared out of his wits. He won’t take the stand again.’

Thomas Colfax said smoothly, ‘If I can’t cross-examine the prosecution’s chief witness, Your Honor, I’m going to have to move for a mistrial.’

Everyone in the room knew what that would mean: Michael Moretti would walk out of the courtroom a free man.

Judge Waldman looked over at the District Attorney. ‘Did you tell your witness he can be held in contempt?’

‘Yes. Stela’s more scared of them than he is of us.’ He turned to direct a venomous look at Jennifer. ‘He doesn’t think we can protect him anymore.’

Judge Waldman said slowly, ‘Then I’m afraid this court has no alternative but to grant the defense’s request and declare a mistrial.’

Robert Di Silva stood there, listening to his case being wiped out. Without Stela, he had no case. Michael Moretti was beyond his reach now, but Jennifer Parker was not. He was going to make her pay for what she had done to him.

Judge Waldman was saying, ‘I’ll give instructions for the defendant to be freed and the jury dismissed.’

Thomas Colfax said, ‘Thank you, Your Honor.’ There was no sign of triumph in his face.

‘If there’s nothing else …’ Judge Waldman began.

‘There is something else!’ Robert Di Silva turned to Jennifer Parker. ‘I want her held for obstructing justice, for tampering with a witness in a capital case, for conspiracy, for …’ He was incoherent with rage.

In her anger, Jennifer found her voice. ‘You can’t prove a single one of those charges because they’re not true. I – I may be guilty of being stupid, but that’s all I’m guilty of. No one bribed me to do anything. I thought I was delivering a package for you.’

Judge Waldman looked at Jennifer and said, ‘Whatever the motivation, the consequences have been extremely unfortunate. I am going to request that the Appellate Division undertake an investigation and, if it feels the circumstances warrant it, to begin disbarment proceedings against you.’

Jennifer felt suddenly faint. ‘Your Honor, I –’

‘That is all for now, Miss Parker.’

Jennifer stood there a moment, staring at their hostile faces. There was nothing more she could say.

The yellow canary on the desk had said it all.

Chapter Three

Jennifer Parker was not only on the evening news – she was the evening news. The story of her delivering a dead canary to the District Attorney’s star witness was irresistible. Every television channel had pictures of Jennifer leaving Judge Waldman’s chambers, fighting her way out of the courthouse, besieged by the press and the public.

Jennifer could not believe the sudden horrifying publicity that was being showered on her. They were hammering at her from all sides: television reporters, radio reporters and newspaper people. She wanted desperately to flee from them, but her pride would not let her.

‘Who gave you the yellow canary, Miss Parker?’

‘Have you ever met Michael Moretti?’

‘Did you know that Di Silva was planning to use this case to get into the governor’s office?’

‘The District Attorney says he’s going to have you disbarred. Are you going to fight it?’

To each question Jennifer had a tight-lipped ‘No comment.’

On the CBS evening news they called her ‘Wrong-Way Parker,’ the girl who had gone off in the wrong direction. An ABC newsman referred to her as the ‘Yellow Canary.’ On NBC, a sports commentator compared her to Roy Riegels, the football player who had carried the ball to his own team’s one-yard line.

In Tony’s Place, a restaurant that Michael Moretti owned, a celebration was taking place. There were a dozen men in the room, drinking and boisterous.

Michael Moretti sat alone at the bar, in an oasis of silence, watching Jennifer Parker on television. He raised his glass in a salute to her and drank.

Lawyers everywhere discussed the Jennifer Parker episode. Half of them believed she had been bribed by the Mafia, and the other half that she had been an innocent dupe. But no matter which side they were on, they all concurred on one point: Jennifer Parker’s short career as an attorney was finished.

She had lasted exactly four hours.

She had been born in Kelso, Washington, a small timber town founded in 1847 by a homesick Scottish surveyor who named it for his home town in Scotland.

Jennifer’s father was an attorney, first for the lumber companies that dominated the town, then later for the workers in the sawmills. Jennifer’s earliest memories of growing up were filled with joy. The state of Washington was a storybook place for a child, full of spectacular mountains and glaciers and national parks. There were skiing and canoeing and, when she was older, ice climbing on glaciers and pack trips to places with wonderful names: Ohanapecosh and Nisqually and Lake Cle Elum and Chenuis Falls and Horse Heaven and the Yakima Valley. Jennifer learned to climb on Mount Rainier and to ski at Timberline with her father.

Her father always had time for her, while her mother, beautiful and restless, was mysteriously busy and seldom at home. Jennifer adored her father. Abner Parker was a mixture of English and Irish and Scottish blood. He was of medium height, with black hair and green-blue eyes. He was a compassionate man with a deep-rooted sense of justice. He was not interested in money, he was interested in people. He would sit and talk to Jennifer by the hour, telling her about the cases he was handling and the problems of the people who came into his unpretentious little office, and it did not occur to Jennifer until years later that he talked to her because he had no one else with whom to share things.

After school Jennifer would hurry over to the courthouse to watch her father at work. If court was not in session she would hang around his office, listening to him discuss his cases and his clients. They never talked about her going to law school; it was simply taken for granted.

When Jennifer was fifteen she began spending her summers working for her father. At an age when other girls were dating boys and going steady, Jennifer was absorbed in lawsuits and wills.

Boys were interested in her, but she seldom went out. When her father would ask her why, she would reply, ‘They’re all so young, Papa.’ She knew that one day she would marry a lawyer like her father.

On Jennifer’s sixteenth birthday, her mother left town with the eighteen-year-old son of their next-door neighbor, and Jennifer’s father quietly died. It took seven years for his heart to stop beating, but he was dead from the moment he heard the news about his wife. The whole town knew and was sympathetic, and that, of course, made it worse, for Abner Parker was a proud man. That was when he began to drink. Jennifer did everything she could to comfort him but it was no use, and nothing was ever the same again.

The next year, when it came time to go to college, Jennifer wanted to stay home with her father, but he would not hear of it.

‘We’re going into partnership, Jennie,’ he told her. ‘You hurry up and get that law degree.’

When she was graduated she enrolled at the University of Washington in Seattle to study law. During the first year of school, while Jennifer’s classmates were flailing about in an impenetrable swamp of contracts, torts, property, civil procedure and criminal law, Jennifer felt as though she had come home. She moved into the university dormitory and got a job at the Law Library.

Jennifer loved Seattle. On Sundays, she and an Indian student named Ammini Williams and a big, rawboned Irish girl named Josephine Collins would go rowing on Green Lake in the heart of the city, or attend the Gold Cup races on Lake Washington and watch the brightly colored hydroplanes flashing by.

There were great jazz clubs in Seattle, and Jennifer’s favorite was Peter’s Poop Deck, where they had crates with slabs of wood on top instead of tables.

Afternoons, Jennifer, Ammini and Josephine would meet at The Hasty Tasty, a hangout where they had the best cottage-fried potatoes in the world.

There were two boys who pursued Jennifer: a young, attractive medical student named Noah Larkin and a law student named Ben Munro; and from time to time Jennifer would go out on dates with them, but she was far too busy to think about a serious romance.

The seasons were crisp and wet and windy and it seemed to rain all the time. Jennifer wore a green-and-blue-plaid lumber jacket that caught the raindrops in its shaggy wool and made her eyes flash like emeralds. She walked through the rain, lost in her own secret thoughts, never knowing that all those she passed would file away the memory.

In spring the girls blossomed out in their bright cotton dresses. There were six fraternities in a row at the university, and the fraternity brothers would gather on the lawn and watch the girls go by, but there was something about Jennifer that made them feel unexpectedly shy. There was a special quality about her that was difficult for them to define, a feeling that she had already attained something for which they were still searching.

Every summer Jennifer went home to visit her father. He had changed so much. He was never drunk, but neither was he ever sober. He had retreated into an emotional fortress where nothing could touch him again.

He died when Jennifer was in her last term at law school. The town remembered, and there were almost a hundred people at Abner Parker’s funeral, people he had helped and advised and befriended over the years. Jennifer did her grieving in private. She had lost more than a father. She had lost a teacher and a mentor.

After the funeral Jennifer returned to Seattle to finish school. Her father had left her less than a thousand dollars and she had to make a decision about what to do with her life. She knew that she could not return to Kelso to practice law, for there she would always be the little girl whose mother had run off with a teenager.

Because of her high scholastic average, Jennifer had interviews with a dozen top law firms around the country, and received several offers.

Warren Oakes, her criminal law professor, told her: ‘That’s a real tribute, young lady. It’s very difficult for a woman to get into a good law firm.’

Jennifer’s dilemma was that she no longer had a home or roots. She was not certain where she wanted to live.

Shortly before graduation Jennifer’s problem was solved for her. Professor Oakes asked her to see him after class.

‘I have a letter from the District Attorney’s office in Manhattan, asking me to recommend my brightest graduate for his staff. Interested?’

New York. ‘Yes, sir.’ Jennifer was so stunned that the answer just popped out.

She flew to New York to take the bar examination, and returned to Kelso to close her father’s law office. It was a bittersweet experience, filled with memories of the past and it seemed to Jennifer that she had grown up in that office.

She got a job as an assistant in the law library of the university to tide her over until she heard whether she had passed the New York bar examination.

‘It’s one of the toughest in the country,’ Professor Oakes warned her.

But Jennifer knew.

She received her notice that she had passed and an offer from the New York District Attorney’s office on the same day.

One week later, Jennifer was on her way east.

She found a tiny apartment (Spc W/U fpl gd loc nds sm wk, the ad said) on lower Third Avenue, with a fake fireplace in a steep fourth-floor walk-up. The exercise will do me good, Jennifer told herself. There were no mountains to climb in Manhattan, no rapids to ride. The apartment consisted of a small living room with a couch that turned into a lumpy bed, and a tiny bathroom with a window that someone long ago had painted over with black paint, sealing it shut. The furniture looked like something that could have been donated by the Salvation Army. Oh, well, I won’t be living in this place long, Jennifer thought. This is just temporary until I prove myself as a lawyer.

That had been the dream. The reality was that she had been in New York less than seventy-two hours, had been thrown off the District Attorney’s staff and was facing disbarment.

Jennifer quit reading newspapers and magazines and stopped watching television, because wherever she turned she saw herself. She felt that people were staring at her on the street, on the bus, and at the market. She began to hide out in her tiny apartment, refusing to answer the telephone or the doorbell. She thought about packing her suitcases and returning to Washington. She thought about getting a job in some other field. She thought about suicide. She spent long hours composing letters to District Attorney Robert Di Silva. Half the letters were scathing indictments of his insensitivity and lack of understanding. The other half were abject apologies, with a plea for him to give her another chance. None of the letters were ever sent.

For the first time in her life Jennifer was overwhelmed with a sense of desperation. She had no friends in New York, no one to talk to. She stayed locked in her apartment all day, and late at night she would slip out to walk the deserted streets of the city. The derelicts who peopled the night never accosted her. Perhaps they saw their own loneliness and despair mirrored in her eyes.

Over and over, as she walked, Jennifer would envision the courtroom scene in her mind, always changing the ending.

A man detached himself from the group around Di Silva and hurried toward her. He was carrying a manila envelope.

Miss Parker?

Yes.

The Chief wants you to give this to Stela.

Jennifer looked at him coolly. Let me see your identification, please.

The man panicked and ran.

A man detached himself from the group around Di Silva and hurried toward her. He was carrying a manila envelope.

Miss Parker?

Yes.

The Chief wants you to give this to Stela. He thrust the envelope into her hands.

Jennifer opened the envelope and saw the dead canary inside. I’m placing you under arrest.

A man detached himself from the group around Di Silva and hurried toward her. He was carrying a manila envelope. He walked past her to another young assistant district attorney and handed him the envelope. The Chief wants you to give this to Stela.

She could rewrite the scene as many times as she liked, but nothing was changed. One foolish mistake had destroyed her. And yet – who said she was destroyed? The press? Di Silva? She had not heard another word about her disbarment, and until she did she was still an attorney. There are law firms that made me offers, Jennifer told herself.

Filled with a new sense of resolve, Jennifer pulled out the list of the firms she had talked to and began to make a series of telephone calls. None of the men she asked to speak to was in, and not one of her calls was returned. It took her four days to realize that she was the pariah of the legal profession. The furor over the case had died down, but everyone still remembered.

Jennifer kept telephoning prospective employers, going from despair to indignation to frustration and back to despair again. She wondered what she was going to do with the rest of her life, and each time it came back to the same thing: All she wanted to do, the one thing she really cared about, was to practice law. She was a lawyer and, by God, until they stopped her she was going to find a way to practice her profession.

She began to make the rounds of Manhattan law offices. She would walk in unannounced, give her name to the receptionist and ask to see the head of personnel. Occasionally she was granted an interview, but when she was, Jennifer had the feeling it was out of curiosity. She was a freak and they wanted to see what she looked like in person. Most of the time she was simply informed there were no openings.

At the end of six weeks, Jennifer’s money was running out. She would have moved to a cheaper apartment, but there were no cheaper apartments. She began to skip breakfast and lunch, and to have dinner at one of the little corner dinettes where the food was bad but the prices were good. She discovered the Steak & Brew and Roast-and-Brew, where for a modest sum she was able to get a main course, all the salad she could eat, and all the beer she could drink. Jennifer hated beer, but it was filling.

When Jennifer had gone through her list of large law firms, she armed herself with a list of smaller firms and began to call on them, but her reputation had preceded her even there. She received a lot of propositions from interested males, but no job offers. She was beginning to get desperate. All right, she thought defiantly, if no one wants to hire me, I’ll open my own law office. The catch was that that took money. Ten thousand dollars, at least. She would need enough for rent, telephone, a secretary, law books, a desk and chairs, stationery … she could not even afford the stamps.

Jennifer had counted on her salary from the District Attorney’s office but that, of course, was gone forever. She could forget about severance pay. She had not been severed; she had been beheaded. No, there was no way she could afford to open her own office, no matter how small. The answer was to find someone with whom to share offices.

Jennifer bought a copy of The New York Times and began to search through the want ads. It was not until she was near the bottom of the page that she came across a small advertisement that read: Wanted:/Prof man sh sm off w/2 oth/prof men. Rs rent.

The last two words appealed to Jennifer enormously. She was not a professional man, but her sex should not matter. She tore out the ad and took the subway down to the address listed.

It was a dilapidated old building on lower Broadway. The office was on the tenth floor and the flaking sign on the door read:

KENNETH BAILEY

ACE INVEST GA IONS

Beneath it:

ROCKEFELLER C LLECTION AG NCY

Jennifer took a deep breath, opened the door and walked in. She was standing in the middle of a small, windowless office. There were three scarred desks and chairs crowded into the room, two of them occupied.

Seated at one of the desks was a bald, shabbily dressed, middle-aged man working on some papers. Against the opposite wall at another desk was a man in his early thirties. He had brick-red hair and bright blue eyes. His skin was pale and freckled. He was dressed in tight-fitting jeans, a tee shirt, and white canvas shoes without socks. He was talking into the telephone.

‘Don’t worry, Mrs Desser, I have two of my best operatives working on your case. We should have news of your husband any day now. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you for a little more expense money … No, don’t bother mailing it. The mails are terrible. I’ll be in your neighborhood this afternoon. I’ll stop by and pick it up.’

He replaced the receiver and looked up and saw Jennifer.

He rose to his feet, smiled and held out a strong, firm hand. ‘I’m Kenneth Bailey. And what can I do for you this morning?’

Jennifer looked around the small, airless room and said uncertainly, ‘I – I came about your ad.’

‘Oh.’ There was surprise in his blue eyes.

The bald-headed man was staring at Jennifer.

Kenneth Bailey said, ‘This is Otto Wenzel. He’s the Rockefeller Collection Agency.’

Jennifer nodded. ‘Hello.’ She turned back to Kenneth Bailey. ‘And you’re Ace Investigations?’

‘That’s right. What’s your scam?’

‘My –?’ Then, realizing, ‘I’m an attorney.’

Kenneth Bailey studied her skeptically. ‘And you want to set up an office here?’

Jennifer looked around the dreary office again and visualized herself at the empty desk, between these two men.

‘Perhaps I’ll look a little further,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure –’

‘Your rent would only be ninety dollars a month.’

‘I could buy this building for ninety dollars a month,’ Jennifer replied. She turned to leave.

‘Hey, wait a minute.’

Jennifer paused.

Kenneth Bailey ran a hand over his pale chin. ‘I’ll make a deal with you. Sixty. When your business gets rolling we’ll talk about an increase.’

It was a bargain. Jennifer knew that she could never find any space elsewhere for that amount. On the other hand, there was no way she could ever attract clients to this hellhole. There was one other thing she had to consider. She did not have the sixty dollars.

‘I’ll take it,’ Jennifer said.

‘You won’t be sorry,’ Kenneth Bailey promised. ‘When do you want to move your things in?’

‘They’re in.’

Kenneth Bailey painted the sign on the door himself. It read:

JENNIFER PARKER

ATTORNEY AT LAW

Jennifer studied the sign with mixed feelings. In her deepest depressions it had never occurred to her that she would have her name under that of a private investigator and a bill collector. Yet, as she looked at the faintly crooked sign, she could not help feeling a sense of pride. She was an attorney. The sign on the door proved it.

Now that Jennifer had office space, the only thing she lacked was clients.

Jennifer could no longer afford even the Steak & Brew. She made herself a breakfast of toast and coffee on the hot plate she had set up over the radiator in her tiny bathroom. She ate no lunch and had dinner at Chock Full O’Nuts or Zum Zum, where they served large pieces of wurst, slabs of bread and hot potato salad.

She arrived at her desk promptly at nine o’clock every morning, but there was nothing for her to do except listen to Ken Bailey and Otto Wenzel talking on the telephone.

Ken Bailey’s cases seemed to consist mostly of finding runaway spouses and children, and at first Jennifer was convinced that he was a con man, making extravagant promises and collecting large advances. But Jennifer quickly learned that Ken Bailey worked hard and delivered often. He was bright and he was clever.

Otto Wenzel was an enigma. His telephone rang constantly. He would pick it up, mutter a few words into it, write something on a piece of paper and disappear for a few hours.

‘Oscar does repo’s,’ Ken Bailey explained to Jennifer one day.

‘Repo’s?’

‘Yeah. Collection companies use him to get back automobiles, television sets, washing machines – you name it.’ He looked at Jennifer curiously. ‘You got any clients?’

‘I have some things coming up,’ Jennifer said evasively.

He nodded. ‘Don’t let it get you down. Anyone can make a mistake.’

Jennifer felt herself flushing. So he knew about her.

Ken Bailey was unwrapping a large, thick roast-beef sandwich. ‘Like some?’

It looked delicious. ‘No, thanks,’ Jennifer said firmly. ‘I never eat lunch.’

‘Okay.’

She watched him bite into the juicy sandwich. He saw her expression and said, ‘You sure you – ?’

‘No, thank you. I – I have an appointment.’

Ken Bailey watched Jennifer walk out of the office and his face was thoughtful. He prided himself on his ability to read character, but Jennifer Parker puzzled him. From the television and newspaper accounts he had been sure someone had paid this girl to destroy the case against Michael Moretti. After meeting Jennifer, Ken was less certain. He had been married once and had gone through hell, and he held women in low esteem. But something told him that this one was special. She was beautiful, bright and very proud. Jesus! he said to himself. Don’t be a fool! One murder on your conscience is enough.

Emma Lazarus was a sentimental idiot, Jennifer thought. ‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free … Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me.’ Indeed! Anyone manufacturing welcome mats in New York would have gone out of business in an hour. In New York no one cared whether you lived or died. Stop feeling sorry for yourself! Jennifer told herself. But it was difficult. Her resources had dwindled to eighteen dollars, the rent on her apartment was overdue, and her share of the office rent was due in two days. She did not have enough money to stay in New York any longer, and she did not have enough money to leave.

Jennifer had gone through the Yellow Pages, calling law offices alphabetically, trying to get a job. She made the calls from telephone booths because she was too embarrassed to let Ken Bailey and Otto Wenzel hear her conversations. The results were always the same. No one was interested in hiring her. She would have to return to Kelso and get a job as a legal aide or as a secretary to one of her father’s friends. How he would have hated that! It was a bitter defeat, but there were no choices left. She would be returning home a failure. The immediate problem facing her was transportation. She looked through the afternoon New York Post and found an ad for someone to share driving expenses to Seattle. There was a telephone number and Jennifer called it. There was no answer. She decided she would try again in the morning.

The following day, Jennifer went to her office for the last time. Otto Wenzel was out, but Ken Bailey was there, on the telephone, as usual. He was wearing blue jeans and a veeneck cashmere sweater.

‘I found your wife,’ he was saying. ‘The only problem, pal, is that she doesn’t want to go home … I know. Who can figure women out? … Okay. I’ll tell you where she’s staying and you can try to sweet-talk her into coming back.’ He gave the address of a midtown hotel. ‘My pleasure.’ He hung up and swung around to face Jennifer. ‘You’re late this morning.’

‘Mr Bailey, I – I’m afraid I’m going to have to be leaving. I’ll send you the rent money I owe you as soon as I’m able to.’

Ken Bailey leaned back in his chair and studied her. His look made Jennifer uncomfortable.

‘Will that be all right?’ she asked.

‘Going back to Washington?’

Jennifer nodded.

Ken Bailey said, ‘Before you leave, would you do me a little favor? A lawyer friend’s been bugging me to serve some subpoenas for him, and I haven’t got time. He pays twelve-fifty for each subpoena plus mileage. Would you help me out?’

One hour later Jennifer Parker found herself in the plush law offices of Peabody & Peabody. This was the kind of firm she had visualized working in one day, a full partner with a beautiful corner suite. She was escorted to a small back room where a harassed secretary handed her a stack of subpoenas.

‘Here. Be sure to keep a record of your mileage. You do have a car, don’t you?’

‘No, I’m afraid I –’

‘Well, if you use the subway, keep track of the fares.’

‘Right.’

Jennifer spent the rest of the day delivering subpoenas in the Bronx, Brooklyn and Queens in a downpour. By eight o’clock that evening, she had made fifty dollars. She arrived back at her tiny apartment chilled and exhausted. But at least she had earned some money, her first since coming to New York. And the secretary had told her there were plenty more subpoenas to serve. It was hard work, running all over town, and it was humiliating. She had had doors slammed in her face, had been cursed at, threatened, and propositioned twice. The prospect of facing another day like that was dismaying; and yet, as long as she could remain in New York there was hope, no matter how faint.

Jennifer ran a hot bath and stepped into it, slowly sinking down into the tub, feeling the luxury of the water lapping over her body. She had not realized how exhausted she was. Every muscle seemed to ache. She decided that what she needed was a good dinner to cheer her up. She would splurge. I’ll treat myself to a real restaurant with tablecloths and napkins, Jennifer thought. Perhaps they’ll have soft music and I’ll have a glass of white wine and –

Jennifer’s thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. It was an alien sound. She had not had a single visitor since she had moved in two months earlier. It could only be the surly landlady about the overdue rent. Jennifer lay still, hoping she would go away, too weary to move.

The doorbell rang again. Reluctantly, Jennifer dragged herself from the warm tub. She slipped on a terry-cloth robe and went to the door.

‘Who is it?’

A masculine voice on the other side of the door said, ‘Miss Jennifer Parker?’

‘Yes.’

‘My name is Adam Warner. I’m an attorney.’

Puzzled, Jennifer put the chain on the door and opened it a crack. The man standing in the hall was in his middle thirties, tall and blond and broad-shouldered, with gray-blue inquisitive eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a tailored suit that must have cost a fortune.

‘May I come in?’ he asked.

Muggers did not wear tailored suits, Gucci shoes and silk ties. Nor did they have long, sensitive hands with carefully manicured nails.

‘Just a moment.’

Jennifer unfastened the chain and opened the door. As Adam Warner walked in, Jennifer glanced around the one-room apartment, seeing it through his eyes, and winced. He looked like a man who was used to better things.

‘What can I do for you, Mr Warner?’

Even as she spoke, Jennifer suddenly knew why he was there, and she was filled with a quick sense of excitement. It was about one of the jobs she had applied for! She wished that she had on a nice, dark blue tailored robe, that her hair was combed, that –

Adam Warner said, ‘I’m a member of the Disciplinary Committee of the New York Bar Association, Miss Parker. District Attorney Robert Di Silva and Judge Lawrence Waldman have requested the Appellate Division to begin disbarment proceedings against you.’

Chapter Four

The law offices of Needham, Finch, Pierce and Warner were located at 30 Wall Street, occupying the entire top floor of the building. There were a hundred and twenty-five lawyers in the firm. The offices smelled of old money and were done in the quiet elegance befitting an organization that represented some of the biggest names in industry.

Adam Warner and Stewart Needham were having their ritual morning tea. Stewart Needham was a dapper, trim man in his late sixties. He had a neat Vandyke beard and wore a tweed suit and vest. He looked as though he belonged to an older era, but as hundreds of opponents had learned to their sorrow through the years, Stewart Needham’s mind belonged very much to the twentieth century. He was a titan, but his name was known only in the circles where it mattered. He preferred to remain in the background and use his considerable influence to affect the outcome of legislation, high government appointments and national politics. He was a New Englander, born and reared taciturn.

Adam Warner was married to Needham’s niece Mary Beth, and was Needham’s protégé. Adam’s father had been a respected senator. Adam himself was a brilliant lawyer. When he had been graduated magna cum laude from Harvard Law School, he had had offers from prestigious law firms all over the country. He chose Needham, Finch and Pierce, and seven years later became a partner. Adam was physically attractive and charming, and his intelligence seemed to add an extra dimension to him. He had an easy sureness about himself that women found challenging. Adam had long since developed a system for dissuading overamorous female clients. He had been married to Mary Beth for fourteen years and did not approve of extramarital affairs.

‘More tea, Adam?’ Stewart Needham asked.

‘No, thanks.’ Adam Warner hated tea, and he had been drinking it every morning for the last eight years only because he did not want to hurt his partner’s feelings. It was a brew that Needham concocted himself and it was dreadful.

Stewart Needham had two things on his mind and, typically, he began with the pleasant news. ‘I had a meeting with a few friends last night,’ Needham said. A few friends would be a group of the top power brokers in the country. ‘They’re considering asking you to run for United States senator, Adam.’

Adam felt a sense of elation. Knowing Stewart Needham’s cautious nature, Adam was certain that the conversation had been more than casual or Needham would not have brought it up now.

‘The big question, of course, is whether you’re interested. It would mean a lot of changes in your life.’

Adam Warner was aware of that. If he won the election, it would mean moving to Washington, D.C., giving up his law practice, starting a whole new life. He was sure that Mary Beth would enjoy it; Adam was not so sure about himself. And yet, he had been reared to assume responsibility. Also, he had to admit to himself that there was a pleasure in power.

‘I’d be very interested, Stewart.’

Stewart Needham nodded with satisfaction. ‘Good. They’ll be pleased.’ He poured himself another cup of the dreadful brew and casually broached the other subject that was on his mind. ‘There’s a little job the Disciplinary Committee of the Bar Association would like you to handle, Adam. Shouldn’t take you more than an hour or two.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s the Michael Moretti trial. Apparently, someone got to one of Bobby Di Silva’s young assistants and paid her off.’

‘I read about it. The canary.’

‘Right. Judge Waldman and Bobby would like her name removed from the roster of our honorable profession. So would I. It reeks.’

‘What do they want me to do?’

‘Just make a quick check, verify that this Parker girl behaved illegally or unethically, and then recommend disbarment proceedings. She’ll be served with a notice to show cause and they’ll handle the rest of it. It’s just routine.’

Adam was puzzled by something. ‘Why me, Stewart? We have a couple of dozen young lawyers around here who could handle this.’

‘Our revered District Attorney specifically asked for you. He wants to make sure nothing goes wrong. As we’re both aware,’ he added dryly, ‘Bobby’s not the most forgiving man in the world. He wants the Parker woman’s hide nailed up on his wall.’

Adam Warner sat there, thinking about his busy schedule.

‘You never know when we might need a favor from the D.A.’s office, Adam. Quid pro quo. It’s all cut and dried.’

‘All right, Stewart.’ Adam rose to his feet.

‘Sure you won’t have some more tea?’

‘No, thanks. It was as good as always.’

When Adam Warner returned to his office he rang for one of his paralegal assistants, Lucinda, a bright, young black woman.

‘Cindy, get me all the information you can on an attorney named Jennifer Parker.’

She grinned and said, ‘The yellow canary.’

Everybody knew about her.

Late that afternoon Adam Warner was studying the transcript of the court proceedings in the case of The People of New York v. Michael Moretti. Robert Di Silva had had it delivered by special messenger. It was long past midnight when Adam finished. He had asked Mary Beth to attend a dinner party without him, and had sent out for sandwiches. When Adam was through reading the transcript, there was no doubt in his mind that Michael Moretti would have been found guilty by the jury if fate had not intervened in the form of Jennifer Parker. Di Silva had prosecuted the case flawlessly.

Adam turned to the transcript of the deposition that had been taken in Judge Waldman’s chambers afterward.

DI SILVA: You are a college graduate?

PARKER: Yes, sir.

DI SILVA: And a law school graduate?

PARKER: Yes, sir.

DI SILVA: And a stranger hands you a package, tells you to deliver it to a key witness in a murder trial and you just do it? Wouldn’t you say that went beyond the bounds of stupidity?

PARKER: It didn’t happen that way.

DI SILVA: You said it did.

PARKER: What I mean is, I didn’t think he was a stranger. I thought he was on your staff.

DI SILVA: What made you think that?

PARKER: I’ve told you. I saw him talking to you and then he came over to me with this envelope and he called me by name, and he said you wanted me to deliver it to the witness. It all happened so fast that –

DI SILVA: I don’t think it happened that fast. I think it took time to set it up. It took time to arrange for someone to pay you off to deliver it.

PARKER: That’s not true. I –

DI SILVA: What’s not true? That you didn’t know you were delivering the envelope?

PARKER: I didn’t know what was in it.

DI SILVA: So it’s true that someone paid you.

PARKER: I’m not going to let you twist my words around. No one paid me anything.

DI SILVA: You did it as a favor?

PARKER: No. I thought I was acting on your instructions.

DI SILVA: You said the man called you by name.

PARKER: Yes.

DI SILVA: How did he know your name?

PARKER: I don’t know.

DI SILVA: Oh, come on. You must have some idea. Maybe it was a lucky guess. Maybe he just looked around that courtroom and said, There’s someone who looks like her name could be Jennifer Parker. Do you think that was it?

PARKER: I’ve told you. I don’t know.

DI SILVA: How long have you and Michael Moretti been sweethearts?

PARKER: Mr Di Silva, we’ve gone all over this. You’ve been questioning me now for five hours. I’m tired. I have nothing more to add. May I be excused?

DI SILVA: If you move out of that chair I’ll have you placed under arrest. You’re in big trouble, Miss Parker. There’s only one way you’re going to get out of it. Stop lying and start telling the truth.

PARKER: I’ve told you the truth. I’ve told you everything I know.

DI SILVA: Except the name of the man who handed you the envelope. I want his name and I want to know how much he paid you.

There were thirty more pages of transcript. Robert Di Silva had done everything but beat Jennifer Parker with a rubber hose. She had stuck to her story.

Adam closed the transcript and wearily rubbed his eyes. It was two A.M.

Tomorrow he would dispose of the Jennifer Parker matter.

To Adam Warner’s surprise, the Jennifer Parker case would not be disposed of so easily. Because Adam was a methodical man he ran a check on Jennifer Parker’s background. As far as he could determine, she had no crime connections, nor was there anything to link her with Michael Moretti.

There was something about the case that disturbed Adam. Jennifer Parker’s defense was too flimsy. If she were working for Moretti, he would have protected her with a reasonably plausible story. As it was, her story was so transparently naïve that it had a ring of truth about it.

At noon Adam received a call from the District Attorney. ‘How goes it, Adam?’

‘Fine, Robert.’

‘I understand you’re handling the hatchet-man job on the Jennifer Parker matter.’

Adam Warner winced at the phrase. ‘I’ve agreed to make a recommendation, yes.’

‘I’m going to put her away for a long time.’ Adam was taken aback by the hatred in the District Attorney’s voice.

‘Easy, Robert. She’s not disbarred yet.’

Di Silva chuckled. ‘I’ll leave that to you, my friend.’ His tone changed. ‘I hear on the grapevine that you may be moving to Washington soon. I want you to know that you can count on my full support.’

Which was considerable, Adam Warner knew. The District Attorney had been around a long time. He knew where the bodies were buried and he knew how to squeeze the most out of that information.

‘Thanks, Robert. I appreciate that.’

‘My pleasure, Adam. I’ll wait to hear from you.’

Meaning Jennifer Parker. The quid pro quo Stewart Needham had mentioned, with the girl used as a pawn. Adam Warner thought about Robert Di Silva’s words: I’m going to put her away for a long time. From reading the transcript, Adam judged that there was no real evidence against Jennifer Parker. Unless she confessed, or unless someone came forward with information that proved criminal complicity, Di Silva would not be able to touch the girl. He was counting on Adam to give him his vengeance.

The cold, harsh words of the transcript were clear-cut, and yet Adam wished he could have heard the tone of Jennifer Parker’s voice when she denied her guilt.

There were pressing matters claiming Adam’s attention, important cases involving major clients. It would have been easy to go ahead and carry out the wishes of Stewart Needham, Judge Lawrence Waldman and Robert Di Silva, but some instinct made Adam Warner hesitate. He picked up Jennifer Parker’s file again, scribbled some notes and began to make some long-distance telephone calls.

Adam had been given a responsibility and he intended to carry it through to the best of his ability. He was all too familiar with the long, backbreaking hours of study and hard work it took to become an attorney and to pass the bar. It was a prize that took years to attain, and he was not about to deprive someone of it unless he was cerain there was justification.

The following morning Adam Warner was on a plane to Seattle, Washington. He had meetings with Jennifer Parker’s law professors, with the head of a law firm where she had clerked for two summers, and with some of Jennifer’s former classmates.

Stewart Needham telephoned Adam in Seattle. ‘What are you doing up there, Adam? You’ve got a big case load waiting for you back here. That Parker thing should have been a snap.’

‘A few questions have arisen,’ Adam said carefully. ‘I’ll be back in a day or so, Stewart.’

There was a pause. ‘I see. Let’s not waste any more time on her than we have to.’

By the time Adam Warner left Seattle, he felt he knew Jennifer Parker almost as well as she knew herself. He had built up a portrait of her in his mind, a mental identikit, with pieces filled in by her law professors, her landlady, members of the law firm where she had served as a clerk, and classmates. The picture that Adam had acquired bore no resemblance to the picture Robert Di Silva had given him. Unless Jennifer Parker was the most consummate actress who ever lived, there was no way she could have been involved in a plot to free a man like Michael Moretti.

Now, almost two weeks after he had had that morning conversation with Stewart Needham, Adam Warner found himself facing the girl whose past he had been exploring. Adam had seen newspaper pictures of Jennifer, but they had not prepared him for the impact she made in person. Even in an old robe, without makeup, and her dark brown hair bath-damp, she was breathtaking.

Adam said, ‘I’ve been assigned to investigate your part in the Michael Moretti trial, Miss Parker.’

‘Have you now!’ Jennifer could feel an anger rising in her. It started as a spark and became a flame that exploded inside her. They still were not through with her. They were going to make her pay for the rest of her life. Well, she had had enough.

When Jennifer spoke, her voice was trembling. ‘I have nothing to say to you! You go back and tell them whatever you please. I did something stupid, but as far as I know, there’s no law against stupidity. The District Attorney thinks someone paid me off.’ She waved a scornful hand in the air. ‘If I had any money, do you think I’d be living in a place like this?’ Her voice was beginning to choke up. ‘I – I don’t care what you do. All I want is to be left alone. Now please go away!’

Jennifer turned and fled into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

She stood against the sink, taking deep breaths, wiping the tears from her eyes. She knew she had behaved stupidly. That’s twice, she thought wryly. She should have handled Adam Warner differently. She should have tried to explain, instead of attacking him. Maybe then she would not be disbarred. But she knew that was wishful thinking. Sending someone to question her was a charade. The next step would be to serve her with an order to show cause, and the formal machinery would be set in motion. There would be a trial panel of three attorneys who would make their recommendation to the Disciplinary Board which would make its report to the Board of Governors. The recommendation was a foregone conclusion: disbarment. She would be forbidden to practice law in the state of New York. Jennifer thought bitterly, There’s one bright side to this. I can get into the Guinness Book of Records for the shortest law career in history.

She stepped into the bath again and lay back, letting the still-warm water lap at her, soothing away her tension. At this moment she was too tired to care what happened to her. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift. She was half asleep when the chill of the water awakened her. She had no idea how long she had lain in the tub. Reluctantly she stepped out and began toweling herself dry. She was no longer hungry. The scene with Adam Warner had taken her appetite away.

Jennifer combed her hair and creamed her face and decided she would go to bed without dinner. In the morning she would telephone about the ride to Seattle. She opened the bathroom door and walked into the living room.

Adam Warner was seated in a chair, leafing through a magazine. He looked up as Jennifer came into the room, naked.

‘I’m sorry,’ Adam said. ‘I –’

Jennifer gave a small cry of alarm and fled to the bathroom, where she put on her robe. When she stepped out to confront Adam again, Jennifer was furious.

‘The inquisition is over. I asked you to leave.’

Adam put the magazine down and said quietly, ‘Miss Parker, do you think we could discuss this calmly for a moment?’

‘No!’ All the old rage boiled up in Jennifer again. ‘I have nothing more to say to you or your damned disciplinary committee. I’m tired of being treated like – like I’m some kind of criminal!’

‘Have I said you were a criminal?’ Adam asked quietly.

‘You – isn’t that why you’re here?’

‘I told you why I’m here. I’m empowered to investigate and recommend for or against disbarment proceedings. I want to get your side of the story.’

‘I see. And how do I buy you off?’

Adam’s face tightened. ‘I’m sorry. Miss Parker.’ He rose to his feet and started for the door.

‘Just a minute!’ Adam turned. ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I – everybody seems to be the enemy. I apologize.’

‘Your apology is accepted.’

Jennifer was suddenly aware of the flimsy robe she was wearing. ‘If you still want to ask me questions, I’ll put some clothes on and we can talk.’

‘Fair enough. Have you had dinner?’

She hesitated. ‘I –’

‘I know a little French restaurant that’s just perfect for inquisitions.’

It was a quiet, charming bistro on 56th Street on the East Side.

‘Not too many people know about this place,’ Adam Warner said when they had been seated. ‘It’s owned by a young French couple who used to work at Les Pyrénées. The food is excellent.’

Jennifer had to take Adam’s word for it. She was incapable of tasting anything. She had not eaten all day, but she was so nervous that she was unable to force any food down her throat. She tried to relax, but it was impossible. No matter how much he pretended, the charming man seated opposite her was the enemy. And he was charming, Jennifer had to admit. He was amusing and attractive, and under other circumstances Jennifer would have enjoyed the evening enormously; but these were not other circumstances. Her whole future was in the hands of this stranger. The next hour or two would determine in which direction the rest of her life would move.

Adam was going out of his way to try to relax her. He had recently returned from a trip to Japan where he had met with top government officials. A special banquet had been prepared in his honor.

‘Have you ever eaten chocolate-covered ants?’ Adam asked.

‘No.’

He grinned. ‘They’re better than the chocolate-covered grasshoppers.’

He talked about a hunting trip he had taken the year before in Alaska, where he had been attacked by a bear. He talked about everything but why they were there.

Jennifer had been steeling herself for the moment when Adam would begin to interrogate her, yet when he finally brought up the subject, her whole body went rigid.

He had finished dessert and he said quietly, ‘I’m going to ask you some questions, and I don’t want you to get upset. Okay?’

There was a sudden lump in Jennifer’s throat. She was not sure she would be able to speak. She nodded.

‘I want you to tell me exactly what happened in the courtroom that day. Everything you remember, everything you felt. Take your time.’

Jennifer had been prepared to defy him, to tell him to do whatever he pleased about her. But somehow, sitting across from Adam Warner, listening to his quiet voice, Jennifer’s resistance was gone. The whole experience was still so vivid in her mind that it hurt just to think about it. She had spent more than a month trying to forget it. Now he was asking her to go through it again.

She took a deep, shaky breath and said, ‘All right.’

Haltingly, Jennifer began to recount the events in the courtroom, gradually speaking more rapidly as it all came to life again. Adam sat there quietly listening, studying her, saying nothing.

When Jennifer had finished, Adam said, ‘The man who gave you the envelope – was he in the District Attorney’s office earlier that morning when you were sworn in?’

‘I’ve thought about that. I honestly don’t remember. There were so many people in the office that day and they were all strangers.’

‘Had you ever seen the man before, anywhere?’

Jennifer shook her head helplessly. ‘I can’t recall. I don’t think so.’

‘You said you saw him talking to the District Attorney just before he walked over to give you the envelope. Did you see the District Attorney hand him the envelope?’

‘I – no.’

‘Did you actually see this man talking to the District Attorney, or was he just in the group around him?’

Jennifer closed her eyes for a second, trying to bring back that moment. ‘I’m sorry. Everything was so confused. I – I just don’t know.’

‘Do you have any idea how he could have known your name?’

‘No.’

‘Or why he selected you?’

‘That one’s easy. He probably knew an idiot when he saw one.’ She shook her head. ‘No. I’m sorry, Mr Warner, I have no idea.’

Adam said, ‘A lot of pressure is being brought to bear on this. District Attorney Di Silva has been after Michael Moretti for a long time. Until you came along, he had an airtight case. The D.A.’s not very happy with you.’

‘I’m not very happy with me, either.’ Jennifer could not blame Adam Warner for what he was about to do. He was just carrying out his job. They were out to get her and they had succeeded. Adam Warner was not responsible; he was merely the instrument they were using.

Jennifer felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to be alone. She did not want anyone else to see her misery.

‘I’m sorry,’ she apologized. ‘I – I’m not feeling very well. I’d like to go home, please.’

Adam studied her a moment. ‘Would it make you feel any better if I told you I’m going to recommend that disbarment proceedings against you be dropped?’

It took several seconds for Adam’s words to sink in. Jennifer stared at him, speechless, searching his face, looking into those gray-blue eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses. ‘Do – do you really mean that?’

‘Being a lawyer is very important to you, isn’t it?’ Adam asked.

Jennifer thought of her father and his comfortable little law office, and of the conversations they used to have, and the long years of law school, and their hopes and dreams. We’re going into partnership. You hurry up and get that law degree.

‘Yes,’ Jennifer whispered.

‘If you can get over a rough beginning, I have a feeling you’ll be a very good one.’

Jennifer gave him a grateful smile. ‘Thank you. I’m going to try.’

She said the words over again in her mind. I’m going to try! It did not matter that she shared a small and dingy office with a seedy private detective and a man who repossessed cars. It was a law office. She was a member of the legal profession, and they were going to allow her to practice law. She was filled with a feeling of exultation. She looked across at Adam and knew she would be forever grateful to this man.

The waiter had begun to clear the dishes from the table. Jennifer tried to speak, but it came out a cross between a laugh and a sob. ‘Mr Warner –’

He said gravely, ‘After all we’ve been through together, I think it should be Adam.’

‘Adam –’

‘Yes?’

‘I hope it won’t ruin our relationship, but –’ Jennifer moaned, ‘I’m starved!’

Chapter Five

The next few weeks raced by. Jennifer found herself busy from early morning until late at night, serving summonses – court orders to appear to answer a legal action – and subpoenas – court orders to appear as a witness. She knew that her chances of getting into a large law firm were nonexistent, for after the fiasco she had been involved in, no one would dream of hiring her. She would just have to find some way to make a reputation for herself, to begin all over.

In the meantime, there was the pile of summonses and subpoenas on her desk from Peabody & Peabody. While it was not exactly practicing law, it was twelve-fifty and expenses.

Occasionally, when Jennifer worked late, Ken Bailey would take her out to dinner. On the surface he was a cynical man, but Jennifer felt that it was a facade. She sensed that he was lonely. He had been graduated from Brown University and was bright and well-read. She could not imagine why he was satisfied to spend his life working out of a dreary office, trying to locate stray husbands and wives. It was as though he had resigned himself to being a failure and was afraid to try for success.

Once, when Jennifer brought up the subject of his marriage, he growled at her, ‘It’s none of your business,’ and Jennifer had never mentioned it again.

Otto Wenzel was completely different. The short, potbellied little man was happily married. He regarded Jennifer as a daughter and he constantly brought her soups and cakes that his wife made. Unfortunately, his wife was a terrible cook, but Jennifer forced herself to eat whatever Otto Wenzel brought in, because she did not want to hurt his feelings. One Friday evening Jennifer was invited to the Wenzel home for dinner. Mrs Wenzel had prepared stuffed cabbage, her specialty. The cabbage was soggy, the meat inside was hard, and the rice half-cooked. The whole dish swam in a lake of chicken fat. Jennifer attacked it bravely, taking small bites and pushing the food around on her plate to make it seem as though she were eating.

‘How do you like it?’ Mrs Wenzel beamed.

‘It – it’s one of my favorites.’

From that time on, Jennifer had dinner at the Wenzel’s every Friday night, and Mrs Wenzel always prepared Jennifer’s favorite dish.

Early one morning, Jennifer received a telephone call from the personal secretary of Mr Peabody, Jr.

‘Mr Peabody would like to see you this morning at eleven o’clock. Be prompt, please.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

In the past, Jennifer had only dealt with secretaries and law clerks in the Peabody office. It was a large, prestigious firm, one that young lawyers dreamed of being invited to join. On the way to keep her appointment, Jennifer began to fantasize. If Mr Peabody himself wanted to see her, it had to be about something important. He probably had seen the light and was going to offer her a job as a lawyer with his firm, to give her a chance to show what she could do. She was going to surprise all of them. Some day it might even be Peabody, Peabody & Parker.

Jennifer killed thirty minutes in the corridor outside the office, and at exactly eleven o’clock, she entered the reception room. She did not want to seem too eager. She was kept waiting for two hours, and was finally ushered into the office of Mr Peabody, Jr. He was a tall, thin man wearing a vested suit and shoes that had been made for him in London.

He did not invite her to sit down. ‘Miss Potter –’ He had an unpleasant, high-pitched voice.

‘Parker.’

He picked up a piece of paper from his desk. ‘This is a summons. I would like you to serve it.’

At that instant, Jennifer sensed that she was not going to become a member of the firm.

Mr Peabody, Jr., handed Jennifer the summons and said, ‘Your fee will be five hundred dollars.’

Jennifer was sure she had misunderstood him. ‘Did you say five hundred dollars?’

‘That is correct. If you are successful, of course.’

‘There’s a problem,’ Jennifer guessed.

‘Well, yes,’ Mr Peabody, Jr., admitted. ‘We’ve been trying to serve this man for more than a year. His name is William Carlisle. He lives on an estate in Long Island and he never leaves his house. To be quite truthful, a dozen people have tried to serve him. He has a bodyguard-butler who keeps everyone away.’

Jennifer said, ‘I don’t see how I –’

Mr Peabody, Jr. leaned forward. ‘There’s a great deal of money at stake here. But I can’t get William Carlisle into court unless I can serve him, Miss Potter.’ Jennifer did not bother to correct him. ‘Do you think you can handle it?’

Jennifer thought about what she could do with five hundred dollars. ‘I’ll find a way.’

At two o’clock that afternoon, Jennifer was standing outside the imposing estate of William Carlisle. The house itself was Georgian, set in the middle of ten acres of beautiful, carefully tended grounds. A curving driveway led to the front of the house, which was framed by graceful fir trees. Jennifer had given a lot of thought to her problem. Since it was impossible to get into the house, the only solution was to find a way to get Mr William Carlisle to come out.

Half a block down the street was a gardener’s truck. Jennifer studied the truck a moment, then walked over to it, looking for the gardeners. There were three of them at work, and they were Japanese.

Jennifer walked up to the men. ‘Who’s in charge here?’

One of them straightened up. ‘I am.’

‘I have a little job for you …’ Jennifer began.

‘Sorry, miss. Too busy.’

‘This will only take five minutes.’

‘No. Impossible to –’

‘I’ll pay you one hundred dollars.’

The three men stopped to look at her. The chief gardener said, ‘You pay us one hundred dollars for five minutes’ work?’

‘That’s right.’

‘What we have to do …?’

Five minutes later, the gardener’s truck pulled into the driveway of William Carlisle’s estate and Jennifer and the three gardeners got out. Jennifer looked around, selected a beautiful tree next to the front door and said to the gardeners, ‘Dig it up.’

They took their spades from the truck and began to dig. Before a minute had gone by, the front door burst open and an enormous man in a butler’s uniform came storming out.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

‘Long Island Nursery,’ Jennifer said crisply. ‘We’re takin’ out all these trees.’

The butler stared at her. ‘You’re what?’

Jennifer held up a piece of paper. ‘I have an order here to dig up these trees.’

‘That’s impossible! Mr Carlisle would have a fit!’ He turned to the gardeners. ‘You stop that!’

‘Look, mister,’ Jennifer said, ‘I’m just doin’ my job.’ She looked at the gardeners. ‘Keep diggin’, fellas.’

‘No!’ the butler shouted. ‘I’m telling you there’s been a mistake! Mr Carlisle didn’t order any trees dug up.’

Jennifer shrugged and said, ‘My boss says he did.’

‘Where can I get in touch with your boss?’

Jennifer looked at her watch. ‘He’s out on a job in Brooklyn. He should be back in the office around six.’

The butler glared at her, furious. ‘Just a minute! Don’t do anything until I return.’

‘Keep diggin’,’ Jennifer told the gardeners.

The butler turned and hurried into the house, slamming the door behind him. A few moments later the door opened and the butler returned, accompanied by a tiny middle-aged man.

‘Would you mind telling me what the devil is going on here?’

‘What business is it of yours?’ Jennifer demanded.

‘I’ll tell you what business it is of mine,’ he snapped. ‘I’m William Carlisle and this happens to be my property.’

‘In that case, Mr Carlisle,’ Jennifer said, ‘I have something for you.’ She reached in her pocket and put the summons in his hand. She turned to the gardeners. ‘You can stop digging now.’

Early the next morning Adam Warner telephoned. Jennifer recognized his voice instantly.

‘I thought you would like to know,’ Adam said, ‘that the disbarment proceedings have been officially dropped. You have nothing more to worry about.’

Jennifer closed her eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks. ‘I – I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you’ve done.’

‘Justice isn’t always blind.’

Adam did not mention the scene he had had with Stewart Needham and Robert Di Silva. Needham had been disappointed, but philosophical.

The District Attorney had carried on like a raging bull. ‘You let that bitch get away with this? Jesus Christ, she’s Mafia, Adam! Couldn’t you see that? She’s conning you!’

And on and on, until Adam had tired of it.

‘All the evidence against her was circumstantial, Robert. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time and she got mousetrapped. That doesn’t spell Mafia to me.’

Finally Robert Di Silva had said, ‘Okay, so she’s still a lawyer. I just hope to God she practices in New York, because the minute she sets foot in any of my courtrooms, I’m going to wipe her out.’

Now, talking to Jennifer, Adam said nothing of this. Jennifer had made a deadly enemy, but there was nothing that could be done about it. Robert Di Silva was a vindictive man, and Jennifer was a vulnerable target. She was bright and idealistic and achingly young and lovely.

Adam knew he must never see her again.

There were days and weeks and months when Jennifer was ready to quit. The sign on the door still read Jennifer Parker, Attorney at Law, but it did not deceive anyone, least of all Jennifer. She was not practicing law: Her days were spent running around in rain and sleet and snow, delivering subpoenas and summonses to people who hated her for it. Now and then she accepted a pro bono case, helping the elderly get food stamps, solving various legal problems of ghetto blacks and Puerto Ricans and other underprivileged people. But she felt trapped.

The nights were worse than the days. They were endless, for Jennifer had insomnia and when she did sleep, her dreams were filled with demons. It had begun the night her mother had deserted Jennifer and her father, and she had not been able to exorcise whatever it was that was causing her nightmares.

She was consumed by loneliness. She went out on occasional dates with young lawyers, but inevitably she found herself comparing them to Adam Warner, and they all fell short. There would be dinner and a movie or a play, followed by a struggle at her front door. Jennifer was never sure whether they expected her to go to bed with them because they had bought her dinner, or because they had had to climb up and down four steep flights of stairs. There were times when she was strongly tempted to say Yes, just to have someone with her for the night, someone to hold, someone to share herself with. But she needed more in her bed than a warm body that talked; she needed someone who cared, someone for whom she could care.

The most interesting men who propositioned Jennifer were all married, and she flatly refused to go out with any of them. She remembered a line from Billy Wilder’s wonderful film The Apartment: ‘When you’re in love with a married man you shouldn’t wear mascara.’ Jennifer’s mother had destroyed a marriage, had killed Jennifer’s father. She could never forget that.

Christmas came and New Year’s Eve, and Jennifer spent them alone. There had been a heavy snowfall and the city looked like a gigantic Christmas card. Jennifer walked the streets, watching pedestrians hurrying to the warmth of their homes and families, and she ached with a feeling of emptiness. She missed her father terribly. She was glad when the holidays were over. Nineteen seventy is going to be a better year, Jennifer told herself.

On Jennifer’s worst days, Ken Bailey would cheer her up. He took her out to Madison Square Garden to watch the Rangers play, to a disco club and to an occasional play or movie. Jennifer knew he was attracted to her, and yet he kept a barrier between them.

In March, Otto Wenzel decided to move to Florida with his wife.

‘My bones are getting too old for these New York winters,’ he told Jennifer.

‘I’ll miss you.’ Jennifer meant it. She had grown genuinely fond of him.

‘Take care of Ken.’

Jennifer looked at him quizzically.

‘He never told you, did he?’

‘Told me what?’

He hesitated, then said, ‘His wife committed suicide. He blames himself.’

Jennifer was shocked. ‘How terrible! Why – why did she do it?’

‘She caught Ken in bed with a young blond man.’

‘Oh, my God!’

‘She shot Ken and then turned the gun on herself. He lived. She didn’t.’

‘How awful! I had no idea that … that –’

‘I know. He smiles a lot, but he carries his own hell with him.’

‘Thanks for telling me.’

When Jennifer returned to the office, Ken said, ‘So old Otto’s leaving us.’

‘Yes.’

Ken Bailey grinned. ‘I guess it’s you and me against the world.’

‘I guess so.’

And in a way, Jennifer thought, it is true.

Jennifer looked at Ken with different eyes now. They had lunches and dinners together, and Jennifer could detect no signs of homosexuality about him but she knew that Otto Wenzel had told her the truth: Ken Bailey carried his own private hell with him.

A few clients walked in off the street. They were usually poorly dressed, bewildered and, in some instances, out-and-out nutcases.

Prostitutes came in to ask Jennifer to handle their bail, and Jennifer was amazed at how young and lovely some of them were. They became a small but steady source of income. She could not find out who sent them to her. When she mentioned it to Ken Bailey, he shrugged in a gesture of ignorance and walked away.

Whenever a client came to see Jennifer, Ken Bailey would discreetly leave. He was like a proud father, encouraging Jennifer to succeed.

Jennifer was offered several divorce cases and turned them down. She could not forget what one of her law professors had once said: Divorce is to the practice of law what proctology is to the practice of medicine. Most divorce lawyers had bad reputations. The maxim was that when a married couple saw red, lawyers saw green. A high-priced divorce lawyer was known as a bomber, for he would use legal high explosives to win a case for a client and, in the process, often destroyed the husband, the wife and the children.

A few of the clients who came into Jennifer’s office were different in a way that puzzled her.

They were well dressed, with an air of affluence about them, and the cases they brought to her were not the nickel-and-dime cases Jennifer had been accustomed to handling. There were estates to be settled that amounted to substantial sums of money, and lawsuits that any large firm would have been delighted to represent.

‘Where did you hear about me?’ Jennifer would ask.

The replies she got were always evasive. From a friend … I read about you … your name was mentioned at a party … It was not until one of her clients, in the course of explaining his problems, mentioned Adam Warner that Jennifer suddenly understood.

‘Mr Warner sent you to me, didn’t he?’

The client was embarrassed. ‘Well, as a matter of fact, he suggested it might be better if I didn’t mention his name.’

Jennifer decided to telephone Adam. After all, she did owe him a debt of thanks. She would be polite, but formal. Naturally, she would not let him get the impression that she was calling him for any reason other than to express her appreciation. She rehearsed the conversation over and over in her mind. When Jennifer finally got up enough nerve to telephone, a secretary informed her that Mr Warner was in Europe and was not expected back for several weeks. It was an anticlimax that left Jennifer depressed.

She found herself thinking of Adam Warner more and more often. She kept remembering the evening he had come to her apartment and how badly she had behaved. He had been wonderful to put up with her childish behavior when she had taken out her anger on him. Now, in addition to everything else he had done for her, he was sending her clients.

Jennifer waited three weeks and then telephoned Adam again. This time he was in South America.

‘Is there any message?’ his secretary asked.

Jennifer hesitated. ‘No message.’

Jennifer tried to put Adam out of her mind, but it was impossible. She wondered whether he was married or engaged. She wondered what it would be like to be Mrs Adam Warner. She wondered if she were insane.

From time to time Jennifer came across the name of Michael Moretti in the newspapers or weekly magazines. There was an in-depth story in the New Yorker magazine on Antonio Granelli and the eastern Mafia Families. Antonio Granelli was reported to be in failing health and Michael Moretti, his son-in-law, was preparing to take over his empire. Life magazine ran a story about Michael Moretti’s lifestyle, and at the end of the story it spoke of Moretti’s trial. Camillo Stela was serving time in Leavenworth, while Michael Moretti was free. It reminded its readers how Jennifer Parker had destroyed the case that would have sent him to prison or the electric chair. As Jennifer read the article, her stomach churned. The electric chair? She could cheerfully have pulled the switch on Michael Moretti herself.

Most of Jennifer’s clients were unimportant, but the education was priceless. Over the months, Jennifer came to know every room in the Criminal Courts Building at 100 Centre Street and the people who inhabited them.

When one of her clients was arrested for shoplifting, mugging, prostitution or drugs, Jennifer would head downtown to arrange bail, and bargaining was a way of life.

‘Bail is set at five hundred dollars.’

‘Your Honor, the defendant doesn’t have that much money. If the court will reduce bail to two hundred dollars, he can go back to work and keep supporting his family.’

‘Very well. Two hundred.’

‘Thank you, Your Honor.’

Jennifer got to know the supervisor of the complaint room, where copies of the arrest reports were sent.

‘You again, Parker! For God’s sake, don’t you ever sleep?’

‘Hi, Lieutenant. A client of mine was picked up on a vagrancy charge. May I see the arrest sheet? The name is Connery. Clarence Connery.’

‘Tell me something, honey. Why would you come down here at three A.M. to defend a vagrant?’

Jennifer grinned. ‘It keeps me off the streets.’

She became familiar with night court, held in Room 218 of the Centre Street courthouse. It was a smelly, overcrowded world, with its own arcane jargon. Jennifer was baffled by it at first.

‘Parker, your client is booked on bedpain.’

‘My client is booked on what?’

‘Bedpain. Burglary, with a Break, Enter, Dwelling, Person, Armed, Intent to kill, at Night. Get it?’

‘Got it.’

‘I’m here to represent Miss Luna Tarner.’

‘Jesus H. Christ!’

‘Would you tell me what the charges are?’

‘Hold on. I’ll find her ticket. Luna Tarner. That’s a hot one … here we are. Pross. Picked up by CWAC, down below.’

‘Quack?’

‘You’re new around here, huh? CWAC is the City-Wide Anti-Crime unit. A pross is a hooker, and down below is south of Forty-Second Street. Capish?’

‘Capish.’

Night court depressed Jennifer. It was filled with a human tide that ceaselessly surged in and out, washed up on the shores of justice.

There were more than a hundred and fifty cases heard each night. There were whores and transvestites, stinking, battered drunks and drug addicts. There were Puerto Ricans and Mexicans and Jews and Irish and Greeks and Italians, and they were accused of rape and theft and possession of guns or dope or assault or prostitution. And they all had one thing in common: They were poor. They were poor and defeated and lost. They were the dregs, the misfits whom the affluent society had passed by. A large proportion of them came from Central Harlem, and because there was no more room in the prison system, all but the most serious offenders were dismissed or fined. They returned home to St Nicholas Avenue and Morningside and Manhattan Avenues, where in three and one-half square miles there lived two hundred and thirty-three thousand blacks, eight thousand Puerto Ricans, and an estimated one million rats.

The majority of clients who came to Jennifer’s office were people who had been ground down by poverty, the system, themselves. They were people who had long since surrendered. Jennifer found that their fears fed her self-confidence. She did not feel superior to them. She certainly could not hold herself up as a shining example of success, and yet she knew there was one big difference between her and her clients: She would never give up.

Ken Bailey introduced Jennifer to Father Francis Joseph Ryan. Father Ryan was in his late fifties, a radiant, vital man with crisp gray-and-black hair that curled about his ears. He was always in serious need of a haircut. Jennifer liked him at once.

From time to time, when one of his parishioners would disappear, Father Ryan would come to Ken and enlist his services. Invariably, Ken would find the errant husband, wife, daughter or son. There would never be a charge.

‘It’s a down payment on heaven,’ Ken would explain.

One afternoon when Jennifer was alone Father Ryan dropped by the office.

‘Ken’s out, Father Ryan. He won’t be back today.’

‘It’s really you I wanted to see, Jennifer,’ Father Ryan said. He sat down in the uncomfortable old wooden chair in front of Jennifer’s desk. ‘I have a friend who has a bit of a problem.’

That was the way he always started out with Ken.

‘Yes, Father?’

‘She’s an elderly parishioner, and the poor dear’s having trouble getting her Social Security payments. She moved into my neighborhood a few months ago and some damned computer lost all her records, may it rust in hell.’

‘I see.’

‘I knew you would,’ Father Ryan said, getting to his feet. ‘I’m afraid there won’t be any money in it for you.’

Jennifer smiled. ‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll try to straighten things out.’

She had thought it would be a simple matter, but it had taken her almost three days to get the computer reprogrammed.

One morning a month later, Father Ryan walked into Jennifer’s office and said, ‘I hate to bother you, my dear, but I have a friend who has a bit of a problem. I’m afraid he has no –’ He hesitated.

‘– Money,’ Jennifer guessed.

‘Ah! That’s it. Exactly. But the poor fellow needs help badly.’

‘All right. Tell me about him.’

‘His name is Abraham. Abraham Wilson. He’s the son of one of my parishioners. Abraham is serving a life sentence in Sing Sing for killing a liquor store owner during a holdup.’

‘If he was convicted and is serving his sentence, I don’t see how I can help. Father.’

Father Ryan looked at Jennifer and sighed. ‘That’s not his problem.’

‘It isn’t?’

‘No. A few weeks ago Abraham killed another man – a fellow prisoner named Raymond Thorpe. They’re going to try him for murder, and go for the death penalty.’

Jennifer had read something about the case. ‘If I remember correctly, he beat the man to death.’

‘So they say.’

Jennifer picked up a pad and a pen. ‘Do you know if there were any witnesses?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘How many?’

‘Oh, a hundred or so. It happened in the prison yard, you see.’

‘Terrific. What is it you want me to do?’

Father Ryan said simply, ‘Help Abraham.’

Jennifer put down her pen. ‘Father, it’s going to take your Boss to help him.’ She sat back in her chair. ‘He’s going in with three strikes against him. He’s black, he’s a convicted murderer, and he killed another man in front of a hundred witnesses. Assuming he did it, there just aren’t any grounds for defense. If another prisoner was threatening him, there were guards he could have asked to help him. Instead, he took the law into his own hands. There isn’t a jury in the world that wouldn’t convict him.’

‘He’s still a fellow human being. Would you just talk to him?’

Jennifer sighed. ‘I’ll talk to him if you want me to, but I won’t make any commitment.’

Father Ryan nodded. ‘I understand. It would probably mean a great deal of publicity.’

They were both thinking the same thing. Abraham Wilson was not the only one who had strikes against him.

Sing Sing Prison is situated at the town of Ossining, thirty miles upstate of Manhattan on the east bank of the Hudson River, overlooking the Tappan Zee and Haverstraw Bay.

Jennifer went up by bus. She had telephoned the assistant warden and he had made arrangements for her to see Abraham Wilson, who was being held in solitary confinement.

During the bus ride, Jennifer was filled with a sense of purpose she had not felt in a long time. She was on her way to Sing Sing to meet a possible client charged with murder. This was the kind of case she had studied for, prepared herself for. She felt like a lawyer for the first time in a year, and yet she knew she was being unrealistic. She was not on her way to see a client. She was on her way to tell a man she could not represent him. She could not afford to become involved in a highly publicized case that she had no chance of winning.

Abraham Wilson would have to find someone else to defend him.

A dilapidated taxi took Jennifer from the bus station to the penitentiary, situated on seventy acres of land near the river. Jennifer rang the bell at the side entrance and a guard opened the door, checked off her name against his list, and directed her to the assistant warden’s office.

The assistant warden was a large, square man with an old-fashioned military haircut and an acne-pitted face. His name was Howard Patterson.

‘I would appreciate anything you can tell me about Abraham Wilson,’ Jennifer began.

‘If you’re looking for comfort, you’re not going to get it here.’ Patterson glanced at the dossier on the desk in front of him. ‘Wilson’s been in and out of prisons all his life. He was caught stealing cars when he was eleven, arrested on a mugging charge when he was thirteen, picked up for rape when he was fifteen, became a pimp at eighteen, served a sentence for putting one of his girls in the hospital …’ He leafed through the dossier. ‘You name it – stabbings, armed robbery and finally the big time – murder.’

It was a depressing recital.

Jennifer asked, ‘Is there any chance that Abraham Wilson didn’t kill Raymond Thorpe?’

‘Forget it. Wilson’s the first to admit it, but it wouldn’t make any difference even if he denied it. We’ve got a hundred and twenty witnesses.’

‘May I see Mr Wilson?’

Howard Patterson rose to his feet. ‘Sure, but you’re wasting your time.’

Abraham Wilson was the ugliest human being Jennifer Parker had ever seen. He was coal-black, with a nose that had been broken in several places, missing front teeth and tiny, shifty eyes set in a knife-scarred face. He was about six feet four inches and powerfully built. He had huge flat feet which made him lumber. If Jennifer had searched for one word to describe Abraham Wilson, it would have been menacing. She could imagine the effect this man would have on a jury.

Abraham Wilson and Jennifer were seated in a high-security visiting room, a thick wire mesh between them, a guard standing at the door. Wilson had just been taken out of solitary confinement and his beady eyes kept blinking against the light. If Jennifer had come to this meeting feeling she would probably not want to handle this case, after seeing Abraham Wilson she was positive. Merely sitting opposite him she could feel the hatred spewing out of the man.

Jennifer opened the conversation by saying, ‘My name is Jennifer Parker. I’m an attorney. Father Ryan asked me to see you.’

Abraham Wilson spat through the screen, spraying Jennifer with saliva. ‘That mothafuckin’ do-gooder.’

It’s a wonderful beginning, Jennifer thought. She carefully refrained from wiping the saliva from her face. ‘Is there anything you need here, Mr Wilson?’

He gave her a toothless smile. ‘A piece of ass, baby. You innersted?’

She ignored that. ‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’

‘Hey, you lookin’ for my life story, you gotta pay me for it. I gonna sell it for da movin’ pitchurs. Maybe I’ll star in it mysef.’

The anger coming out of him was frightening. All Jennifer wanted was to get out of there. The assistant warden had been right. She was wasting her time.

‘I’m afraid there’s really nothing I can do to help you unless you help me, Mr Wilson. I promised Father Ryan I would at least come and talk to you.’

Abraham Wilson gave her a toothless grin again. ‘That’s mighty white of ya, sweetheart. Ya sure ya don’t wanna change your mind ’bout that piece of ass?’

Jennifer rose to her feet. She had had enough. ‘Do you hate everybody?’

‘Tell ya what, doll, you crawl inta my skin and I’ll crawl inta yours, and then you’n me’ll rap ’bout hate.’

Jennifer stood there, looking into that ugly black face, digesting what he had said, and then she slowly sat down. ‘Do you want to tell me your side of the story, Abraham?’

He stared into her eyes, saying nothing. Jennifer waited, watching him, wondering what it must be like to wear that scarred black skin. She wondered how many scars were hidden inside the man.

The two of them sat there in a long silence. Finally, Abraham Wilson said, ‘I killed the somabitch.’

‘Why did you kill him?’

He shrugged. ‘The motha’ was comin’ at me with this great big butcher knife, and –’

‘Don’t con me. Prisoners don’t walk around carrying butcher knives.’

Wilson’s face tightened and he said, ‘Get the fuck outa here, lady. I din’t sen’ for ya.’ He rose to his feet. ‘An’ don’t come round heah botherin’ me no more, you heah? I’m a busy man.’

He turned and walked over to the guard. A moment later they were both gone. That was that. Jennifer could at least tell Father Ryan that she had talked to the man. There was nothing further she could do.

A guard let Jennifer out of the building. She started across the courtyard toward the main gate, thinking about Abraham Wilson and her reaction to him. She disliked the man and, because of that, she was doing something she had no right to do: She was judging him. She had already pronounced him guilty and he had not yet had a trial. Perhaps someone had attacked him, not with a knife, of course, but with a rock or a brick. Jennifer stopped and stood there indecisively. Every instinct told her to go back to Manhattan and forget about Abraham Wilson.

Jennifer turned and walked back to the assistant warden’s office.

‘He’s a hard case,’ Howard Patterson said. ‘When we can, we try rehabilitation instead of punishment, but Abraham Wilson’s too far gone. The only thing that will calm him down is the electric chair.’

What a weird piece of logic, Jennifer thought. ‘He told me the man he killed attacked him with a butcher knife.’

‘I guess that’s possible.’

The answer startled her. ‘What do you mean, ‘that’s possible’? Are you saying a convict in here could get possession of a knife? A butcher knife?’

Howard Patterson shrugged. ‘Miss Parker, we have twelve hundred and forty convicts in this place, and some of them are men of great ingenuity. Come on. I’ll show you something.’

Patterson led Jennifer down a long corridor to a locked door. He selected a key from a large keyring, opened the door and turned on the light. Jennifer followed him into a small, bare room with built-in shelves.

‘This is where we keep the prisoners’ box of goodies.’ He walked over to a large box and lifted the lid.

Jennifer stared down into the box unbelievingly.

She looked up at Howard Patterson and said, ‘I want to see my client again.’

Chapter Six

Jennifer prepared for Abraham Wilson’s trial as she had never prepared for anything before in her life. She spent endless hours in the law library checking for procedures and defenses, and with her client, drawing from him every scrap of information she could. It was no easy task. From the beginning, Wilson was truculent and sarcastic.

‘You wanna know about me, honey? I got my first fuck when I was ten. How ole was you?’

Jennifer forced herself to ignore his hatred and his contempt, for she was aware that they covered up a deep fear. And so Jennifer persisted, demanding to know what Wilson’s early life was like, what his parents were like, what had shaped the boy into the man. Over a period of weeks, Abraham Wilson’s reluctance gave way to interest, and his interest finally gave way to fascination. He had never before had reason to think of himself in terms of what kind of person he was, or why.

Jennifer’s prodding questions began to arouse memories, some merely unpleasant, others unbearably painful. Several times during the sessions when Jennifer was questioning Abraham Wilson about his father, who had regularly given him savage beatings, Wilson would order Jennifer to leave him alone. She left, but she always returned.

If Jennifer had had little personal life before, she now had none. When she was not with Abraham Wilson, she was at her office, seven days a week, from early morning until long after midnight, reading everything she could find about the crimes of murder and manslaughter, voluntary and involuntary. She studied hundreds of appellate court decisions, briefs, affidavits, exhibits, motions, transcripts. She pored over files on intent and premeditation, self-defense, double jeopardy, and temporary insanity.

She studied ways to get the charge reduced to manslaughter.

Abraham had not planned to kill the man. But would a jury believe that? Particularly a local jury. The townspeople hated the prisoners in their midst. Jennifer moved for a change of venue, and it was granted. The trial would be held in Manhattan.

Jennifer had an important decision to make: Should she allow Abraham Wilson to testify? He presented a forbidding figure, but if the jurors were able to hear his side of the story from his own lips, they might have some sympathy for him. The problem was that putting Abraham Wilson on the stand would allow the prosecution to reveal Wilson’s background and past record, including the previous murder he had committed.

Jennifer wondered which one of the assistant district attorneys Di Silva would assign to be her adversary. There were half a dozen very good ones who prosecuted murder trials, and Jennifer familiarized herself with their techniques.

She spent as much time as possible at Sing Sing, looking over the scene of the killing in the recreation yard, talking to guards and Abraham, and she interviewed dozens of convicts who had witnessed the killing.

‘Raymond Thorpe attacked Abraham Wilson with a knife,’ Jennifer said. ‘A large butcher knife. You must have seen it.’

‘Me? I didn’t see no knife.’

‘You must have. You were right there.’

‘Lady, I didn’t see nothin’.’

Not one of them was willing to get involved.

Occasionally Jennifer would take time out to have a regular meal, but usually she grabbed a quick sandwich at the coffee shop on the main floor of the courthouse. She was beginning to lose weight and she had dizzy spells.

Ken Bailey was becoming concerned about her. He took her to Forlini’s across from the courthouse, and ordered a large lunch for her.

‘Are you trying to kill yourself?’ he demanded.

‘Of course not.’

‘Have you looked in a mirror lately?’

‘No.’

He studied her and said, ‘If you have any sense, you’ll drop this case.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re setting yourself up as a clay pigeon. Jennifer, I hear things on the street. The press is peeing in its collective pants, they’re so eager to start taking potshots at you again.’

‘I’m an attorney,’ Jennifer said stubbornly. ‘Abraham Wilson is entitled to a fair trial. I’m going to try to see that he gets one.’ She saw the look of concern on Ken Bailey’s face. ‘Don’t worry about it. The case isn’t going to get that much publicity.’

‘It isn’t, huh? Do you know who’s prosecuting?’

‘No.’

‘Robert Di Silva.’

Jennifer arrived at the Leonard Street entrance of the Criminal Courts Building and pushed her way past the people churning through the lobby, past the uniformed policemen, the detectives dressed like hippies, the lawyers identified by the briefcases they carried. Jennifer walked toward the large circular information desk, where no attendant had ever been posted, and took the elevator to the sixth floor. She was on her way to see the District Attorney. It had been almost a year since her last encounter with Robert Di Silva, and Jennifer was not looking forward to this one. She was going to inform him that she was resigning from Abraham Wilson’s defense.

It had taken Jennifer three sleepless nights to make her decision. What it came down to finally was that the primary consideration had to be the best interests of her client. The Wilson case was not important enough for Di Silva to handle himself. The only reason, therefore, for the District Attorney’s giving it his personal attention was because of Jennifer’s involvement. Di Silva wanted vengeance. He was planning to teach Jennifer a lesson. And so she had finally decided she had no choice but to withdraw from Wilson’s defense. She could not let him be executed because of a mistake she had once made. With her off the case, Robert Di Silva would probably deal with Wilson more leniently. Jennifer was on her way to save Abraham Wilson’s life.

There was an odd feeling of reliving the past as she got off at the sixth floor and walked toward the familiar door marked District Attorney, County of New York. Inside, the same secretary was seated at the same desk.

‘I’m Jennifer Parker. I have an appointment with –’

‘Go right in,’ the secretary said. ‘The District Attorney is expecting you.’

Robert Di Silva was standing behind his desk, chewing on a wet cigar, giving orders to two assistants. He stopped as Jennifer entered.

‘I was betting you wouldn’t show up.’

‘I’m here.’

‘I thought you would have turned tail and run out of town by now. What do you want?’

There were two chairs opposite Robert Di Silva’s desk, but he did not invite Jennifer to sit.

‘I came here to talk about my client, Abraham Wilson.’

Robert Di Silva sat down, leaned back in his chair and pretended to think. ‘Abraham Wilson … oh, yes. That’s the nigger murderer who beat a man to death in prison. You shouldn’t have any trouble defending him.’ He glanced at his two assistants and they left the room.

‘Well, counselor?’

‘I’d like to talk about a plea.’

Robert Di Silva looked at her with exaggerated surprise. ‘You mean you came in to make a deal? You amaze me. I would have thought that someone with your great legal talent would be able to get him off scot-free.’

‘Mr Di Silva, I know this looks like an open-and-shut case,’ Jennifer began, ‘but there are extenuating circumstances. Abraham Wilson was –’

District Attorney Di Silva interrupted. ‘Let me put it in legal language you can understand, counselor. You can take your extenuating circumstances and shove them up your ass!’ He got to his feet and when he spoke his voice was trembling with rage. ‘Make a deal with you, lady? You fucked up my life! There’s a dead body and your boy’s going to burn for it. Do you hear me? I’m making it my personal business to see that he’s sent to the chair.’

‘I came up here to withdraw from the case. You could reduce this to a manslaughter charge. Wilson’s already in for life. You could –’

‘No way! He’s guilty of murder plain and simple!’

Jennifer tried to control her anger. ‘I thought the jury was supposed to decide that.’

Robert Di Silva smiled at her without mirth. ‘You don’t know how heartwarming it is to have an expert like you walk into my office and explain the law to me.’

‘Can’t we forget our personal problems? I –’

‘Not as long as I live. Say hello to your pal Michael Moretti for me.’

Half an hour later, Jennifer was having coffee with Ken Bailey.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ Jennifer confessed. ‘I thought if I got off the case Abraham Wilson would stand a better chance. But Di Silva won’t make a dèal. He’s not after Wilson – he’s after me.’

Ken Bailey looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Maybe he’s trying to psych you out. He wants you running scared.’

‘I am running scared.’ She took a sip of her coffee. It tasted bitter. ‘It’s a bad case. You should see Abraham Wilson. All the jury will have to do is look at him and they’ll vote to convict.’

‘When does the trial come up?’

‘In four weeks.’

‘Anything I can do to help?’

‘Uh-huh. Put out a contract on Di Silva.’

‘Do you think there’s any chance you can get Wilson an acquittal?’

‘Looking at it from the pessimist’s point of view, I’m trying my first case against the smartest District Attorney in the country, who has a vendetta against me, and my client is a convicted black killer who killed again in front of a hundred and twenty witnesses.’

‘Terrific. What’s the optimist’s point of view?’

‘I could get hit by a truck this afternoon.’

The trial date was only three weeks away now. Jennifer arranged for Abraham Wilson to be transferred to the prison at Riker’s Island. He was put in the House of Detention for Men, the largest and oldest jail on the island. Ninety-five percent of his prison mates were there awaiting trial for felonies: murder, arson, rape, armed robbery and sodomy.

No private cars were allowed on the island, and Jennifer was transported in a small green bus to the gray brick control building where she showed her identification. There were two armed guards in a green booth to the left of the building, and beyond that a gate where all unauthorized visitors were stopped. From the control building, Jennifer was driven down Hazen Street, the little road that went through the prison grounds, to the Anna M. Kross Center Building, where Abraham Wilson was brought to see her in the counsel room, with its eight cubicles reserved for attorney-client meetings.

Walking down the long corridor on her way to meet with Abraham Wilson, Jennifer thought: This must be like the waiting room to hell. There was an incredible cacophony. The prison was made of brick and steel and stone and tile. Steel gates were constantly opening and clanging shut. There were more than one hundred men in each cellblock, talking and yelling at the same time, with two television sets tuned to different channels and a music system playing country rock. Three hundred guards were assigned to the building, and their bellowing could be heard over the prison symphony.

A guard had told Jennifer, ‘Prison society is the politest society in the world. If a prisoner ever brushes up against another one, he immediately says, “Excuse me.” Prisoners have a lot on their minds and the least little thing …’

Jennifer sat across from Abraham Wilson and she thought: This man’s life is in my hands. If he dies, it will be because I failed him. She looked into his eyes and saw the despair there.

‘I’m going to do everything I can,’ Jennifer promised.

Three days before the Abraham Wilson trial was to begin, Jennifer learned that the presiding judge was to be the Honorable Lawrence Waldman, who had presided over the Michael Moretti trial and had tried to get Jennifer disbarred.

Chapter Seven

At four o’clock on a Monday morning in late September of 1970, the day the trial of Abraham Wilson was to begin, Jennifer awakened feeling tired and heavy-eyed. She had slept badly, her mind filled with dreams of the trial. In one of the dreams, Robert Di Silva had put her in the witness box and asked her about Michael Moretti. Each time Jennifer tried to answer the questions, the jurors interrupted her with a chant: Liar! Liar! Liar!

Each dream was different, but they were all similar. In the last one, Abraham Wilson was strapped in the electric chair. As Jennifer leaned over to console him, he spat in her face. Jennifer awoke trembling, and it was impossible for her to go back to sleep. She sat up in a chair until dawn and watched the sun come up. She was too nervous to eat. She wished she could have slept the night before. She wished that she were not so tense. She wished that this day was over.

As she bathed and dressed she had a premonition of doom. She felt like wearing black, but she chose a green Chanel copy she had bought on sale at Loehmann’s.

At eight-thirty, Jennifer Parker arrived at the Criminal Courts Building to begin the defense in the case of The People of the State of New York against Abraham Wilson. There was a crowd outside the entrance and Jennifer’s first thought was that there had been an accident. She saw a battery of television cameras and microphones, and before Jennifer realized what was happening, she was surrounded by reporters.

A reporter said, ‘Miss Parker, this is your first time in court, isn’t it, since you fouled up the Michael Moretti case for the District Attorney?’

Ken Bailey had warned her. She was the central attraction, not her client. The reporters were not there as objective observers; they were there as birds of prey and she was to be their carrion.

A young woman in jeans pushed a microphone up to Jennifer’s face. ‘Is it true that District Attorney Di Silva is out to get you?’

‘No comment.’ Jennifer began to fight her way toward the entrance of the building.

‘The District Attorney issued a statement last night that he thinks you shouldn’t be allowed to practice law in the New York courts. Would you like to say anything about that?’

‘No comment.’ Jennifer had almost reached the entrance.

‘Last year Judge Waldman tried to get you disbarred. Are you going to ask him to disqualify himself from –?’

Jennifer was inside the courthouse.

The trial was scheduled to take place in Room 37. The corridor outside was crowded with people trying to get in, but the courtroom was already full. It was buzzing with noise and there was a carnival atmosphere in the air. There were extra rows reserved for members of the press. Di Silva saw to that, Jennifer thought.

Abraham Wilson was seated at the defense table, towering over everyone around him like an evil mountain. He was dressed in a dark blue suit that was too small for him, and a white shirt and blue tie that Jennifer had bought him. They did not help. Abraham Wilson looked like an ugly killer in a dark blue suit. He might just as well have worn his prison clothes, Jennifer thought, discouraged.

Wilson was staring defiantly around the courtroom, glowering at everyone who met his look. Jennifer knew her client well enough now to understand that his belligerence was a cover-up for his fright; but what would come over to everyone – including the judge and the jury – was an impression of hostility and hatred. The huge man was a threat. They would regard him as someone to be feared, to be destroyed.

There was not a trace in Abraham Wilson’s personality that was loveable. There was nothing about his appearance that could evoke sympathy. There was only that ugly, scarred face with its broken nose and missing teeth, that enormous body that would inspire fear.

Jennifer walked over to the defense table where Abraham Wilson was sitting and took the seat next to him. ‘Good morning, Abraham.’

He glanced over at her and said, ‘I didn’t think you was comin’.’

Jennifer remembered her dream. She looked into his small, slitted eyes. ‘You knew I’d be here.’

He shrugged indifferently. ‘It don’t matter one way or another. They’s gonna get me, baby. They’s gonna convict me of murder and then they’s gonna pass a law makin’ it legal to boil me in oil, then they’s gonna boil me in oil. This ain’t gonna be no trial. This is gonna be a show. I hope you brung your popcorn.’

There was a stir around the prosecutor’s table and Jennifer looked up to see District Attorney Di Silva taking his place at the table next to a battery of assistants. He looked at Jennifer and smiled. Jennifer felt a growing sense of panic.

A court officer said, ‘All rise,’ and Judge Lawrence Waldman entered from the judge’s robing room.

‘Hear ye, Hear ye. All people having business with Part Thirty-seven of this Court, draw near, give your attention and you shall be heard. The Honorable Justice Lawrence Waldman presiding.’

The only one who refused to stand was Abraham Wilson. Jennifer whispered out of the corner of her mouth, ‘Stand up!’

‘Fuck ’em, baby. They gonna have to come and drag me up.’

Jennifer took his giant hand in hers. ‘On your feet, Abraham. We’re going to beat them.’

He looked at her for a long moment, then slowly got to his feet, towering over her.

Judge Waldman took his place on the bench. The spectators resumed their seats. The court clerk handed a court calendar to the judge.

‘The People of the State of New York versus Abraham Wilson, charged with the murder of Raymond Thorpe.’

Jennifer’s instinct normally would have been to fill the jury box with blacks, but because of Abraham Wilson she was not so sure. Wilson was not one of them. He was a renegade, a killer, ‘a disgrace to their race’. They might convict him more readily than would whites. All Jennifer could do was try to keep the more obvious bigots off the jury. But bigots did not go around advertising. They would keep quiet about their prejudices, waiting to get their vengeance.

By late afternoon of the second day, Jennifer had used up her ten peremptory challenges. She felt that her voir dire – the questioning of the jurors – was clumsy and awkward, while Di Silva’s was smooth and skillful. He had the knack of putting the jurors at ease, drawing them into his confidence, making friends of them.

How could I have forgotten what a good actor Di Silva is? Jennifer wondered.

Di Silva did not exercise his peremptory challenges until Jennifer had exhausted hers, and she could not understand why. When she discovered the reason, it was too late. Di Silva had outsmarted her. Among the final prospective jurors questioned were a private detective, a bank manager and the mother of a doctor – all of them Establishment – and there was nothing now that Jennifer could do to keep them off the jury. The District Attorney had sandbagged her.

Robert Di Silva rose to his feet and began his opening statement.

‘If it please the court’ – he turned to the jury – ‘and you ladies and gentlemen of the jury, first of all I would like to thank you for giving up your valuable time to sit in this case.’ He smiled sympathetically. ‘I know what a disruption jury service can be. You all have jobs to get back to, families needing your attention.’

It’s as though he’s one of them, Jennifer thought, the thirteenth juror.

‘I promise to take up as little of your time as possible. This is really a very simple case. That’s the defendant sitting over there – Abraham Wilson. The defendant is accused by the State of New York of murdering a fellow inmate at Sing Sing Prison, Raymond Thorpe. There’s no doubt that he did. He’s admitted it. Mr Wilson’s attorney is going to plead self-defense.’

The District Attorney turned to look at the huge figure of Abraham Wilson, and the eyes of the jurors automatically followed him. Jennifer could see the reactions on their faces. She forced herself to concentrate on what District Attorney Di Silva was saying.

‘A number of years ago twelve citizens, very much like yourselves, I am sure, voted to put Abraham Wilson away in a penitentiary. Because of certain legal technicalities, I am not permitted to discuss with you the crime that Abraham Wilson committed. I can tell you that that jury sincerely believed that locking Abraham Wilson up would prevent him from committing any further crimes. Tragically, they were wrong. For even locked away, Abraham Wilson was able to strike, to kill, to satisfy the blood lust in him. We know now, finally, that there is only one way to prevent Abraham Wilson from killing again. And that is to execute him. It won’t bring back the life of Raymond Thorpe, but it can save the lives of other men who might otherwise become the defendant’s next victims.’

Di Silva walked along the jury box, looking each juror in the eye. ‘I told you that this case won’t take up much of your time. I’ll tell you why I said that. The defendant sitting over there – Abraham Wilson – murdered a man in cold blood. He has confessed to the killing. But even if he had not confessed, we have witnesses who saw Abraham Wilson commit that murder in cold blood. More than a hundred witnesses, in fact.

‘Let us examine the phrase, ‘in cold blood’. Murder for any reason is as distasteful to me as I know it is to you. But sometimes murders are committed for reasons we can at least understand. Let’s say that someone with a weapon is threatening your loved one – a child, or a husband or a wife. Well, if you had a gun you might pull that trigger in order to save your loved one’s life. You and I might not condone that kind of thing, but I’m sure we can at least understand it. Or, let’s take another example. If you were suddenly awakened in the middle of the night by an intruder threatening your life and you had a chance to kill him to save yourself, and you killed him – well, I think we can all understand how that might happen. And that wouldn’t make us desperate criminals or evil people, would it? It was something we did in the heat of the moment.’ Di Silva’s voice hardened. ‘But cold-blooded murder is something else again. To take the life of another human being, without the excuse of any feelings or passions, to do it for money or drugs or the sheer pleasure of killing –’

He was deliberately prejudicing the jury, yet not overstepping the bounds, so that there could be no error calling for mistrial or reversal.

Jennifer watched the faces of the jurors, and there was no question but that Robert Di Silva had them. They were agreeing with every word he said. They shook their heads and nodded and frowned. They did everything but applaud him. He was an orchestra leader and the jury was his orchestra. Jennifer had never seen anything like it. Every time the District Attorney mentioned Abraham Wilson’s name – and he mentioned it with almost every sentence – the jury automatically looked over at the defendant. Jennifer had cautioned Wilson not to look at the jury. She had drilled it into him over and over again that he was to look anywhere in the courtroom except at the jury box, because the air of defiance he exuded was enraging. To her horror now, Jennifer found that Abraham Wilson’s eyes were fastened on the jury box, locking eyes with the jurors. Aggression seemed to be pouring out of him.

Jennifer said in a low voice, ‘Abraham …’

He did not turn.

The District Attorney was finishing his opening address. ‘The Bible says, “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.” That is vengeance. The State is not asking for vengeance. It is asking for justice. Justice for the poor man whom Abraham Wilson cold-bloodedly – cold-bloodedly – murdered. Thank you.’

The District Attorney took his seat.

As Jennifer rose to address the jury, she could feel their hostility and impatience. She had read books about how lawyers were able to read juries’ minds, and she had been skeptical. But no longer. The message from the jury was coming at her loudly and clearly. They had already decided her client was guilty, and they were impatient because Jennifer was wasting their time, keeping them in court when they could be out doing more important things, as their friend the District Attorney had pointed out. Jennifer and Abraham Wilson were the enemy.

Jennifer took a deep breath and said, ‘If Your Honor please,’ and then she turned back to the jurors. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the reason we have courtrooms, the reason we are all here today, is because the law, in its wisdom, knows that there are always two sides to every case. Listening to the District Attorney’s attack on my client, listening to him pronounce my client guilty without benefit of a jury’s verdict – your verdict – one would not think so.’

She looked into their faces for a sign of sympathy or support. There was none. She forced herself to go on. ‘District Attorney Di Silva used the phrase over and over, “Abraham Wilson is guilty.” That is a lie. Judge Waldman will tell you that no defendant is guilty until a judge or jury declares that he is guilty. That is what we are all here to find out, isn’t it? Abraham Wilson has been charged with murdering a fellow inmate at Sing Sing. But Abraham Wilson did not kill for money or for dope. He killed to save his own life. You remember those clever examples that the District Attorney gave you when he explained the difference between killing in cold blood and in hot blood. Killing in hot blood is when you’re protecting someone you love, or when you’re defending yourself. Abraham Wilson killed in self-defense, and I tell you now that any of us in this courtroom, under identical circumstances, would have done exactly the same thing.

‘The District Attorney and I agree on one point: Every man has the right to protect his own life. If Abraham Wilson had not acted exactly as he did, he would be dead.’ Jennifer’s voice was ringing with sincerity. She had forgotten her nervousness in the passion of her conviction. ‘I ask each of you to remember one thing: Under the law of this state, the prosecution must prove beyond any reasonable doubt that the act of killing was not committed in self-defense. And before this trial is over we will present solid evidence to show you that Raymond Thorpe was killed in order to prevent his murdering my client. Thank you.’

The parade of witnesses for the State began. Robert Di Silva had not missed a single opportunity. His character witnesses for the deceased, Raymond Thorpe, included a minister, prison guards and fellow convicts. One by one they took the stand and testified to the sterling character and pacific disposition of the deceased.

Each time the District Attorney was finished with a witness, he turned to Jennifer and said, ‘Your witness.’

And each time Jennifer replied, ‘No cross-examination.’

She knew that there was no point in trying to discredit the character witnesses. By the time they were finished, one would have thought that Raymond Thorpe had been wrongfully deprived of sainthood. The guards, who had been carefully coached by Robert Di Silva, testified that Thorpe had been a model prisoner who went around Sing Sing doing good works, intent only on helping his fellow man. The fact that Raymond Thorpe was a convicted bank robber and rapist was a tiny flaw in an otherwise perfect character.

What badly damaged Jennifer’s already weak defense was the physical description of Raymond Thorpe. He had been a slightly built man, only five feet nine inches tall. Robert Di Silva dwelt on that, and he never let the jurors forget it. He painted a graphic picture of how Abraham Wilson had viciously attacked the smaller man and had smashed Thorpe’s head against a concrete building in the exercise yard, instantly killing him. As Di Silva spoke, the jurors’ eyes were fastened on the giant figure of the defendant sitting at the table, dwarfing everyone near him.

The District Attorney was saying, ‘We’ll probably never know what caused Abraham Wilson to attack this harmless, defenseless little man –’

And Jennifer’s heart suddenly leaped. One word that Di Silva had said had given her the chance she needed.

‘– We may never know the reason for the defendant’s vicious attack, but one thing we do know, ladies and gentlemen – it wasn’t because the murdered man was a threat to Abraham Wilson.

‘Self-defense?’ He turned to Judge Waldman. ‘Your Honor, would you please direct the defendant to rise?’

Judge Waldman looked at Jennifer. ‘Does counsel for the defense have any objection?’

Jennifer had an idea what was coming, but she knew that any objection on her part could only be damaging. ‘No, Your Honor.’

Judge Waldman said, ‘Will the defendant rise, please?’

Abraham Wilson sat there a moment, his face defiant; then he slowly rose to his full height of six feet four inches.

Di Silva said, ‘There is a court clerk here, Mr Galin, who is five feet nine inches tall, the exact height of the murdered man, Raymond Thorpe. Mr Galin, would you please go over and stand next to the defendant?’

The court clerk walked over to Abraham Wilson and stood next to him. The contrast between the two men was ludicrous. Jennifer knew she had been outmaneuvered again, but there was nothing she could do about it. The visual impression could never be erased. The District Attorney stood there looking at the two men for a moment, and then said to the jury, his voice almost a whisper, ‘Self-defense?’

The trial was going worse than Jennifer had dreamed in her wildest nightmares. She could feel the jury’s eagerness to get the trial over with so they could deliver a verdict of guilty.

Ken Bailey was seated among the spectators and, during a recess, Jennifer had a chance to exchange a few words with him.

‘It’s not an easy case,’ Ken said sympathetically. ‘I wish you didn’t have King Kong for a client. Christ, just looking at him is enough to scare the hell out of anybody.’

‘He can’t help that.’

‘As the old joke goes, he could have stayed home. How are you and our esteemed District Attorney getting along?’

Jennifer gave him a mirthless smile. ‘Mr Di Silva sent me a message this morning. He intends to remove me from the law business.’

When the parade of prosecution witnesses was over and Di Silva had rested his case, Jennifer rose and said, ‘I would like to call Howard Patterson to the stand.’

The assistant warden of Sing Sing Prison reluctantly rose and moved toward the witness box, all eyes fixed on him. Robert Di Silva watched intently as Patterson took the oath. Di Silva’s mind was racing, computing all the probabilities. He knew he had won the case. He had his victory speech all prepared.

Jennifer was addressing the witness. ‘Would you fill the jury in on your background, please, Mr Patterson?’

District Attorney Di Silva was on his feet. ‘The State will waive the witness’s background in order to save time, and we will stipulate that Mr Patterson is the assistant warden at Sing Sing Prison.’

‘Thank you,’ Jennifer said. ‘I think the jury should be informed that Mr Patterson had to be subpoenaed to come here today. He is here as a hostile witness.’ Jennifer turned to Patterson. ‘When I asked you to come here voluntarily and testify on behalf of my client, you refused. Is that true?’

‘Yes.’

‘Would you tell the jury why you had to be subpoenaed to get you here?’

‘I’ll be glad to. I’ve been dealing with men like Abraham Wilson all my life. They’re born troublemakers.’

Robert Di Silva was leaning forward in his chair, grinning, his eyes locked on the faces of the jurors. He whispered to an assistant, ‘Watch her hang herself.’

Jennifer said, ‘Mr Patterson, Abraham Wilson is not on trial here for being a troublemaker. He’s on trial for his life. Wouldn’t you be willing to help a fellow human being who was unjustly accused of a capital crime?’

‘If he were unjustly accused, yes.’ The emphasis on unjustly brought a knowing look to the faces of the jurors.

‘There have been killings in prison before this case, have there not?’

‘When you lock up hundreds of violent men together in an artificial environment, they’re bound to generate an enormous amount of hostility, and there’s –’

‘Just yes or no, please, Mr Patterson.’

‘Yes.’

‘Of those killings that have occurred in your experience, would you say that there have been a variety of motives?’

‘Well, I suppose so. Sometimes –’

‘Yes or no, please.’

‘Yes.’

‘Has self-defense ever been a motive in any of those prison killings?’

‘Well, sometimes –’ He saw the expression on Jennifer’s face. ‘Yes.’

‘So, based on your vast experience, it is entirely possible, is it not, that Abraham Wilson was actually defending his own life when he killed Raymond Thorpe?’

‘I don’t think it –’

‘I asked if it is possible. Yes or no.’

‘It is highly unlikely,’ Patterson said stubbornly.

Jennifer turned to Judge Waldman. ‘Your Honor, would you please direct the witness to answer the question?’

Judge Waldman looked down at Howard Patterson. ‘The witness will answer the question.’

‘Yes.’

But the fact that his whole attitude said no had registered on the jury.

Jennifer said, ‘If the court please, I have subpoenaed from the witness some material I would like to submit now in evidence.’

District Attorney Di Silva rose. ‘What kind of material?’

‘Evidence that will prove our contention of self-defense.’

‘Objection, Your Honor.’

‘What are you objecting to?’ Jennifer asked. ‘You haven’t seen it yet.’

Judge Waldman said, ‘The court will withhold a ruling until it sees the evidence. A man’s life is at stake here. The defendant is entitled to every possible consideration.’

‘Thank you, Your Honor.’ Jennifer turned to Howard Patterson. ‘Did you bring it with you?’ she asked.

He nodded, tight-lipped. ‘Yes. But I’m doing this under protest.’

‘I think you’ve already made that very clear, Mr Patterson. May we have it, please?’

Howard Patterson looked over to the spectator area where a man in a prison guard uniform was seated. Patterson nodded to him. The guard rose and came forward, carrying a covered wooden box.

Jennifer took it from him. ‘The defense would like to place this in evidence as Exhibit A, Your Honor.’

‘What is it?’ District Attorney Di Silva demanded.

‘It’s called a goodie box.’

There was a titter from the spectators.

Judge Waldman looked down at Jennifer and said slowly, ‘Did you say a goodie box? What is in the box, Miss Parker?’

‘Weapons. Weapons that were made in Sing Sing by the prisoners for the purpose of –’

‘Objection!’ The District Attorney was on his feet, his voice a roar. He hurried toward the bench. ‘I’m willing to make allowances for my colleague’s inexperience. Your Honor, but if she intends to practice criminal law, then I would suggest she study the basic rules of evidence. There is no evidence linking anything in this so-called goodie box with the case that is being tried in this court.’

‘This box proves –’

‘This box proves nothing.’ The District Attorney’s voice was withering. He turned to Judge Waldman. ‘The State objects to the introduction of this exhibit as being immaterial and irrelevant.’

‘Objection sustained.’

And Jennifer stood there, watching her case collapse. Everything was against her: the judge, the jury, Di Silva, the evidence. Her client was going to the electric chair unless …

Jennifer took a deep breath. ‘Your Honor, this exhibit is absolutely vital to our defense. I feel –’

Judge Waldman interrupted. ‘Miss Parker, this court does not have the time or the inclination to give you instructions in the law, but the District Attorney is quite right. Before coming into this courtroom you should have acquainted yourself with the basic rules of evidence. The first rule is that you cannot introduce evidence that has not been properly prepared for. Nothing has been put into the record about the deceased being armed or not armed. Therefore, the question of these weapons becomes extraneous. You are overruled.’

Jennifer stood there, the blood rushing to her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said stubbornly, ‘but it is not extraneous.’

‘That is enough! You may file an exception.’

‘I don’t want to file an exception. Your Honor. You’re denying my client his rights.’

‘Miss Parker, if you go any further I will hold you in contempt of court.’

‘I don’t care what you do to me,’ Jennifer said. ‘The ground has been prepared for introducing this evidence. The District Attorney prepared it himself.’

Di Silva said, ‘What? I never –’

Jennifer turned to the court stenographer. ‘Would you please read Mr Di Silva’s statement, beginning with the line, “We’ll probably never know what caused Abraham Wilson to attack …”?’

The District Attorney looked up at Judge Waldman. ‘Your Honor, are you going to allow –?’

Judge Waldman held up a hand. He turned to Jennifer. ‘This court does not need you to explain the law to it. Miss Parker. When this trial is ended, you will be held in contempt of court. Because this is a capital case, I am going to hear you out.’ He turned to the court stenographer. ‘You may proceed.’

The court stenographer turned some pages and began reading. ‘We’ll probably never know what caused Abraham Wilson to attack this harmless, defenseless little man –’

‘That’s enough,’ Jennifer interrupted. ‘Thank you.’ She looked at Robert Di Silva and said slowly, ‘Those are your words, Mr Di Silva. We’ll probably never know what caused Abraham Wilson to attack this harmless, defenseless little man …’ She turned to Judge Waldman. ‘The key word, Your Honor, is defenseless. Since the District Attorney himself told this jury that the victim was defenseless, he left an open door for us to pursue the fact that the victim might not have been defenseless, that he might, in fact, have had a weapon. Whatever is brought up in the direct is admissible in the cross.’

There was a long silence.

Judge Waldman turned to Robert Di Silva. ‘Miss Parker has a valid point. You did leave the door open.’

Robert Di Silva was looking at him unbelievingly. ‘But I only –’

‘The court will allow the evidence to be entered as Exhibit A.’

Jennifer took a deep, grateful breath. ‘Thank you, Your Honor.’ She picked up the covered box, held it up in her hands and turned to face the jury. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, in his final summation the District Attorney is going to tell you that what you are about to see in this box is not direct evidence. He will be correct. He is going to tell you that there is nothing to link any of these weapons to the deceased. He will be correct. I am introducing this exhibit for another reason. For days now, you have been hearing how the ruthless, trouble-making defendant, who stands six feet four inches tall, wantonly attacked Raymond Thorpe, who stood only five feet nine inches tall. The picture that has been so carefully, and falsely, painted for you by the prosecution is that of a sadistic, murdering bully who killed another inmate for no reason. But ask yourselves this: Isn’t there always some motive? Greed, hate, lust, something? I believe – and I’m staking my client’s life on that belief – that there was a motive for that killing. The only motive, as the District Attorney himself told you, that justifies killing someone: self-defense. A man fighting to protect his own life. You have heard Howard Patterson testify that in his experience murders have occurred in prison, that convicts do fashion deadly weapons. What that means is that it was possible that Raymond Thorpe was armed with such a weapon, that indeed it was he who was attacking the defendant, and the defendant, trying to protect himself, was forced to kill him – in self-defense. If you decide that Abraham Wilson ruthlessly – and without any motivation at all – killed Raymond Thorpe, then you must bring in a verdict of guilty as charged. If, however, after seeing this evidence, you have a reasonable doubt in your minds, then it is your duty to return a verdict of not guilty.’ The covered box was becoming heavy in her hands. ‘When I first looked into this box I could not believe what I saw. You, too, may find it hard to believe – but I ask you to remember that it was brought here under protest by the assistant warden of Sing Sing Prison. This, ladies and gentlemen, is a collection of confiscated weapons secretly made by the convicts at Sing Sing.’

As Jennifer moved toward the jury box, she seemed to stumble and lose her balance. The box fell out of her grasp, the top flew off, and the contents spilled out over the courtroom floor. There was a gasp. The jurors began to get to their feet so they could have a better look. They were staring at the hideous collection of weapons that had tumbled from the box. There were almost one hundred of them, of every size, shape and description. Homemade hatchets and butcher knives, stilettos and deadly looking scissors with the ends honed, pellet guns, and a large, vicious-looking cleaver. There were thin wires with wooden handles, used for strangling, a leather sap, a sharpened ice pick, a machete.

Spectators and reporters were on their feet now, craning to get a better look at the arsenal that lay scattered on the floor. Judge Waldman was angrily pounding his gavel for order.

Judge Waldman looked at Jennifer with an expression she could not fathom. A bailiff hurried forward to pick up the spilled contents of the box. Jennifer waved him away.

‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘I’ll do it.’

As the jurors and spectators watched, Jennifer got down on her knees and began picking up the weapons and putting them back in the box. She worked slowly, handling the weapons gingerly, looking at each one without expression before she replaced it. The jurors had taken their seats again, but they were watching every move she made. It took Jennifer a full five minutes to return the weapons to the box, while District Attorney Di Silva sat there, fuming.

When Jennifer had put the last weapon in the deadly arsenal back in the box, she rose, looked at Patterson, then turned and said to Di Silva, ‘Your witness.’

It was too late to repair the damage that had been done. ‘No cross,’ the District Attorney said.

‘Then I would like to call Abraham Wilson to the stand.’

Chapter Eight

‘Your name?’

‘Abraham Wilson.’

‘Would you speak up, please?’

‘Abraham Wilson.’

‘Mr Wilson, did you kill Raymond Thorpe?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Would you tell the court why?’

‘He was gonna kill me.’

‘Raymond Thorpe was a much smaller man than you. Did you really believe that he would be able to kill you?’

‘He was comin’ at me with a knife that made him purty tall.’

Jennifer had kept out two objects from the goodie box. One was a finely honed butcher knife; the other was a large pair of metal tongs. She held up the knife. ‘Was this the knife that Raymond Thorpe threatened you with?’

‘Objection! The defendant has no way of knowing –’

‘I’ll rephrase the question. Was this similar to the knife that Raymond Thorpe threatened you with?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘And these tongs?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Had you had trouble with Thorpe before?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘And when he came at you armed with these two weapons, you were forced to kill him in order to save your own life?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Thank you.’

Jennifer turned to Di Silva. ‘Your witness.’

Robert Di Silva rose to his feet and moved slowly toward the witness box.

‘Mr Wilson, you’ve killed before, haven’t you? I mean, this wasn’t your first murder?’

‘I made a mistake and I’m payin’ for it. I –’

‘Spare us your sermon. Just answer yes or no.’

‘Yes.’

‘So a human life doesn’t have much value to you.’

‘That ain’t true. I –’

‘Do you call committing two murders valuing human life? How many people would you have killed if you didn’t value human life? Five? Ten? Twenty?’

He was baiting Abraham Wilson and Wilson was falling for it. His jaw was clenched and his face was filling with anger. Be careful!

‘I only kilt two people.’

‘Only! You only killed two people!’ The District Attorney shook his head in mock dismay. He stepped close to the witness box and looked up at the defendant. ‘I’ll bet it gives you a feeling of power to be so big. It must make you feel a little bit like God. Any time you want to, you can take a life here, take a life there …’

Abraham Wilson was on his feet, rising to his full height. ‘You somabitch!’

No! Jennifer prayed. Don’t!

‘Sit down!’ Di Silva thundered. ‘Is that the way you lost your temper when you killed Raymond Thorpe?’

‘Thorpe was tryin’ ta kill me.’

‘With these?’ Di Silva held up the butcher knife and the pair of tongs. ‘I’m sure you could have taken that knife away from him.’ He waved the tongs around. ‘And you were afraid of this?’ He turned back to the jury and held up the tongs deprecatingly. ‘This doesn’t look so terribly lethal. If the deceased had been able to hit you over the head with it, it might have caused a small bump. What exactly is this pair of tongs, Mr Wilson?’

Abraham Wilson said softly, ‘They’re testicle crushers.’

The jury was out for eight hours.

Robert Di Silva and his assistants left the courtroom to take a break, but Jennifer stayed in her seat, unable to tear herself away.

When the jury filed out of the room, Ken Bailey came up to Jennifer. ‘How about a cup of coffee?’

‘I couldn’t swallow anything.’

She sat in the courtroom, afraid to move, only dimly aware of the people around her. It was over. She had done her best. She closed her eyes and tried to pray, but the fear in her was too strong. She felt as though she, along with Abraham Wilson, was about to be sentenced to death.

The jury was filing back into the room, their faces grim and foreboding, and Jennifer’s heart began to beat faster. She could see by their faces that they were going to convict. She thought she would faint. Because of her, a man was going to be executed. She should never have taken the case in the first place. What right had she to put a man’s life in her hands? She must have been insane to think she could win over someone as experienced as Robert Di Silva. She wanted to run up to the jurors before they could give their verdict and say, Wait! Abraham Wilson hasn’t had a fair trial. Please let another attorney defend him. Someone better than I am.

But it was too late. Jennifer stole a look at Abraham Wilson’s face. He sat there as immobile as a statue. She could feel no hatred coming from him now, only a deep despair. She wanted to say something to comfort him, but there were no words.

Judge Waldman was speaking. ‘Has the jury reached a verdict?’

‘It has, Your Honor.’

The judge nodded and his clerk walked over to the foreman of the jury, took a slip of paper from him and handed it to the judge. Jennifer felt as though her heart were going to come out of her chest. She could not breathe. She wanted to hold back this moment, to freeze it forever before the verdict was read.

Judge Waldman studied the slip of paper in his hands; then he slowly looked around the courtroom. His eyes rested on the members of the jury, on Robert Di Silva, on Jennifer and finally on Abraham Wilson.

‘The defendant will please rise.’

Abraham Wilson got to his feet, his movements slow and tired, as though all the energy had been drained out of him.

Judge Waldman read from the slip of paper. ‘This jury finds the defendant, Abraham Wilson, not guilty as charged.’

There was a momentary hush and the judge’s further words were drowned out in a roar from the spectators. Jennifer stood there, stunned, unable to believe what she was hearing. She turned toward Abraham Wilson, speechless. He stared at her for an instant with those small, mean eyes. And then that ugly face broke into the broadest grin that Jennifer had ever seen. He reached down and hugged her and Jennifer tried to fight back her tears.

The press was crowding around Jennifer, asking for a statement, barraging her with questions.

‘How does it feel to beat the District Attorney?’

‘Did you think you were going to win this case?’

‘What would you have done if they had sent Wilson to the electric chair?’

Jennifer shook her head to all questions. She could not bring herself to talk to them. They had come here to watch a spectacle, to see a man being hounded to his death. If the verdict had gone the other way … she could not bear to think about it. Jennifer began to collect her papers and stuff them into a briefcase.

A bailiff approached her. ‘Judge Waldman wants to see you in his chambers, Miss Parker.’

She had forgotten that there was a contempt of court citation waiting for her but it no longer seemed important. The only thing that mattered was that she had saved Abraham Wilson’s life.

Jennifer glanced over at the prosecutor’s table. District Attorney Silva was savagely stuffing papers into a briefcase, berating one of his assistants. He caught Jennifer’s look. His eyes met hers and he needed no words.

Judge Lawrence Waldman was seated at his desk when Jennifer walked in. He said curtly, ‘Sit down, Miss Parker.’ Jennifer took a seat. ‘I will not allow you or anyone else to turn my courtroom into a sideshow.’

Jennifer flushed. ‘I tripped. I couldn’t help what –’

Judge Waldman raised a hand. ‘Please. Spare me.’ Jennifer clamped her lips tightly together.

Judge Waldman leaned forward in his chair. ‘Another thing I will not tolerate in my court is insolence.’ Jennifer watched him warily, saying nothing. ‘You overstepped the bounds this afternoon. I realize that your excessive zeal was in defense of a man’s life. Because of that, I have decided not to cite you for contempt.’

‘Thank you, Your Honor.’ Jennifer had to force the words out.

The judge’s face was unreadable as he continued: ‘Almost invariably, when a case is finished I have a sense of whether justice has been served or not. In this instance, quite frankly, I’m not sure.’ Jennifer waited for him to go on.

‘That’s all, Miss Parker.’

In the evening editions of the newspapers and on the television news that night, Jennifer Parker was back in the headlines, but this time she was the heroine. She was the legal David who had slain Goliath. Pictures of her and Abraham Wilson and District Attorney Di Silva were plastered all over the front pages. Jennifer hungrily devoured every word of the stories, savoring them. It was such a sweet victory after all the disgrace she had suffered earlier.

Ken Bailey took her to dinner at Luchow’s to celebrate, and Jennifer was recognized by the captain and several of the customers. Strangers called Jennifer by name and congratulated her. It was a heady experience.

‘How does it feel to be a celebrity?’ Ken grinned.

‘I’m numb.’

Someone sent a bottle of wine to the table.

‘I don’t need anything to drink,’ Jennifer said. ‘I feel as though I’m already drunk.’

But she was thirsty and she drank three glasses of wine while she rehashed the trial with Ken.

‘I was scared. Do you know what it’s like to hold someone else’s life in your hands? It’s like playing God. Can you think of anything scarier than that? I mean, I come from Kelso … could we have another bottle of wine, Ken?’

‘Anything you want.’

Ken ordered a feast for them both, but Jennifer was too excited to eat.

‘Do you know what Abraham Wilson said to me the first time I met him? He said, “You crawl into my skin and I’ll crawl into yours and then you and me will rap about hate.” Ken, I was in his skin today, and do you know something? I thought the jury was going to convict me. I felt as though I was going to be executed. I love Abraham Wilson. Could we have some more wine?’

‘You haven’t eaten a bite.’

‘I’m thirsty.’

Ken watched, concerned, as Jennifer kept filling and emptying her glass. ‘Take it easy.’

She waved a hand in airy dismissal. ‘It’s California wine. It’s like drinking water.’ She took another swallow. ‘You’re my best friend. Do you know who’s not my best friend? The great Robert Di Sliva. Di Sivla.’

‘Di Silva.’

‘Him, too. He hates me. D’ja see his face today? O-o-oh, he was mad! He said he was gonna run me out of court. But he didn’t, did he?’

‘No, he –’

‘You know what I think? You know what I really think?’

‘I –’

‘Di Sliva thinks I’m Ahab and he’s the white whale.’

‘I think you have that backwards.’

‘Thank you, Ken. I can always count on you. Let’s have ’nother bottle of wine.’

‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough?’

‘Whales get thirsty.’ Jennifer giggled. ‘Tha’s me. The big old white whale. Did I tell you I love Abraham Wilson? He’s the most beautiful man I ever met. I looked in his eyes, Ken, my frien’, ’n’ he’s beautiful! Y’ever look in Di Sivla’s eyes? O-o-oh! They’re cold! I mean, he’s ’n iceberg. But he’s not a bad man. Did I tell you ’bout Ahab ’n’ the big white whale?’

‘Yes.’

‘I love old Ahab. I love everybody. ’N’ you know why, Ken? ’Cause Abraham Wilson is alive tonight. He’s alive. Le’s have ’nother bottle a wine to celebrate …’

It was two A.M. when Ken Bailey took Jennifer home. He helped her up the four flights of stairs and into her little apartment. He was breathing hard from the climb.

‘You know,’ Ken said, ‘I can feel the effects of all that wine.’

Jennifer looked at him pityingly. ‘People who can’t handle it shoudn’ drink.’

And she passed out cold.

She was awakened by the shrill screaming of the telephone. She carefully reached for the instrument, and the slight movement sent rockets of pain through every nerve ending in her body.

‘’Lo …’

‘Jennifer? This is Ken.’

‘’Lo, Ken.’

‘You sound terrible. Are you all right?’

She thought about it. ‘I don’t think so. What time is it?’

‘It’s almost noon. You’d better get down here. All hell is breaking loose.’

‘Ken – I think I’m dying.’

‘Listen to me. Get out of bed – slowly – take two aspirin and a cold shower, drink a cup of hot black coffee, and you’ll probably live.’

When Jennifer arrived at the office one hour later, she was feeling better. Not good, Jennifer thought, but better.

Both telephones were ringing when she walked into the office.

‘They’re for you.’ Ken grinned. ‘They haven’t stopped! You need a switchboard.’

There were calls from newspapers and national magazines and television and radio stations wanting to do in-depth stories on Jennifer. Overnight, she had become big news. There were other calls, the kind of which she had dreamed. Law firms that had snubbed her before were telephoning to ask when it would be convenient for her to meet with them.

In his office downtown, Robert Di Silva was screaming at his first assistant. ‘I want you to start a confidential file on Jennifer Parker. I want to be informed of every client she takes on. Got it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Move!’

Chapter Nine

‘He ain’t no button guy anymore’n I’m a fuckin’ virgin. He’s been workin’ on the arm all his life.’

‘The asshole came suckin’ up to me askin’ me to put in the word with Mike. I said, “Hey, paesano, I’m only a soldier, ya know?” If Mike needs another shooter he don’t have to go lookin’ in shit alley.’

‘He was tryin’ to run a game on you, Sal.’

‘Well, I clocked him pretty good. He ain’t connected and in this business, if you ain’t connected, you’re nothin’.’

They were talking in the kitchen of a three-hundred-year-old Dutch farmhouse in upstate New Jersey.

There were three of them in the room: Nick Vito, Joseph Colella and Salvatore ‘Little Flower’ Fiore.

Nick Vito was a cadaverous-looking man with thin lips that were almost invisible, and deep green eyes that were dead. He wore two hundred dollar shoes and white socks.

Joseph ‘Big Joe’ Colella was a huge slab of a man, a granite monolith, and when he walked he looked like a building moving. Someone had once called him a vegetable garden. ‘Colella’s got a potato nose, cauliflower ears and a pea brain.’

Colella had a soft, high-pitched voice and a deceptively gentle manner. He owned a race-horse and had an uncanny knack for picking winners. He was a family man with a wife and six children. His specialties were guns, acid and chains. Joe’s wife, Carmelina, was a strict Catholic, and on Sundays when Colella was not working, he always took his family to church.

The third man, Salvatore Fiore, was almost a midget. He stood five feet three inches and weighed a hundred and fifteen pounds. He had the innocent face of a choirboy and was equally adept with a gun or a knife. Women were greatly attracted to the little man, and he boasted a wife, half a dozen girlfriends, and a beautiful mistress. Fiore had once been a jockey, working the tracks from Pimlico to Tijuana. When the racing commissioner at Hollywood Park banned Fiore for doping a horse, the commissioner’s body was found floating in Lake Tahoe a week later.

The three men were soldati in Antonio Granelli’s Family, but it was Michael Moretti who had brought them in, and they belonged to him, body and soul.

In the dining room, a Family meeting was taking place. Seated at the head of the table was Antonio Granelli, capo of the most powerful Mafia Family on the east coast. Seventy-two years old, he was still a powerful-looking man with the shoulders and broad chest of a laborer, and a shock of white hair. Born in Palermo, Sicily, Antonio Granelli came to America when he was fifteen and went to work on the waterfront on the west side of lower Manhattan. By the time he was twenty-one, he was lieutenant to the dock boss. The two men had an argument, and when the boss mysteriously disappeared, Antonio Granelli had taken over. Anyone who wanted to work on the docks had to pay him. He had used the money to begin his climb to power, and had expanded rapidly, branching out into loan-sharking and the numbers racket, prostitution and gambling and drugs and murder. Over the years he had been indicted thirty-two times and had only been convicted once, on a minor assault charge. Granelli was a ruthless man with the down-to-earth cunning of a peasant, and a total amorality.

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