Rage of Angels (29 page)

Antonio Granelli died and Michael took over full control of his empire. The funeral was lavish, as befitted a man of the Godfather’s stature. The heads and members of Families from all over the country came to pay their respects to their departed friend, and to assure the new
capo
of their loyalty and support. The FBI was there, taking photographs, as well as half a dozen other government agencies.

Rosa was heartbroken, because she had loved her father very much, but she took consolation and pride in the fact that her husband was taking her father’s place as head of the Family.

Jennifer was proving more valuable to Michael every day. When there was a problem, it was Jennifer whom Michael consulted. Thomas Colfax was becoming an increasingly bothersome appendage.

“Don’t worry about him,” Michael told Jennifer. “He’s going to retire soon.”

The soft chimes of the telephone awakened Jennifer. She lay in bed, listening a moment, then sat up and looked at the digital clock on the nightstand. It was three o’clock in the morning.

She lifted the receiver. “Hello.”

It was Michael. “Can you get dressed right away?”

Jennifer sat up straighter and tried to blink the sleep from her eyes. “What’s happened?”

“Eddie Santini was just picked up on an armed robbery charge. He’s a two-time loser. If they convict him, they’ll throw the key away.”

“Were there any witnesses?”

“Three, and they all got a good look at him.”

“Where is he now?”

“The Seventeenth Precinct.”

“I’m on my way, Michael.”

Jennifer put on a robe and went down to the kitchen and made herself a steaming pot of coffee. She sat drinking it in the breakfast room, staring out at the night, thinking.
Three witnesses. And they all got a good look at him.

She picked up the telephone and dialed. “Give me the City Desk.”

Jennifer spoke rapidly. “I got some information for you. A guy named Eddie Santini’s just been picked up on an armed robbery charge. His attorney’s Jennifer Parker. She’s gonna try to spring him.”

She hung up and repeated the call to two other newspapers and a television station. When Jennifer was through telephoning, she looked at her watch and had another leisurely cup of coffee. She wanted to make certain the photographers had time to get to the precinct on 51st Street. She went upstairs and got dressed.

Before Jennifer left, she went into Joshua’s bedroom. His night-light was on. He was sound asleep, the blankets twisted
around his restless body. Jennifer gently straightened the blankets, kissed him on the forehead and started to tiptoe out of the room.

“Where you goin’?”

She turned and said, “I’m going to work. Go back to sleep.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s four o’clock in the morning.”

Joshua giggled. “You sure work funny hours for a lady.”

She came back to his bedside. “And you sure sleep funny hours for a man.”

“Are we going to watch the Mets game tonight?”

“You bet we are. Back to Dreamland.”

“Okay, Mom. Have a good case.”

“Thanks, pal.”

A few minutes later, Jennifer was in her car, on her way into Manhattan.

When Jennifer arrived, a lone photographer from the
Daily News
was waiting. He stared at Jennifer and said, “It’s true! You really handling the Santini case?”

“How did you know that?” Jennifer demanded.

“A little birdie, counselor.”

“You’re wasting your time. No pictures.”

She went inside and arranged for Eddie Santini’s bail, stalling the proceedings until she was sure the television cameraman and a reporter and photographer had arrived from
The New York Times.
She decided she could not wait for the
Post.

The police captain on duty said, “There’re some reporters and television people out front, Miss Parker. You can go out the back way if you want.”

“It’s all right,” Jennifer said. “I’ll handle them.”

She led Eddie Santini to the front corridor where the
photographers and reporters were waiting.

She said, “Look, gentlemen, no pictures, please.”

And Jennifer stepped aside while the photographer and television cameraman took pictures.

A reporter asked, “What makes this case big enough for you to handle?”

“You’ll find out tomorrow. Meanwhile, I would advise you not to use those pictures.”

One of the reporters called out, “Come on, Jennifer! Haven’t you heard of freedom of the press?”

At noon Jennifer got a call from Michael Moretti. His voice was angry. “Have you seen the newspapers?”

“No.”

“Well, Eddie Santini’s picture is all over the front pages and on the television news. I didn’t tell you to turn this goddamned thing into a circus!”

“I know you didn’t. It was my own idea.”

“Jesus! What’s the point?”

“The point, Michael, is those three witnesses.”

“What about them?”

“You said they got a good look at Eddie Santini. Well, when they get up in court to identify him, they’re going to have to prove they didn’t identify him because they saw his picture all over the newspapers and television.”

There was a long silence, and then Michael’s voice said admiringly, “I’m a son of a bitch!”

Jennifer had to laugh.

Ken Bailey was waiting in her office that afternoon when Jennifer walked in, and she knew instantly from the look on his face that something was wrong.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ken demanded.

“Tell you what?”

“About you and Mike Moretti.”

Jennifer checked the retort that rose to her lips. Saying
It’s none of your business
was too easy. Ken was her friend; he cared. In a way, it was his business. Jennifer remembered it all, the tiny office they had shared, how he had helped her.
I’ve got a lawyer friend who’s been bugging me to serve some subpoenas for him. I haven’t got time. He pays twelve-fifty for each subpoena plus mileage. Would you help me out?

“Ken, let’s not discuss this.”

His tone was filled with cold fury. “Why not? Everybody else is discussing it. The word is that you’re Moretti’s girl.” His face was pale. “Jesus!”

“My personal life—”

“He lives in a sewer and you brought that sewer into the office! You’ve got us all working for Moretti and his hoodlums.”

“Stop it!”

“I am. That’s what I came to tell you. I’m leaving.”

His words were a shock. “You can’t leave. You’re wrong about what you think of Michael. If you’ll just meet him, you’ll see—”

The moment the words were out, Jennifer knew she had made a mistake.

He looked at her sadly and said, “He’s really wrapped you up, hasn’t he? I remember you when you knew who you were. That’s the girl I want to remember. Say good-bye to Joshua for me.”

And Ken Bailey was gone.

Jennifer felt the tears begin to come, and her throat constricted so tightly that she could hardly breathe. She put her head down on the desk and closed her eyes, trying to shut out the hurt.

When she opened her eyes, night had fallen. The office
was in darkness except for the eerie red glow cast by the city lights. She walked over to the window and stared out at the city below. It looked like a jungle at night, with only a dying campfire to keep away the encroaching terrors.

It was Michael’s jungle. There was no way out of it.

The Cow Palace in San Francisco was a madhouse, filled with noisy, chanting delegates from all over the country. There were three candidates vying for the presidential nomination, and each had done well in the primaries. But the star, the one who outshone them all, was Adam Warner. The nomination was his on the fifth ballot, and it was made unanimous. His party finally had a candidate they could put forward with pride. The incumbent President, the leader of the opposition party, had a low credibility rating and was considered by the majority of people to be inept.

“Unless you take your cock out and pee in front of a camera on the six o’clock news,” Stewart Needham told Adam, “you’re going to be the next President of the United States.”

After his nomination, Adam flew to New York for a meeting at the Regency Hotel with Needham and several influential members of the party. Present in the room was Blair
Roman, head of the second largest advertising agency in the country.

Stewart Needham said, “Blair will be in charge of running the publicity end of your campaign, Adam.”

“Can’t tell you how glad I am to be aboard.” Blair Roman grinned. “You’re going to be my third President.”

“Really?” Adam was not impressed with the man.

“Let me fill you in on some of the game plan.” Blair Roman started pacing the room, swinging an imaginary golf club as he walked. “We’re going to saturate the country with television commercials, build an image of you as the man who can solve America’s problems. Big Daddy—only a young, good-looking Big Daddy. You get it, Mr. President?”

“Mr. Roman…”

“Yes?”

“Would you mind not calling me ‘Mr. President’?”

Blair Roman laughed. “Sorry. Slip of the tongue, A.W. In my mind you’re already in the White House. Believe me, I know you’re the man for the job or I wouldn’t be undertaking this campaign. I’m too rich to have to work for money.”

Beware of people who say they’re too rich to have to work for money
, Adam thought.

“
We
know you’re the man for the job—now we have to let the
people
know it. If you’ll just take a look at these charts I’ve prepared, I’ve broken down different sections of the country into various ethnic groups. We’re going to send you to key places where you can press the flesh.”

He leaned forward into Adam’s face and said earnestly, “Your wife is going to be a big asset. Women’s magazines will go crazy for stuff on your family life. We’re going to
merchandise
you, A.W.”

Adam found himself beginning to get irritated. “Just how do you plan to do that?”

“It’s simple. You’re a product, A.W. We’re going to sell you just like we’d sell any other product. We—”

Adam turned to Stewart Needham. “Stewart, could I see you alone?”

“Certainly.” Needham turned to the others and said, “Let’s break for dinner and meet back here at nine o’clock. We’ll continue the discussion then.”

When the two men were alone, Adam said, “Jesus, Stewart! He’s planning to turn this thing into a circus! ‘You’re a product, A.W. We’re going to sell you just like we’d sell any other product.’ He’s disgusting!”

“I know how you feel, Adam,” Stewart Needham said soothingly, “but Blair gets results. When he said you’re his third President, he wasn’t kidding. Every President since Eisenhower has had an advertising agency masterminding his campaign. Whether you like it or not, a campaign needs salesmanship. Blair Roman knows the psychology of the public. As distasteful as it may be, the reality is that if you want to be elected to any public office, you have to be sold—you have to be merchandised.”

“I hate it.”

“That’s part of the price you’re going to have to pay.” He walked over to Adam and put an arm across his shoulder. “All you have to do is keep the objective in mind. You want the White House? All right. We’re going to do everything we can to get you there. But you have to do your part. If being the ringmaster in a three-ring circus is part of it, bear with it.”

“Do we really need Blair Roman?”

“We need
a
Blair Roman. Blair’s as good as there is. Let me handle him. I’ll keep him away from you as much as possible.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

The campaign began. It started with a few television spots and personal appearances and gradually grew bigger and bigger until it spanned the nation. Wherever one went, there was Senator Adam Warner in living color. In every part of the
country he could be watched on television, heard on radio, seen on billboards. Law and order was one of the key issues of the campaign, and Adam’s crime investigation committee was heavily stressed.

Adam taped one-minute television spots, three-minute television spots and five-minute spots, geared for different sections of the country. The television spots that went to West Virginia dealt with unemployment and the vast supply of underground coal that could make the area prosperous; the television segments for Detroit talked about urban blight; in New York City, the subject was the rising crime rate.

Blair Roman confided to Adam, “All you have to do is hit the highlights, A.W. You don’t have to discuss key issues in depth. We’re selling the product, and that’s
you.
”

Adam said, “Mr. Roman, I don’t care what your goddamned statistics say. I’m not a breakfast food and I don’t intend to be sold like one. I
will
talk about issues in depth because I think the American people are intelligent enough to want to know about them.”

“I only—”

“I want you to try to set up a debate between me and the President, to discuss the basic issues.”

Blair Roman said, “Right. I’ll take a meeting with the President’s boys right away, A.W.”

“One more thing,” Adam said.

“Yes? What’s that?”

“Stop calling me A.W.”

In the mail was a notice from the American Bar Association announcing its annual convention in Acapulco. Jennifer was in the midst of handling half a dozen cases, and ordinarily she would have ignored the invitation, but the convention was going to take place during Joshua’s school vacation and Jennifer thought about how much Joshua would enjoy Acapulco.

She said to Cynthia, “Accept. I’ll want three reservations.”

She would take Mrs. Mackey along.

At dinner that evening, Jennifer broke the news to Joshua. “How would you like to go to Acapulco?”

“That’s in Mexico,” he announced. “On the west coast.”

“That’s right.”

“Can we go to a topless beach?”

“Joshua!”

“Well, they have them there. Being naked is only natural.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“And can we go deep-sea fishing?”

Jennifer visualized Joshua trying to pull in a large marlin and she contained her smile. “We’ll see. Some of those fish get pretty big.”

“That’s what makes it exciting,” Joshua explained seriously. “If it’s easy, it’s no fun. There’s no sport to it.”

It could have been Adam talking.

“I agree.”

“What else can we do there?”

“Well, there’s horseback riding, hiking, sightseeing—”

“Let’s not go to a bunch of old churches, okay? They all look alike.”

Adam saying,
If you’ve seen one church, you’ve seen them all.

The convention began on a Monday. Jennifer, Joshua and Mrs. Mackey flew to Acapulco on Friday morning on a Braniff jet. Joshua had flown many times before, but he was still excited by the idea of airplanes. Mrs. Mackey was petrified with fear.

Joshua consoled her. “Look at it this way. Even if we crash, it’ll only hurt for a second.”

Mrs. Mackey turned pale.

The plane landed at Benito Juarez Airport at four o’clock in the afternoon, and an hour later the three of them arrived at Las Brisas. The hotel was eight miles outside of Acapulco, and consisted of a series of beautiful pink bungalows built on a hill, each with its private patio. Jennifer’s bungalow, like several of the others, had its own swimming pool. Reservations had been difficult to get, for there were half a dozen other conventions and Acapulco was overcrowded, but Jennifer had made a telephone call to one of her corporate clients, and an hour later she had been informed that Las Brisas was eagerly expecting her.

When they had unpacked, Joshua said, “Can we go into town and hear them talk? I’ve never been to a country where nobody speaks English.” He thought a moment and added, “Unless you count England.”

They went into the city and wandered along the Zocalo, the frenetic center of downtown, but to Joshua’s disappointment the only language to be heard was English. Acapulco was crowded with American tourists.

They strolled along the colorful market on the main pier opposite Sanborn’s in the old part of town, where there were hundreds of stalls selling a bewildering variety of merchandise.

In the late afternoon, they took a
calandria
, a horse-drawn carriage, to Pie de la Cuesta, the sunset beach, and then returned to town.

They had dinner at Armando’s Le Club, and it was excellent.

“I
love
Mexican food,” Joshua declared.

“I’m glad,” Jennifer said. “Only this is French.”

“Well, it has a Mexican flavor.”

Saturday was a full day. They went shopping in the morning at the Quebrada, where the nicer stores were, and then stopped for a Mexican lunch at Coyuca 22. Joshua said “I suppose you’re going to tell me this is French, too.”

“No, this is the real thing, gringo.”

“What’s a gringo?”

“You are, amigo.”

They walked by the
fronton
building near the Plaza Caleta, and Joshua saw the billboards advertising jai alai inside.

He stood there, wide-eyed, and Jennifer asked, “Would you like to see the jai alai games?”

Joshua nodded. “If it’s not too expensive. If we run out of money we won’t be able to get home.”

“I think we can manage.”

They went inside and watched the furious play of the teams. Jennifer placed a bet for Joshua and his team won.

When Jennifer suggested returning to the hotel, Joshua said, “Gosh, Mom, can’t we see the divers first?”

The hotel manager had mentioned them that morning.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to rest, Joshua?”

“Oh, if you’re too tired, sure. I keep forgettin’ about your age.”

That did it. “Never mind my age.” Jennifer turned to Mrs. Mackey. “Are you up to it?”

“Certainly,” Mrs. Mackey groaned.

The diving act was at La Quebrada cliffs. Jennifer, Joshua and Mrs. Mackey stood on a public viewing platform while divers carrying lighted torches plunged one hundred and fifty feet into a narrow, rock-lined cove, timing their descent to coincide with the arrival of incoming breakers. The slightest miscalculation would have meant instant death.

When the exhibition was over, a boy came around to collect a donation for the divers.

“Uno peso, por favor.”

Jennifer gave him five pesos.

She dreamed about the divers that night.

Las Brisas had its own beach, La Concha, and early Sunday morning Jennifer, Joshua and Mrs. Mackey drove down in one of the pink canopied jeeps that the hotel supplied to its guests. The weather was perfect. The harbor was a sparkling blue canvas dotted with speedboats and sailboats.

Joshua stood at the edge of the terrace, watching the water skiers race by.

“Did you know water skiing was invented in Acapulco, Mom?”

“No. Where did you hear that?”

“I either read it in a book or I made it up.”

“I vote for ‘made it up.’”

“Does that mean I can’t go water skiing?”

“Those speedboats are pretty fast. Aren’t you afraid?”

Joshua looked out at the skiers skimming over the water. “That man said, ‘I’m going to send you home to Jesus.’ And then he put a nail in my hand.”

It was the first reference he had made to the terrible ordeal he had gone through.

Jennifer knelt and put her arms around her son. “What made you think of that, Joshua?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess because Jesus walked on water and everyone out there is walking on water.” He saw the stricken look on his mother’s face. “I’m sorry, Mom. I don’t think about it much, honest.”

She hugged him tightly and said, “It’s all right, darling. Of course you can go water skiing. Let’s have lunch first.”

The outdoor restaurant at La Concha had wrought-iron tables set with pink linen, shaded by pink-and-white-striped umbrellas. Lunch was a buffet and the long serving table was crowded with an incredible assortment of dishes. There were fresh lobster and crab and salmon, selections of cold and hot meats, salads, a variety of raw and cooked vegetables, cheeses and fruits. There was a separate table for an array of freshly baked desserts. The two women watched Joshua fill and empty his plate three times before he sat back, satisfied.

“It’s a very good restaurant,” he pronounced. “I don’t care
what
kind of food it is.” He stood up. “I’ll go check on the water skiing.”

Mrs. Mackey had barely picked at her food.

“Are you feeling all right?” Jennifer asked. “You haven’t eaten anything since we arrived.”

Mrs. Mackey leaned forward and whispered darkly, “I don’t want Montezuma’s Revenge!”

“I don’t think you have to worry about that in a place like this.”

“I don’t hold with foreign food,” Mrs. Mackey sniffed.

Joshua ran back to the table and said, “I got a boat. Is it okay if I go now, Mom?”

“Don’t you want to wait a while?”

“What for?”

“Joshua, you’ll sink with all you’ve eaten.”

“Test me!” he begged.

While Mrs. Mackey watched on shore, Jennifer and Joshua got into the speedboat and Joshua had his first water-skiing lesson. He spent the first five minutes falling down, and after that, performed as though born to water skiing. Before the afternoon was over, Joshua was doing tricks on one ski, and finally skiing on his heels with no skis.

They spent the rest of the afternoon lazing on the sand and swimming.

On the way back to Las Brisas in the jeep, Joshua snuggled up against Jennifer and said, “You know something, Mom? I think this was probably the best day of my whole life.”

Michael’s words flashed through her mind:
I just want you to know this has been the greatest night of my life.

Early Monday morning Jennifer arose and got dressed to attend the convention. She put on a full-flowing dark green skirt and an off-the-shoulder blouse embroidered in giant red roses, that revealed her patina of suntan. She studied herself in the mirror and was pleased. Despite the fact that her son thought she was over the hill, Jennifer was aware that she looked like Joshua’s beautiful thirty-four-year-old sister. She laughed to herself and thought that this vacation was one of her better ideas.

Jennifer said to Mrs. Mackey, “I have to go to work now. Take good care of Joshua. Don’t let him get too much sun.”

The huge convention center was a cluster of five buildings joined by roofed circulation terraces, sprawled over thirty-five acres of lush greenery. The carefully tended lawns were studded with pre-Columbian statues.

The Bar Association Convention was being held in
Teotihuacan
, the main hall, holding an audience of seventy-five hundred people.

Jennifer went to the registration desk, signed in and entered the large hall. It was packed. In the crowd she spotted dozens of friends and acquaintances. Nearly all of them had changed from conservative business suits and dresses to brightly colored sport shirts and pants. It was as though everyone was on vacation.
There is a good reason
, Jennifer thought,
for holding the convention in a place like Acapulco instead of in Chicago or Detroit.
They could take off their stiff collars and somber ties and let themselves go under a tropical sun.

Jennifer had been given a program at the door but, deep in conversation with some friends, had paid no attention to it.

A deep voice boomed over the loudspeaker, “Attention, please! Would you all please take your seats? Attention, please! We would like to get the meeting started. Would you sit down, please!”

Reluctantly the small groups began to break up as people started to find seats. Jennifer looked up to see that half a dozen men had mounted the dais.

In the center was Adam Warner.

Jennifer stood there, frozen, as Adam walked to the chair next to the microphone and took a seat. She felt her heart begin to pound. The last time she had seen Adam had been when they had had lunch at the little Italian restaurant, the day he had told her that Mary Beth was pregnant.

Jennifer’s immediate impulse was to flee. She had had no
idea Adam would be there and she could not bear the thought of facing him. Adam and his son being in the same city filled her with panic. Jennifer knew she had to get out of there quickly.

She turned to leave as the chairman announced over the loudspeaker, “If the rest of you ladies and gentlemen will take your seats, we will begin.”

As people around her began sitting down, Jennifer found herself conspicuous by standing. Jennifer slid into a seat, determined to slip away at the first opportunity.

The chairman said, “We are honored this morning to have as our guest speaker a nominee for the presidency of the United States. He is a member of the New York Bar Association and one of the most distinguished members of the United States Senate. It is with great pride that I introduce
Senator Adam Warner.
”

Jennifer watched as Adam rose, accepting the warm applause. He stepped to the microphone and looked out across the room. “Thank you, Mr. Chairman, ladies and gentlemen.”

Adam’s voice was rich and resonant, and he had an air of authority that was mesmerizing. The silence in the room was total.

“There are many reasons why we are gathered here today.” He paused. “Some of us like to swim and some of us like to snorkel…” There was a swell of appreciative laughter. “But the main reason we are here is to exchange ideas and knowledge and discuss new concepts. Today, lawyers are under greater attack than at any time in my memory. Even the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court has been sharply critical of our profession.”

Jennifer loved the way he used
our
, making him one with the rest of them. She let his words wash over her, content just to look at him, to watch the way he moved, to hear his voice. At one point he stopped to run his fingers through his hair,
and it gave Jennifer a sharp pang. It was a gesture of Joshua’s. Adam’s son was only a few miles away and Adam would never know.

Adam’s voice grew stronger, more forceful. “Some of you in this room are criminal lawyers. I must admit I have always considered that to be the most exciting branch of our profession. Criminal lawyers often deal in life and death. It is a very honorable profession and one of which we can all be proud. However”—his voice grew hard—“there are some of them”—and now Jennifer noticed that Adam was disassociating himself by his choice of the pronoun—“who are a disgrace to the oath they have taken. The American system of jurisprudence is based on the inalienable right of every citizen to have a fair trial. But when the law is made a mockery of, when lawyers spend their time and energy, imagination and skill, finding ways to defy that law, finding ways to subvert justice, then I think it is time something must be done.” Every eye in the room was fastened on Adam as he stood there, eyes blazing. “I am speaking, ladies and gentlemen, out of personal experience and a deep anger for some of the things I see happening. I am currently heading a Senate committee conducting an investigation of organized crime in the United States. My committee has found itself thwarted and frustrated time after time by men who hold themselves to be more powerful than the highest enforcement agencies of our nation. I have seen judges suborned, the families of witnesses threatened, key witnesses disappear. Organized crime in our country is like a deadly python that is squeezing our economy, swallowing up our courts, threatening our very lives. The great majority of lawyers are honorable men and women doing honorable jobs, but I want to give warning to that small minority who think their law is above our law: You’re making a grave mistake and you’re going to pay for that mistake. Thank you.”