“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.