Rage of Angels (4 page)

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!”

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 halfcooked. 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 summons 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 nut cases.

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.