Rage of Angels

he 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 non-existent, 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 takeher 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 ahd 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 attached 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. Iwould like you so 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 five hundred dollards.'



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 curvign 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 tree 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 enormouse 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 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, Rober. 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 jsut hope to God she practices in New York, because the minutes 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 sub-poenas 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 night- mares.



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 st 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, "Isis 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  "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-andout 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 proctor ogy is to the practice of medicine. Most divorce lawyers had bad reputations. The maxim was that when x 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-anddime 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 ah, 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 Adams 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 Tamer."



"Jesus H. Christ!"



"Would you tell me what the charges are?"



"Hold on. I'll find her ticket. Luna Tamer. 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 gross 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 once.



"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 fiat 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 highsecurity 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, yon gotta pay me for it. I gonna sell it for da movie' pitchers. 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.



"Tm 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. "Thafs 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 Pll 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 moths' was coin' 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 outs here, lady. I dint 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 key ring, 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."