Rage of Angels (14 page)

The anodyne was work, and Jennifer immersed herself in it totally so that she had no time to think.

She had become the darling of the press, and her courtroom successes were highly publicized. More clients came to her than she could handle, and while Jennifer’s chief interest was in criminal law, at Ken’s urging she began to accept a variety of other cases.

Ken Bailey had become more important than ever to Jennifer. He handled the investigations on her cases, and he was brilliant. She was able to discuss other problems with him and she valued his advice.

Jennifer and Ken moved again, this time into a large suite of offices on Park Avenue. Jennifer hired two bright young attorneys, Dan Martin and Ted Harris, both from Robert Di Silva’s staff, and two more secretaries.

Dan Martin was a former football player from Northwestern University and he had the appearance of an athlete and the mind of a scholar.

Ted Harris was a slight, diffident young man who wore thick milk-bottle spectacles and was a genius.

Martin and Harris took care of the legwork and Jennifer handled the appearances at trials.

The sign on the door read:
JENNIFER PARKER & ASSOCIATES.

The cases that came into the office ranged from defending a large industrial corporation on a pollution charge to representing a drunk who had suffered whiplash when he was bounced from a tavern. The drunk, of course, was a gift from Father Ryan.

“He has a bit of a problem,” Father Ryan told Jennifer. “He’s really a decent family man, but the poor fellow has such pressures that he sometimes takes a drop too much.”

Jennifer could not help but smile. As far as Father Ryan was concerned, none of his parishioners was guilty and his only desire was to help them get out of the difficulty they had carelessly gotten themselves into. One reason Jennifer understood the priest so well was that basically she felt the same as he did. They were dealing with people in trouble who had no one to help them, with neither the money nor the power to fight the Establishment, and in the end they were crushed by it.

The word
justice
was honored mostly in the breach. In the courtroom, neither the prosecuting attorney nor the defense attorney sought justice: The name of the game was to win.

From time to time, Jennifer and Father Ryan talked about Connie Garrett, but the subject always left Jennifer depressed. There was an injustice there and it rankled her.

In his office in the back room of Tony’s Place, Michael Moretti watched as Nick Vito carefully swept the office with
an electronic device, looking for gypsy taps. Through his police connections, Michael knew that no electronic surveillance had been authorized by the authorities, but once in a while an overzealous tin hotdog, a young detective, would set up a gypsy—or illegal—tap, hoping to pick up information. Michael was a careful man. His office and home were swept every morning and every evening. He was aware that he was the number one target for half a dozen different law agencies, but he was not concerned. He knew what they were doing, but they did not know what he was doing; and if they did, they could not prove it.

Sometimes late at night Michael would look through the peephole of the restaurant’s back door and watch the FBI agents pick up his garbage for analysis, and substitute other garbage for it.

One night Nick Vito said, “Jesus, boss, what if the jokers dig up something?”

Michael laughed. “I hope they do. Before they get here we switch our garbage with the restaurant next door.”

No, the federal agents were not going to touch him. The Family’s activities were expanding, and Michael had plans that he had not even revealed yet. The only stumbling block was Thomas Colfax. Michael knew he had to get rid of the old lawyer. He needed a fresh young mind. And again and again, his thoughts turned to Jennifer Parker.

Adam and Jennifer met for lunch once a week, and it was torture for both of them, for they had no time to be alone together, no privacy. They talked on the telephone every day, using code names. He was Mr. Adams and she was Mrs. Jay.

“I hate sneaking around like this,” Adam said.

“I do too.” But the thought of losing him terrified her.

The courtroom was where Jennifer escaped from her own
private pain. The courtroom was a stage, an area where she matched wits against the best that the opposition could offer. Her school was the courtroom and she learned well. A trial was a game played within certain rigid rules, where the better player won, and Jennifer was determined to be the better player.

Jennifer’s cross-examinations became theatrical events, with a skilled speed and rhythm and timing. She learned to recognize the leader of a jury and to concentrate on him, knowing he could swing the others into line.

A man’s shoes said something about his character. Jennifer looked for jurors who wore comfortable shoes, because they were inclined to be easygoing.

She learned about strategy, the overall plan of a trial, and about tactics, the day-by-day maneuvers. She became an expert at shopping for friendly judges.

Jennifer spent endless hours preparing each case, heeding the adage,
Most cases are won or lost before the trial begins.
She became adept at mnemonics so that she could remember jurors’ names: Smith—a muscular man who could handle an anvil; Helm—a man steering a boat; Newman—a newborn baby.

The court usually recessed at four o’clock, and when Jennifer was cross-examining a witness in the late afternoon, she would stall until a few minutes before four and then hit the witness with a verbal blow that would leave a strong overnight impression on the jury.

She learned to read body language. When a witness on the stand was lying, there would be telltale gestures: stroking the chin, pressing the lips together, covering the mouth, pulling the earlobes or grooming the hair. Jennifer became an expert at reading those signs, and she would zero in for the kill.

Jennifer discovered that being a woman was a disadvantage when it came to practicing criminal law. She was in macho
territory. There were still very few women criminal attorneys and some of the male lawyers resented Jennifer. On her briefcase one day Jennifer found a sticker that read:
Women Lawyers Make the Best Motions.
In retaliation, Cynthia put a sign on her desk that read:
A Woman’s Place is in the House…and in the Senate.

Most juries started out by being prejudiced against Jennifer, for many of the cases she handled were sordid, and there was a tendency to make an association between her and her client. She was expected to dress like Jane Eyre and she refused, but she was careful to dress in such a fashion that she would not arouse the envy of the women jurors, and at the same time appear feminine enough so as not to antagonize the men who might feel she was a lesbian. At one time, Jennifer would have laughed at any of these considerations. But in the courtroom she found them to be stern realities. Because she had entered a man’s world she had to work twice as hard and be twice as good as the competition. Jennifer learned to prepare thoroughly not only her own cases, but the cases of her opposition as well. She would lie in bed at night or sit at the desk in her office and plot her opponent’s strategy. What would she do if she were on the other side? What surprises would she try to pull? She was a general, planning both sides of a lethal battle.

Cynthia buzzed on the intercom. “There’s a man on line three who wants to talk to you, but he won’t give his name or tell me what it’s about.”

Six months earlier, Cynthia would simply have hung up on the man. Jennifer had taught her never to turn anyone away.

“Put him through,” Jennifer said.

A moment later she heard a man’s voice ask cautiously, “Is this Jennifer Parker?”

“Yes.”

He hesitated. “Is this a safe line?”

“Yes. What can I do for you?”

“It’s not for me. It’s for—for a friend of mine.”

“I see. What’s your friend’s problem?”

“This has to be in confidence, you understand.”

“I understand.”

Cynthia walked in and handed Jennifer the mail. “Wait,” Jennifer mouthed.

“My friend’s family locked her up in an insane asylum. She’s sane. It’s a conspiracy. The authorities are in on it.”

Jennifer was only half-listening now. She braced the telephone against her shoulder while she went through the morning’s mail.

The man was saying, “She’s rich and her family’s after her money.”

Jennifer said, “Go on,” and continued examining the mail.

“They’d probably have me put away, too, if they found I was trying to help her. It could be dangerous for me, Miss Parker.”

A nut case,
Jennifer decided. She said, “I’m afraid I can’t do anything, but I’d suggest you get hold of a good psychiatrist to help your friend.”

“You don’t understand. They’re all in on it.”

“I do understand,” Jennifer said soothingly. “I—”

“Will you help her?”

“There’s nothing I can—I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you give me your friend’s name and address and if I get a chance, I’ll look into it.”

There was a long silence. Finally the man spoke. “This is confidential, remember.”

Jennifer wished he would get off the telephone. Her first appointment was waiting in the reception room. “I’ll remember.”

“Cooper. Helen Cooper. She had a big estate on Long Island, but they took it away from her.”

Obediently, Jennifer made a note on a pad in front of her. “Fine. What sanatorium did you say she was in?” There was a click and the line went dead. Jennifer threw the note into the waste basket.

Jennifer and Cynthia exchanged a look. “It’s a weird world out there,” Cynthia said. “Miss Marshall is waiting to see you.”

Jennifer had talked to Loretta Marshall on the telephone a week earlier. Miss Marshall had asked Jennifer to represent her in a paternity suit against Curtis Randall III, a wealthy socialite.

Jennifer had spoken to Ken Bailey. “We need information on Curtis Randall III. He lives in New York, but I understand he spends a lot of time in Palm Beach. I want to know what his background is, and if he’s been sleeping with a girl named Loretta Marshall.”

She had told Ken the names of the Palm Beach hotels that the woman had given her. Two days later, Ken Bailey had reported back.

“It checks out. They spent two weeks together at hotels in Palm Beach, Miami and Atlantic City. Loretta Marshall gave birth to a daughter eight months ago.”

Jennifer sat back in her chair and looked at him thoughtfully. “It sounds as though we might have a case.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What’s the problem?”

“The problem is our client. She’s slept with everybody including the Yankees.”

“You’re saying that the father of the baby could be any number of men.”

“I’m saying it could be half the world.”

“Are any of the others wealthy enough to give child support?”

“Well, the Yankees are pretty rich, but the big league moneyman is Curtis Randall III.”

He handed her a long list of names.

Loretta Marshall walked into the office. Jennifer had not been sure what to expect. A pretty, empty-headed prostitute, in all probability. But Loretta Marshall was a complete surprise. Not only was she not pretty, she was almost homely. Her figure was ordinary. From the number of Miss Marshall’s romantic conquests, Jennifer had expected nothing less than a sexy raving beauty. Loretta Marshall was the stereotype of an elementary grade schoolteacher. She was clad in a plaid wool skirt, a button-down-collar shirt, a dark blue cardigan and sensible shoes. At first, Jennifer had been sure that Loretta Marshall was planning to use her to force Curtis Randall to pay for the privilege of raising a baby that was not his. After an hour’s conversation with the girl, Jennifer found that her opinion had changed. Loretta Marshall was transparently honest.

“Of course, I have no proof that Curtis is Melanie’s father,” she smiled shyly. “Curtis isn’t the only man I’ve slept with.”

“Then what makes you think he’s the father of your child, Miss Marshall?”

“I don’t
think.
I’m sure of it. It’s hard to explain, but I even know the night Melanie was conceived. Sometimes a woman can feel those things.”

Jennifer studied her, trying to find any sign of guile or deceit. There was none. The girl was totally without pretense. Perhaps, Jennifer thought, men found that part of her charm.

“Are you in love with Curtis Randall?”

“Oh, yes. And Curtis said he loved me. Of course, I’m not sure he still does, after what’s happened.”

If you loved him,
Jennifer wondered,
how could you have slept with all those other men?
The answer might have lain in that sad, homely face and plain figure.

“Can you help me, Miss Parker?”

Jennifer said cautiously, “Paternity cases are always difficult. I have a list of more than a dozen men you’ve slept with in the past year. There are probably others. If
I
have such a list, you can be sure that Curtis Randall’s attorney will have one.”

Loretta Marshall frowned. “What about blood samples, that kind of thing…?”

“Blood tests are admissible in evidence only if they prove that the defendant could not be the father. They’re legally inconclusive.”

“I don’t really care about me. It’s Melanie I want protected. It’s only right that Curtis should take care of his daughter.”

Jennifer hesitated, weighing her decision. She had told Loretta Marshall the truth. Paternity cases were difficult. To say nothing about being messy and unpleasant. The attorneys for the defense would have a field day when they got this woman on the stand. They would bring up a parade of her lovers and, before they were through, they would make her look like a whore. It was not the type of case that Jennifer wanted to become involved in. On the other hand, she believed Loretta Marshall. This was no ordinary gold digger out to gouge an ex-lover. The girl was convinced that Curtis Randall was the father of her child. Jennifer made her decision.

“All right,” she said, “we’ll take a crack at it.”

Jennifer set up a meeting with Roger Davis, the lawyer representing Curtis Randall. Davis was a partner in a large Wall Street firm and the importance of his position was indicated by the spacious corner suite he occupied. He was pompous and arrogant, and Jennifer disliked him on sight.