Rage of Angels (19 page)

The Rainy Day Robber case brought Jennifer new headlines. The accused man had been called to her attention by Father Ryan.

“A friend of mine has a bit of a problem—” he began, and they both burst out laughing.

The friend turned out to be Paul Richards, a transient, accused of robbing a bank of a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. A robber had walked into the bank wearing a long black raincoat, under which was hidden a sawed-off shotgun. The collar of the raincoat was raised so that his face was partially hidden. Once inside the bank, the man had brandished the shotgun and forced a teller to hand over all his available cash. The robber had then fled in a waiting automobile. Several witnesses had seen the getaway car, a green sedan, but the license number had been covered with mud.

Since bank robberies were a federal offense, the FBI had entered the case. They had put the
modus operandi
into a
central computer and it had come up with the name of Paul Richards.

Jennifer went to visit him at Riker’s Island.

“I swear to God I didn’t do it,” Paul Richards said. He was in his fifties, a red-faced man with cherubic blue eyes, too old to be running around pulling bank robberies.

“I don’t care whether you’re innocent or guilty,” Jennifer explained, “but I have one rule. I won’t represent a client who lies to me.”

“I swear on my mother’s life I didn’t do it.”

Oaths had ceased to impress Jennifer long ago. Clients had sworn their innocence to her on the lives of their mothers, wives, sweethearts and children. If God had taken those oaths seriously, there would have been a serious decline in the population.

Jennifer asked, “Why do you think the FBI arrested you?”

Paul Richards answered without hesitation. “Because about ten years ago I pulled a bank job and was dumb enough to get caught.”

“You used a sawed-off shotgun under a raincoat?”

“That’s right. I waited until it was raining, and then hit a bank.”

“But you didn’t do this last job?”

“No. Some smart bastard copied my act.”

The preliminary hearing was before Judge Fred Stevens, a strict disciplinarian. It was rumored that he was in favor of shipping all criminals off to some inaccessible island where they would stay for the rest of their lives. Judge Stevens believed that anyone caught stealing for the first time should have his right hand chopped off, and if caught again, should have his left hand chopped off, in ancient Islamic tradition. He was the worst judge Jennifer could have asked for. She sent for Ken Bailey.

“Ken, I want you to dig up everything you can on Judge Stevens.”

“Judge Stevens? He’s as straight as an arrow. He—”

“I know he is. Do it, please.”

The federal prosecutor who was handling the case was an old pro named Carter Gifford.

“How are you going to plead him?” Gifford asked.

Jennifer gave him a look of innocent surprise. “Not guilty, of course.”

He laughed sardonically. “Judge Stevens will get a kick out of that. I suppose you’re going to move for a jury trial.”

“No.”

Gifford studied Jennifer suspiciously. “You mean you’re going to put your client in the hands of the hanging judge?”

“That’s right.”

Gifford grinned. “I knew you’d go around the bend one day, Jennifer. I can’t wait to see this.”

“The United States of America versus Paul Richards. Is the defendant present?”

The court clerk said, “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Would the attorneys please approach the bench and identify themselves?”

Jennifer and Carter Gifford moved toward Judge Stevens.

“Jennifer Parker representing the defendant”

“Carter Gifford representing the United States Government.”

Judge Stevens turned to Jennifer and said brusquely, “I’m aware of your reputation, Miss Parker. So I’m going to tell you right now that I do not intend to waste this court’s time. I will brook no delays in this case. I want to get on with this preliminary hearing and get the arraignment over with. I intend to set a trial date as speedily as possible. I presume you will want a jury trial and—”

“No, Your Honor.”

Judge Stevens looked at her in surprise. “You’re not asking for a jury trial?”

“I am not. Because I don’t think there’s going to be an arraignment.”

Carter Gifford was staring at her.
“What?”

“In my opinion, you don’t have enough evidence to bring my client to trial.”

Carter Gifford snapped, “You need another opinion!” He turned to Judge Stevens. “Your Honor, the government has a very strong case. The defendant has already been convicted of committing exactly the same crime in exactly the same manner. Our computer picked him out of over two thousand possible suspects. We have the guilty man right here in this courtroom, and the prosecution has no intention of dropping the case against him.”

Judge Stevens turned to Jennifer. “It seems to the court that there is enough
prima facie
evidence here to have an arraignment and a trial. Do you have anything more to say?”

“I do, Your Honor. There is not one single witness who can positively identify Paul Richards. The FBI has been unable to find any of the stolen money. In fact, the only thing that links the defendant to this crime is the imagination of the prosecutor.”

The judge stared down at Jennifer and said with ominous softness, “What about the computer that picked him out?”

Jennifer sighed. “That brings us to a problem, Your Honor.”

Judge Stevens said grimly, “I imagine it does. It is easy to confuse a live witness, but it is difficult to confuse a computer.”

Carter Gifford nodded smugly, “Exactly, Your Honor.”

Jennifer turned to face Gifford. “The FBI used the IBM 370/168, didn’t it?”

“That’s right. It’s the most sophisticated equipment in the world.”

Judge Stevens asked Jennifer, “Does the defense intend to challenge the efficiency of that computer?”

“On the contrary, Your Honor. I have a computer expert here in court today who works for the company that manufactures the 370/168. He programmed the information that turned up the name of my client.”

“Where is he?”

Jennifer turned and motioned to a tall, thin man seated on a bench. He nervously came forward.

Jennifer said, “This is Mr. Edward Monroe.”

“If you’ve been tampering with my witness,” the prosecuting attorney exploded, “I’ll—”

“All I did was to request Mr. Monroe to ask the computer if there were other possible suspects. I selected ten people who had certain general characteristics similar to my client. For purposes of identification, Mr. Monroe programmed in statistics on age, height, weight, color of eyes, birthplace—the same kind of data that produced the name of my client.”

Judge Stevens asked impatiently, “What is the point of all this, Miss Parker?”

“The point is that the computer identified one of the ten people as a prime suspect in the bank robbery.”

Judge Stevens turned to Edward Monroe. “Is this true?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Edward Monroe opened his briefcase and pulled out a computer readout

The bailiff took it from Monroe and handed it to the judge. Judge Stevens glanced at it and his face became red.

He looked at Edward Monroe. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“No, sir.”

“The computer picked
me
as a possible suspect?” Judge Stevens asked.

“Yes, sir, it did.”

Jennifer explained, “The computer has no reasoning power, Your Honor. It can only respond to the information it is given. You and my client happen to be the same weight, height and age. You both drive green sedans, and you both come from the same state. That’s really as much evidence as the prosecuting attorney has. The only other factor is the way in which the crime was done. When Paul Richards committed that bank robbery ten years ago, millions of people read about it. Any one of them could have imitated his
modus operandi.
Someone did.” Jennifer indicated the piece of paper in Judge Stevens’ hand. “That shows you how flimsy the State’s case really is.”

Carter Gifford sputtered, “Your Honor—” and stopped. He did not know what to say.

Judge Stevens looked again at the computer readout in his hand and then at Jennifer.

“What would you have done,” he asked, “if the court had been a younger man, thinner than I, who drove a
blue
car?”

“The computer gave me ten other possible suspects,” Jennifer said. “My next choice would have been New York District Attorney Robert Di Silva.”

Jennifer was sitting in her office, reading the headlines, when Cynthia announced, “Mr. Paul Richards is here.”

“Send him in, Cynthia.”

He came into the office wearing a black raincoat and carrying a candy box tied with a red ribbon.

“I just wanted to tell you thanks.”

“You see? Sometimes justice
does
triumph.”

“I’m leaving town. I decided I need a little vacation.” He handed Jennifer the candy box. “A little token of my appreciation.”

“Thank you, Paul.”

He looked at her admiringly. “I think you’re terrific.”

And he was gone.

Jennifer looked at the box of candy on her desk and smiled. She had received less for handling most of Father Ryan’s friends. If she got fat, it would be Father Ryan’s fault.

Jennifer untied the ribbon and opened the box. Inside was ten thousand dollars in used currency.

One afternoon as Jennifer was leaving the courthouse, she noticed a large, black, chauffeured Cadillac limousine at the curb. As she started to walk past it, Michael Moretti stepped out. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Close up, there was an electric vitality to the man that was almost overpowering.

“Get out of my way,” Jennifer said. Her face was flushed and angry, and she was even more beautiful than Michael Moretti had remembered.

“Hey,” he laughed, “cool down. All I want to do is talk to you. All you have to do is listen. I’ll pay you for your time.”

“You’ll never have enough money.”

She started to move past him. Michael Moretti put a conciliatory hand on her arm. Just touching her increased his excitement.

He turned on all of his charm. “Be reasonable. You won’t know what you’re turning down until you hear what I have to say. Ten minutes. That’s all I want. I’ll drop you off at your office. We can talk on the way.”

Jennifer studied him a moment and said, “I’ll go with you on one condition. I want the answer to a question.”

Michael nodded. “Sure. Go ahead.”

“Whose idea was it to frame me with the dead canary?”

He answered without hesitation. “Mine.”

So now she knew. And she could have killed him. Grimly she stepped into the limousine and Michael Moretti moved in beside her. Jennifer noted that he gave the driver the address of her office building without asking.

As the limousine drove off, Michael Moretti said, “I’m glad
about all the great things that are happening to you.”

Jennifer did not bother to reply.

“I really mean that.”

“You haven’t told me what it is you want.”

“I want to make you rich.”

“Thanks. I’m rich enough.” Her voice was filled with the contempt she felt toward him.

Michael Moretti’s face flushed. “I’m trying to do you a favor and you keep fighting me.”

Jennifer turned to look at him. “I don’t want any favors from you.”

He made his voice conciliatory. “Okay. Maybe I’m trying to make up a little for what I did to you. Look, I can send you a lot of clients. Important clients. Big money. You have no idea—”

Jennifer interrupted. “Mr. Moretti, do us both a favor. Don’t say another word.”

“But I can—”

“I don’t want to represent you or any of your friends.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I represented one of you, from then on you’d own me.”

“You’ve got it all wrong,” Michael protested. “My friends are in legitimate businesses. I mean banks, insurance companies—”

“Save your breath. My services aren’t available to the Mafia.”

“Who said anything about the Mafia?”

“Call it whatever you like. No one owns me but me. I intend to keep it that way.”

The limousine stopped for a red light.

Jennifer said, “This is close enough. Thank you for the lift.” She opened the door and stepped out.

Michael said, “When can I see you again?”

“Not ever, Mr. Moretti.”

Michael watched her walk away.

My God,
he thought,
that’s a woman!
He suddenly became aware that he had an erection and smiled, because he knew that one way or another, he was going to have her.

It was the end of October, two weeks before the election, and the senatorial race was in full swing. Adam was running against the incumbent Senator John Trowbridge, a veteran politician, and the experts agreed it was going to be a close battle.

Jennifer sat at home one night, watching Adam and his opponent in a television debate. Mary Beth had been right. A divorce now could easily have wrecked Adam’s growing chances for victory.

When Jennifer walked into the office after a long business lunch, there was an urgent message for her to call Rick Arlen.

“He’s called three times in the last half-hour,” Cynthia said.

Rick Arlen was a rock star who had, almost overnight, become the hottest singer in the world. Jennifer had heard about the enormous incomes of rock stars, but until she got
involved with Rick Arlen’s affairs, she had had no idea what that really meant. From records, personal appearances, merchandising and now motion pictures, Rick Arlen’s income was more than fifteen million dollars a year. Rick was twenty-five years old, an Alabama farm boy who had been born with a gold mine in his throat.

“Get him for me,” Jennifer said.

Five minutes later he was on the line. “Hey, man, I’ve been tryin’ to reach you for hours.”

“Sorry, Rick. I was in a meeting.”

“Problem. Gotta see you.”

“Can you come in to the office this afternoon?”

“I don’t think so. I’m in Monte Carlo, doin’ a benefit for Grace and the Prince. How soon can you get here?”

“I couldn’t possibly get away now,” Jennifer protested. “I have a desk piled up—”

“Baby, I
need
you. You’ve got to get on a bird this afternoon.”

And he hung up.

Jennifer thought about the phone call. Rick Arlen had not wanted to discuss his problem over the telephone. It could be anything from drugs to girls to boys. She thought about sending Ted Harris or Dan Martin to solve whatever the problem was, but she liked Rick Arlen. In the end, Jennifer decided to go herself.

She tried to reach Adam before she left, but he was out of the office.

She said to Cynthia, “Get me reservations on an Air France flight to Nice. I’ll want a car to meet me and drive me to Monte Carlo.”

Twenty minutes later she had a reservation on a seven o’clock flight that evening.

“There’s a helicopter service from Nice directly to Monte Carlo,” Cynthia said. “I’ve booked you on that.”

“Wonderful. Thank you.”

When Ken Bailey heard why Jennifer was leaving, he said, “Who does that punk think he is?”

“He
knows
who he is, Ken. He’s one of our biggest clients.”

“When will you be back?”

“I shouldn’t be gone more than three or four days.”

“Things aren’t the same when you’re not here. I’ll miss you.”

Jennifer wondered whether he was still seeing the young blond man.

“Hold down the fort until I get back.”

As a rule, Jennifer enjoyed flying. She regarded her time in the air as freedom from pressures, a temporary escape from all the problems that beset her on the ground, a quiet oasis in space away from her endlessly demanding clients. This flight across the Atlantic, however, was unpleasant. It seemed unusually bumpy, and Jennifer’s stomach became queasy and upset.

She was feeling a bit better by the time the plane landed in Nice the next morning. There was a helicopter waiting to fly her to Monte Carlo. Jennifer had never ridden in a helicopter before and she had looked forward to it. But the sudden lift and the swooping motions made her ill again, and she was unable to enjoy the majestic sights of the Alps below and the Grande Corniche, with miniature automobiles winding up the steep mountainside.

The buildings of Monte Carlo appeared, and a few minutes later the helicopter was landing in front of the modern white summer casino on the beach.

Cynthia had telephoned ahead and Rick Arlen was there to meet Jennifer.

He gave her a big hug. “How was the trip?”

“A little rough.”

He took a closer look at her and said, “You don’t look so hot. I’ll take you up to my pad and you can rest up for the big do tonight.”

“What big do?”

“The gala. That’s why you’re here.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Grace asked me to invite anyone I liked. I like you.”

“Oh, Rick!”

Jennifer could cheerfully have strangled him. He had no idea how much he had disrupted her life. She was three thousand miles away from Adam, she had clients who needed her, court cases to try—and she had been lured to Monte Carlo to attend a party!

Jennifer said, “Rick, how could—?”

She looked at his beaming face and started to laugh.

Oh, well, she was here. Besides, the gala might turn out to be fun.

The gala was spectacular. It was a milk fund concert for orphans, sponsored by Their Serene Highnesses, Grace and Rainier Grimaldi, and it was held outdoors at the summer casino. It was a lovely evening. The night was balmy and the slight breeze coming off the Mediterranean stirred the tall palm trees. Jennifer wished Adam could have been here to share it with her. There were fifteen hundred seats occupied by a cheering audience.

Half a dozen international stars performed, but Rick Arlen was the headliner. He was backed up by a raucous three-piece band and flashing psychedelic lights that stained the velvet sky. When he finished, he received a standing ovation.

There was a private party afterward at the
piscine,
below the Hotel de Paris. Cocktails and a buffet supper were served
around the enormous pool, in which dozens of lighted candles floated on lily pads.

Jennifer estimated that there were more than three hundred people there. Jennifer had not brought an evening gown, and just looking at the splendidly dressed women made her feel like the poor little match girl. Rick introduced her to dukes and duchesses and princesses. It seemed to Jennifer that half the royalty of Europe was there. She met heads of cartels and famous opera singers. There were fashion designers and heiresses and the great soccer player, Pele. Jennifer was in the midst of a conversation with two Swiss bankers when a wave of dizziness engulfed her.

“Excuse me,” Jennifer said.

She went to find Rick Arlen. “Rick, I—”

He took one look at her and said, “You’re white as a sheet, baby. Let’s split.”

Thirty minutes later, Jennifer was in bed in the villa that Rick Arlen had rented.

“A doctor’s on his way,” Rick told her.

“I don’t need a doctor. It’s just a virus or something.”

“Right. It’s the ‘or something’ he’s gonna check out.”

Dr. André Monteux was an elderly wisp of a man somewhere in his eighties. He wore a neatly trimmed full beard and carried a black medical case.

The doctor turned to Rick Arlen. “If you would leave us alone, please.”

“Sure. I’ll wait outside.”

The doctor moved closer to the bed. “Alors. What have we here?”

“If I knew that,” Jennifer said weakly, “I’d be making this house call and you’d be lying here.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve come down with the bubonic plague.”

“Put out your tongue, please.”

Jennifer put out her tongue and began to gag. Dr. Monteux checked her pulse and took her temperature.

When he had finished, Jennifer asked, “What do you think it is, Doctor?”

“It could be any one of a number of things, beautiful lady. If you are feeling well enough tomorrow, I would like you to come to my office where I can do a thorough examination.”

Jennifer felt too ill to argue. “All right,” she said. “I’ll be there.”

In the morning Rick Arlen drove Jennifer into Monte Carlo where Dr. Monteux gave her a complete examination.

“It’s a bug of some kind, isn’t it?” Jennifer asked.

“If you wish a prediction,” the elderly doctor replied, “I will send out for fortune cookies. If you wish to know what is wrong with you, we will have to be patient until the laboratory reports come back.”

“When will that be?”

“It usually takes two or three days.”

Jennifer knew there was no way she was going to stay there for two or three days. Adam might need her. She knew she needed him.

“In the meantime, I would like you to stay in bed and rest.” He handed her a bottle of pills. “These will relax you.”

“Thank you.” Jennifer scribbled something on a piece of paper. “You can call me here.”

It was not until Jennifer had gone that Dr. Monteux looked at the piece of paper. On it was written a New York telephone number.

At the Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, where she changed planes, Jennifer took two of the pills Dr. Monteaux had given her and a sleeping pill. She slept fitfully during
most of the trip back to New York, but when she disembarked from the plane she was feeling no better. She had not arranged for anyone to meet her and she took a taxi to her apartment.

In the late afternoon, the telephone rang. It was Adam.

“Jennifer! Where have you—”

She tried to put energy into her voice. “I’m sorry, darling. I had to go to Monte Carlo to see a client and I couldn’t reach you.”

“I’ve been worried sick. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I—I’ve just been running around a lot.”

“My God! I was imagining all kinds of terrible things.”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Jennifer assured him. “How’s everything going with the campaign?”

“Fine. When am I going to see you? I was supposed to leave for Washington, but I can postpone—”

“No, you go ahead,” Jennifer said. She did not want Adam to see her like this. “I’ll be busy. We’ll spend the weekend together.”

“All right.” His tone was reluctant. “If you’re not doing anything at eleven, I’m on the CBS news.”

“I’ll watch, darling.”

Jennifer was asleep five minutes after she had replaced the receiver.

In the morning Jennifer telephoned Cynthia to tell her she was not coming into the office. Jennifer had slept rest-lessly, and when she awakened she felt no better. She tried to eat breakfast but could not keep anything down. She felt weak and realized she had had nothing to eat for almost three days.

Her mind unwillingly went over the frightening litany of things that could be wrong with her. Cancer first, naturally. She felt for lumps in her breast, but she could not feel anything
amiss. Of course, cancer could strike anywhere. It could be a virus of some kind, but the doctor surely would have known that immediately. The trouble was that it could be almost anything. Jennifer felt lost and helpless. She was not a hypochondriac, she had always been in wonderful health, and now she felt as though her body had somehow betrayed her. She could not bear it if anything happened to her. Not when everything was so wonderful.

She was going to be fine. Of course she was.

Another wave of nausea swept through her.

At eleven o’clock that morning, Dr. André Monteux called from Monte Carlo. A voice said, “Just a moment. I’ll put the doctor on.”

The moment stretched into a hundred years, and Jennifer clutched the telephone tightly, unable to bear the waiting.

Finally, Dr. Monteux’s voice came on and he said, “How are you feeling?”

“About the same,” Jennifer replied nervously. “Are the results of the tests in?”

“Good news,” Dr. Monteux said. “It is not the bubonic plague.”

Jennifer could stand no more. “What is it? What’s the matter with me?”

“You are going to have a baby, Mrs. Parker.”

Jennifer sat there numbly staring at the telephone. When she found her voice again she asked, “Are—are you sure?”

“Rabbits never lie. I take it this is your first baby.”

“Yes.”

“I would suggest you see an obstetrician as soon as possible. From the severity of the early symptoms, there may be some difficulties ahead for you.”

“I will,” Jennifer replied. “Thank you for calling, Dr. Monteux.”

She replaced the receiver and sat there, her mind in a turmoil. She was not sure when it could have happened, or what her feelings were. She could not think straight.

She was going to have Adam’s baby. And suddenly Jennifer knew how she felt. She felt
wonderful;
she felt as though she had been given some indescribably precious gift.

The timing was perfect, as though the gods were on their side. The election would soon be over and she and Adam would be married as quickly as possible. It would be a boy. Jennifer knew it. She could not wait to tell Adam.

She telephoned him at his office.

“Mr. Warner is not in,” his secretary informed her. “You might try his home.”

Jennifer was reluctant to call Adam at home, but she was bursting with her news. She dialed his number. Mary Beth answered.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Jennifer apologized. “There’s something I have to talk to Adam about. This is Jennifer Parker.”

“I’m pleased that you called,” Mary Beth said. The warmth in her voice was reassuring. “Adam had some speaking engagements, but he’s returning tonight. Why don’t you come up to the house? We can all have dinner together. Say, seven o’clock?”

Jennifer hesitated for a moment. “That will be lovely.”

It was a miracle that Jennifer did not have an accident driving to Croton-on-Hudson. Her mind was far away, dreaming of the future. She and Adam had often discussed having children. She could remember his words.
I want a couple that look exactly like you.

As Jennifer drove along the highway, she thought she could feel a slight stirring in her womb, but she told herself that that was nonsense. It was much too early. But it would not be long now. Adam’s baby was in her. It was alive and
would soon be kicking. It was awesome, overwhelming. She—

Jennifer heard someone honking at her, and she looked up and saw that she had almost forced a truck driver off the road. She gave him an apologetic smile and drove on. Nothing could spoil this day.

It was dusk when Jennifer pulled up in front of the Warner house. A fine snow was beginning to fall, lightly powdering the trees. Mary Beth, wearing a long blue brocade gown, opened the front door to greet Jennifer, taking her arm and warmly welcoming her into the house, reminding Jennifer of the first time they had met.