Rage of Angels (9 page)

As Jennifer moved toward the jury box, she seemed to stumble and lose her balance. The box fell out of her grasp, the top flew off, and the contents spilled out over the courtroom floor. There was a gasp. The jurors began to get to their feet so they could have a better look. They were staring at the hideous collection of weapons that had tumbled from the box. There were almost one hundred of them, of every size, shape and description. Homemade hatchets and butcher knives, stilettos and deadly looking scissors with the ends honed, pellet guns, and a large, vicious-looking cleaver. There were thin wires with wooden handles, used for strangling, a leather sap, a sharpened ice pick, a machete.

Spectators and reporters were on their feet now, craning to get a better look at the arsenal that lay scattered on the floor. Judge Waldman was angrily pounding his gavel for order.

Judge Waldman looked at Jennifer with an expression she could not fathom. A bailiff hurried forward to pick up the spilled contents of the box. Jennifer waved him away. “Thank you,” she said, “I’ll do it.”

As the jurors and spectators watched, Jennifer got down on her knees and began picking up the weapons and putting them back in the box. She worked slowly, handling the weapons gingerly, looking at each one without expression before she replaced it. The jurors had taken their seats again, but they were watching every move she made. It took Jennifer a full five minutes to return the weapons to the box, while District Attorney Di Silva sat there, fuming.

When Jennifer had put the last weapon in the deadly arsenal back in the box, she rose, looked at Patterson, then turned and said to Di Silva, “Your witness.”

It was too late to repair the damage that had been done. “No cross,” the District Attorney said.

“Then I would like to call Abraham Wilson to the stand.”

“Your name?”

“Abraham Wilson.”

“Would you speak up, please?”

“Abraham Wilson.”

“Mr. Wilson, did you kill Raymond Thorpe?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Would you tell the court why?”

“He was gonna kill me.”

“Raymond Thorpe was a much smaller man than you. Did you really believe that he would be able to kill you?”

“He was comin’ at me with a knife that made him purty tall.”

Jennifer had kept out two objects from the goodie box. One was a finely honed butcher knife; the other was a large pair of metal tongs. She held up the knife. “Was this the knife that Raymond Thorpe threatened you with?”

“Objection! The defendant has no way of knowing—”

“I’ll rephrase the question. Was this similar to the knife that Raymond Thorpe threatened you with?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And these tongs?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Had you had trouble with Thorpe before?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And when he came at you armed with these two weapons, you were forced to kill him in order to save your own life?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you.”

Jennifer turned to Di Silva. “Your witness.”

Robert Di Silva rose to his feet and moved slowly toward the witness box.

“Mr. Wilson, you’ve killed before, haven’t you? I mean, this wasn’t your first murder?”

“I made a mistake and I’m payin’ for it. I—”

“Spare us your sermon. Just answer yes or no.”

“Yes.”

“So a human life doesn’t have much value to you.”

“That ain’t true. I—”

“Do you call committing two murders valuing human life? How many people would you have killed if you
didn’t
value human life? Five? Ten? Twenty?”

He was baiting Abraham Wilson and Wilson was falling for it. His jaw was clenched and his face was filling with anger.
Be careful!

“I only kilt two people.”

“Only! You
only
killed two people!” The District Attorney shook his head in mock dismay. He stepped close to the witness box and looked up at the defendant. “I’ll bet it gives you a feeling of power to be so big. It must make you feel a little bit like God. Any time you want to, you can take a life here, take a life there…”

Abraham Wilson was on his feet, rising to his full height. “You somabitch!”

No!
Jennifer prayed.
Don’t!

“Sit down!” Di Silva thundered. “Is that the way you lost your temper when you killed Raymond Thorpe?”

“Thorpe was tryin’ ta kill me.”

“With these?” Di Silva held up the butcher knife and the pair of tongs. “I’m sure you could have taken that knife away from him.” He waved the tongs around. “And you were afraid of this?” He turned back to the jury and held up the tongs deprecatingly. “This doesn’t look so terribly lethal. If the deceased had been able to hit you over the head with it, it might have caused a small bump. What exactly is this pair of tongs, Mr. Wilson?”

Abraham Wilson said softly, “They’re testicle crushers.”

The jury was out for eight hours.

Robert Di Silva and his assistants left the courtroom to take a break, but Jennifer stayed in her seat, unable to tear herself away.

When the jury filed out of the room, Ken Bailey came up to Jennifer. “How about a cup of coffee?”

“I couldn’t swallow anything.”

She sat in the courtroom, afraid to move, only dimly aware of the people around her. It was over. She had done her best. She closed her eyes and tried to pray, but the fear in her was too strong. She felt as though she, along with Abraham Wilson, was about to be sentenced to death.

The jury was filing back into the room, their faces grim and foreboding, and Jennifer’s heart began to beat faster. She could see by their faces that they were going to convict. She thought she would faint. Because of her, a man was going to be executed. She should never have taken the case in the
first place. What right had she to put a man’s life in her hands? She must have been insane to think she could win over someone as experienced as Robert Di Silva. She wanted to run up to the jurors before they could give their verdict and say,
Wait! Abraham Wilson hasn’t had a fair trial. Please let another attorney defend him. Someone better than I am.

But it was too late. Jennifer stole a look at Abraham Wilson’s face. He sat there as immobile as a statue. She could feel no hatred coming from him now, only a deep despair. She wanted to say something to comfort him, but there were no words.

Judge Waldman was speaking. “Has the jury reached a verdict?”

“It has, Your Honor.”

The judge nodded and his clerk walked over to the foreman of the jury, took a slip of paper from him and handed it to the judge. Jennifer felt as though her heart were going to come out of her chest. She could not breathe. She wanted to hold back this moment, to freeze it forever before the verdict was read.

Judge Waldman studied the slip of paper in his hands; then he slowly looked around the courtroom. His eyes rested on the members of the jury, on Robert Di Silva, on Jennifer and finally on Abraham Wilson.

“The defendant will please rise.”

Abraham Wilson got to his feet, his movements slow and tired, as though all the energy had been drained out of him.

Judge Waldman read from the slip of paper. “This jury finds the defendant, Abraham Wilson, not guilty as charged.”

There was a momentary hush and the judge’s further words were drowned out in a roar from the spectators. Jennifer stood there, stunned, unable to believe what she was hearing. She turned toward Abraham Wilson, speechless. He stared at her for an instant with those small, mean eyes. And then that ugly face broke into the broadest grin that Jennifer had ever seen.
He reached down and hugged her and Jennifer tried to fight back her tears.

The press was crowding around Jennifer, asking for a statement, barraging her with questions.

“How does it feel to beat the District Attorney?”

“Did you think you were going to win this case?”

“What would you have done if they had sent Wilson to the electric chair?”

Jennifer shook her head to all questions. She could not bring herself to talk to them. They had come here to watch a spectacle, to see a man being hounded to his death. If the verdict had gone the other way…she could not bear to think about it. Jennifer began to collect her papers and stuff them into a briefcase.

A bailiff approached her. “Judge Waldman wants to see you in his chambers, Miss Parker.”

She had forgotten that there was a contempt of court citation waiting for her but it no longer seemed important. The only thing that mattered was that she had saved Abraham Wilson’s life.

Jennifer glanced over at the prosecutor’s table. District Attorney Silva was savagely stuffing papers into a briefcase, berating one of his assistants. He caught Jennifer’s look. His eyes met hers and he needed no words.

Judge Lawrence Waldman was seated at his desk when Jennifer walked in. He said curtly, “Sit down, Miss Parker.”

Jennifer took a seat. “I will not allow you or anyone else to turn my courtroom into a sideshow.”

Jennifer flushed. “I tripped. I couldn’t help what—”

Judge Waldman raised a hand. “Please. Spare me.” Jennifer clamped her lips tightly together.

Judge Waldman leaned forward in his chair. “Another thing I will not tolerate in my court is insolence.” Jennifer watched him warily, saying nothing. “You overstepped the
bounds this afternoon. I realize that your excessive zeal was in defense of a man’s life. Because of that, I have decided not to cite you for contempt.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Jennifer had to force the words out.

The judge’s face was unreadable as he continued: “Almost invariably, when a case is finished I have a sense of whether justice has been served or not. In this instance, quite frankly, I’m not sure.” Jennifer waited for him to go on.

“That’s all, Miss Parker.”

In the evening editions of the newspapers and on the television news that night, Jennifer Parker was back in the headlines, but this time she was the heroine. She was the legal David who had slain Goliath. Pictures of her and Abraham Wilson and District Attorney Di Silva were plastered all over the front pages. Jennifer hungrily devoured every word of the stories, savoring them. It was such a sweet victory after all the disgrace she had suffered earlier.

Ken Bailey took her to dinner at Luchow’s to celebrate, and Jennifer was recognized by the captain and several of the customers. Strangers called Jennifer by name and congratulated her. It was a heady experience.

“How does it feel to be a celebrity?” Ken grinned.

“I’m numb.”

Someone sent a bottle of wine to the table.

“I don’t need anything to drink,” Jennifer said. “I feel as though I’m already drunk.”

But she was thirsty and she drank three glasses of wine while she rehashed the trial with Ken.

“I was scared. Do you know what it’s like to hold someone else’s life in your hands? It’s like playing God. Can you think of anything scarier than that? I mean, I come from
Kelso
…could we have another bottle of wine, Ken?”

“Anything you want.”

Ken ordered a feast for them both, but Jennifer was too excited to eat.

“Do you know what Abraham Wilson said to me the first time I met him? He said, ‘You crawl into my skin and I’ll crawl into yours and then you and me will rap about hate.’ Ken, I was
in
his skin today, and do you know something? I thought the jury was going to convict
me.
I felt as though I was going to be executed. I love Abraham Wilson. Could we have some more wine?”

“You haven’t eaten a bite.”

“I’m thirsty.”

Ken watched, concerned, as Jennifer kept filling and emptying her glass. “Take it easy.”

She waved a hand in airy dismissal. “It’s California wine. It’s like drinking water.” She took another swallow. “You’re my best friend. Do you know who’s not my best friend? The great Robert Di Sliva. Di Sivla.”

“Di Silva.”

“Him, too. He hates me. D’ja see his face today? O-o-oh, he was mad! He said he was gonna run me out of court. But he didn’t, did he?”

“No, he—”

“You know what I think? You know what I
really
think?”

“I—”

“Di Sliva thinks I’m Ahab and he’s the white whale.”

“I think you have that backwards.”

“Thank you, Ken. I can always count on you. Let’s have ‘nother bottle of wine.”

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

“Whales get thirsty.” Jennifer giggled. “Tha’s me. The big old white whale. Did I tell you I love Abraham Wilson? He’s the most beautiful man I ever met. I looked in his eyes, Ken, my frien’, ‘n’ he’s beautiful! Y’ever look in Di Sivla’s eyes? O-o-oh! They’re cold! I mean, he’s ‘n iceberg. But he’s not a bad man. Did I tell you ‘bout Ahab ‘n’ the big white whale?”

“Yes.”

“I love old Ahab. I love everybody. ‘N’ you know why, Ken? ‘Cause Abraham Wilson is alive tonight. He’s alive. Le’s have ‘nother bottle a wine to celebrate…”

It was two
A.M.
when Ken Bailey took Jennifer home. He helped her up the four flights of stairs and into her little apartment. He was breathing hard from the climb.

“You know,” Ken said, “I can feel the effects of all that wine.”

Jennifer looked at him pityingly. “People who can’t handle it shoudn’ drink.”

And she passed out cold.

She was awakened by the shrill screaming of the telephone. She carefully reached for the instrument, and the slight movement sent rockets of pain through every nerve ending in her body.

“’Lo…”

“Jennifer? This is Ken.”

“‘Lo, Ken.”

“You sound terrible. Are you all right?”

She thought about it. “I don’t think so. What time is it?”

“It’s almost noon. You’d better get down here. All hell is breaking loose.”

“Ken—I think I’m dying.”

“Listen to me. Get out of bed—slowly—take two aspirin and a cold shower, drink a cup of hot black coffee, and you’ll probably live.”

When Jennifer arrived at the office one hour later, she was feeling better.
Not good
, Jennifer thought,
but better.

Both telephones were ringing when she walked into the office.

“They’re for you.” Ken grinned. “They haven’t stopped! You need a switchboard.”

There were calls from newspapers and national magazines and television and radio stations wanting to do in-depth stories on Jennifer. Overnight, she had become big news. There were other calls, the kind of which she had dreamed. Law firms that had snubbed her before were telephoning to ask when it would be convenient for her to meet with them.

In his office downtown, Robert Di Silva was screaming at his first assistant. “I want you to start a confidential file on Jennifer Parker. I want to be informed of every client she takes on. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Move!”