Rage of Angels

The anodyne was work, and Jennifer immersed herself in it totally so that she had no time to think.

She had become the darling of the press, and her courtroom successes were highly publicized. More clients came to her than she could handle, and while Jennifer's chief interest was in criminal law, at Ken's urging she began to accept a variety of other cases.

Ken Bailey had become more important than ever to Jennifer. He handled the investigations on her cases, and he was brilliant. She was able to discuss other problems with him and she valued his advice.

Jennifer and Ken moved again, this time into a large suite of offices on Park Avenue. Jennifer hired two bright young attorneys, Dan Martin and Ted Harris, both from Robert Di Silva's staff, and two more secretaries.

Dan Martin was a former football player from Northwestern University and he had the appearance of an athlete and the mind of a scholar.

Ted Harris was a slight, diffident young man who wore thick milk-bottle spectacles and was a genius.

Martin and Harris took care of the legwork and Jennifer handled the appearances at trials.

The sign on the door read: JENNIFER PARKER & ASSOCIATES.

The cases that came into the office ranged from defending a large industrial corporation on a pollution charge to representing a drunk who had suffered whiplash when he was bounced from a tavern. The drunk, of course, was a gift from Father Ryan.

"He has a bit of a problem," Father Ryan told Jennifer. "He's really a decent family man, but the poor fellow has such pressures that he sometimes takes a drop too much."

Jennifer could not help but smile. As far as Father Ryan was concerned, none of his parishioners was guilty and his only desire was to help them get out of the difficulty they had carelessly gotten themselves into. One reason Jennifer understood the priest so well was that basically she felt the same as he did. They were dealing with people in trouble who had no one to help them, with neither the money nor the power to fight the Establishment, and in the end they were crushed by it.

The word justice was honored mostly in the breach. In the courtroom, neither the prosecuting attorney nor the defense attorney sought justice: The name of the game was to win.

From time to time, Jennifer and Father Ryan talked about Connie Garrett, but the subject always left Jennifer depressed. There was an injustice there and it rankled her.

In his office in the back room of Tony's Place, Michael Moretti watched as Nick Vito carefully swept the office with an electronic device, looking for gypsy taps. Through his police connections, Michael knew that no electronic surveillance had been authorized by the authorities, but once in a while an overzealous tin hotdog, a young detective, would set up a gypsy - or illegal - tap, hoping to pick up information. Michael was a careful man. His office and home were swept every morning and every evening. He was aware that he was the number one target for half a dozen different law agencies, but he was not concerned. He knew what they were doing, but they did not know what he was doing; and if they did, they could not prove it.

Sometimes late at night Michael would look through the peephole of the restaurant's back door and watch the FBI agents pick up his garbage for analysis, and substitute other garbage for it.

One night Nick Vito said, "Jesus, boss, what if the jokers dig up something?"

Michael laughed. "I hope they do. Before they get here we switch our garbage with the restaurant next door."

No, the federal agents were not going to touch him. The Family's activities were expanding, and Michael had plans that he had not even revealed yet. The only stumbling block was Thomas Colfax. Michael knew he had to get rid of the old lawyer. He needed a fresh young mind. And again and again, his thoughts turned to Jennifer Parker.

Adam and Jennifer met for lunch once a week, and it was torture for both of them, for they had no time to be alone together, no privacy. They talked on the telephone every day, using code names. He was Mr. Adams and she was Mrs. Jay.

"I hate sneaking around like this," Adam said.

"I do too." But the thought of losing him terrified her.

The courtroom was where Jennifer escaped from her own private pain. The courtroom was a stage, an area where she matched wits against the best that the opposition could offer. Her school was the courtroom and she learned well. A trial was a game played within certain rigid rules, where the better player won, and Jennifer was determined to be the better player.

Jennifer's cross-examinations became theatrical events, with a skilled speed and rhythm and timing. She learned to recognize the leader of a jury and to concentrate on him, knowing he could swing the others into line.

A man's shoes said something about his character. Jennifer looked for jurors who wore comfortable shoes, because they were inclined to be easygoing.

She learned about strategy, the overall plan of a trial, and about tactics, the day-by-day maneuvers. She became an expert at shopping for friendly judges.

Jennifer spent endless hours preparing each case, heeding the adage, Most cases are won or lost before the trial begins. She became adept at mnemonics so that she could remember jurors' names: Smith - a muscular man who could handle an anvil; Helm - a man steering a boat; Newman - a newborn baby.

The court usually recessed at four o'clock, and when Jennifer was cross-examining a witness in the late afternoon, she would stall until a few minutes before four and then hit the witness with a verbal blow that would leave a strong overnight impression on the jury.

She learned to read body language. When a witness on the stand was lying, there would be telltale gestures: stroking the chin, pressing the lips together, covering the mouth, pulling the earlobes or grooming the hair. Jennifer became an expert at reading those signs, and she would zero in for the kill.

Jennifer discovered that being a woman was a disadvantage when it came to practicing criminal law. She was in macho territory. There were still very few women criminal attorneys and some of the male lawyers resented Jennifer. On her briefcase one day Jennifer found a sticker that read: Women Lawyers Make the Best Motions. In retaliation, Cynthia put a sign on her desk that read: A Woman's Place is in the House...and in the Senate.

Most juries started out by being prejudiced against Jennifer, for many of the cases she handled were sordid, and there was a tendency to make an association between her and her client. She was expected to dress like Jane Eyre and she refused, but she was careful to dress in such a fashion that she would not arouse the envy of the women jurors, and at the same time appear feminine enough so as not to antagonize the men who might feel she was a lesbian. At one time, Jennifer would have laughed at any of these considerations. But in the courtroom she found them to be stern realities. Because she had entered a man's world she had to work twice as hard and be twice as good as the competition. Jennifer learned to prepare thoroughly not only her own cases, but the cases of her opposition as well. She would lie in bed at night or sit at the desk in her office and plot her opponent's strategy. What would she do if she were on the other side? What surprises would she try to pull? She was a general, planning both sides of a lethal battle.

Cynthia buzzed on the intercom. "There's a man on line three who wants to talk to you, but he won't give his name or tell me what it's about."

Six months earlier, Cynthia would simply have hung up on the man. Jennifer had taught her never to turn anyone away.

"Put him through," Jennifer said.

A moment later she heard a man's voice ask cautiously, "Is this Jennifer Parker?"

"Yes."

He hesitated. "Is this a safe line?"

"Yes. What can I do for you?"

"It's not for me. It's for - for a friend of mine."

"I see. What's your friend's problem?"

"This has to be in confidence, you understand."

"I understand."

Cynthia walked in and handed Jennifer the mail. "Wait," Jennifer mouthed.

"My friend's family locked her up in an insane asylum. She's sane. It's a conspiracy. The authorities are in on it."

Jennifer was only half-listening now. She braced the telephone against her shoulder while she went through the morning's mail.

The man was saying, "She's rich and her family's after her money."

Jennifer said, "Go on," and continued examining the mail.

"They'd probably have me put away, too, if they found I was trying to help her. It could be dangerous for me, Miss Parker."

A nut case, Jennifer decided. She said, "I'm afraid I can't do anything, but I'd suggest you get hold of a good psychiatrist to help your friend."

"You don't understand. They're all in on it."

"I do understand," Jennifer said soothingly. "I - "

"Will you help her?"

"There's nothing I can - I'll tell you what. Why don't you give me your friend's name and address and if I get a chance, I'll look into it."

There was a long silence. Finally the man spoke. "This is confidential, remember."

Jennifer wished he would get off the telephone. Her first appointment was waiting in the reception room. "I'll remember."

"Cooper. Helen Cooper. She had a big estate on Long Island, but they took it away from her."

Obediently, Jennifer made a note on a pad in front of her. "Fine. What sanatorium did you say she was in?" There was a click and the line went dead. Jennifer threw the note into the waste basket.

Jennifer and Cynthia exchanged a look. "It's a weird world out there," Cynthia said. "Miss Marshall is waiting to see you."

Jennifer had talked to Loretta Marshall on the telephone a week earlier. Miss Marshall had asked Jennifer to represent her in a paternity suit against Curtis Randall III, a wealthy socialite.

Jennifer had spoken to Ken Bailey. "We need information on Curtis Randall III. He lives in New York, but I understand he spends a lot of time in Palm Beach. I want to know what his background is, and if he's been sleeping with a girl named Loretta Marshall."

She had told Ken the names of the Palm Beach hotels that the woman had given her. Two days later, Ken Bailey had reported back.

"It checks out. They spent two weeks together at hotels in Palm Beach, Miami and Atlantic City. Loretta Marshall gave birth to a daughter eight months ago."

Jennifer sat back in her chair and looked at him thoughtfully. "It sounds as though we might have a case."

"I don't think so."

"What's the problem?"

"The problem is our client. She's slept with everybody including the Yankees."

"You're saying that the father of the baby could be any number of men."

"I'm saying it could be half the world."

"Are any of the others wealthy enough to give child support?"

"Well, the Yankees are pretty rich, but the big league moneyman is Curtis Randall III."

He handed her a long list of names.

Loretta Marshall walked into the office. Jennifer had not been sure what to expect. A pretty, empty-headed prostitute, in all probability. But Loretta Marshall was a complete surprise. Not only was she not pretty, she was almost homely. Her figure was ordinary. From the number of Miss Marshall's romantic conquests, Jennifer had expected nothing less than a sexy raving beauty. Loretta Marshall was the stereotype of an elementary grade schoolteacher. She was clad in a plaid wool skirt, a button-down-collar shirt, a dark blue cardigan and sensible shoes. At first, Jennifer had been sure that Loretta Marshall was planning to use her to force Curtis Randall to pay for the privilege of raising a baby that was not his. After an hour's conversation with the girl, Jennifer found that her opinion had changed. Loretta Marshall was transparently honest.

"Of course, I have no proof that Curtis is Melanie's father," she smiled shyly. "Curtis isn't the only man I've slept with."

"Then what makes you think he's the father of your child, Miss Marshall?"

"I don't think. I'm sure of it. It's hard to explain, but I even know the night Melanie was conceived. Sometimes a woman can feel those things."

Jennifer studied her, trying to find any sign of guile or deceit. There was none. The girl was totally without pretense. Perhaps, Jennifer thought, men found that part of her charm.

"Are you in love with Curtis Randall?"

"Oh, yes. And Curtis said he loved me. Of course, I'm not sure he still does, after what's happened."

If you loved him, Jennifer wondered, how could you have slept with all those other men? The answer might have lain in that sad, homely face and plain figure.

"Can you help me, Miss Parker?"

Jennifer said cautiously, "Paternity cases are always difficult. I have a list of more than a dozen men you've slept with in the past year. There are probably others. If I have such a list, you can be sure that Curtis Randall's attorney will have one."

Loretta Marshall frowned. "What about blood samples, that kind of thing...?"

"Blood tests are admissible in evidence only if they prove that the defendant could not be the father. They're legally inconclusive."

"I don't really care about me. It's Melanie I want protected. It's only right that Curtis should take care of his daughter."

Jennifer hesitated, weighing her decision. She had told Loretta Marshall the truth. Paternity cases were difficult. To say nothing about being messy and unpleasant. The attorneys for the defense would have a field day when they got this woman on the stand. They would bring up a parade of her lovers and, before they were through, they would make her look like a whore. It was not the type of case that Jennifer wanted to become involved in. On the other hand, she believed Loretta Marshall. This was no ordinary gold digger out to gouge an ex-lover. The girl was convinced that Curtis Randall was the father of her child. Jennifer made her decision.

"All right," she said, "we'll take a crack at it."

Jennifer set up a meeting with Roger Davis, the lawyer representing Curtis Randall. Davis was a partner in a large Wall Street firm and the importance of his position was indicated by the spacious corner suite he occupied. He was pompous and arrogant, and Jennifer disliked him on sight.

"What can I do for you?" Roger Davis asked.

"As I explained on the telephone, I'm here on behalf of Loretta Marshall."

He looked at her and said impatiently, "So?"

"She's asked me to institute a paternity suit against Mr. Curtis Randall III. I would prefer not to do that."

"You'd be a damned fool if you did."

Jennifer held her temper in check. "We don't wish to drag your client's name through the courts. As I'm sure you know, this kind of case always gets nasty. Therefore, we're prepared to accept a reasonable out-of-court settlement."

Roger Davis gave Jennifer a wintry smile. "I'm sure you are. Because you have no case. None at all."

"I think we have."

"Miss Parker, I haven't time to mince words. Your client is a whore. She'll have intercourse with anything that moves. I have a list of men she's slept with. It's as long as my arm. You think my client is going to get hurt? Your client will be destroyed. She's a schoolteacher, I believe. Well, when I get through with her she'll never teach anywhere again as long as she lives. And I'll tell you something else. Randall believes he's the father of that baby. But you'll never prove it in a million years."

Jennifer sat back, listening, her face expressionless.

"Our position is that your client could have become impregnated by anyone in the Third Army. You want to make a deal? Fine. I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll buy your client birth-control pills so that it doesn't happen again."

Jennifer stood up, her cheeks burning. "Mr. Davis," she said, "that little speech of yours is going to cost your client half a million dollars."

And Jennifer was out the door.

Ken Bailey and three assistants could turn up nothing against Curtis Randall III. He was a widower, a pillar of society, and he had had very few sexual flings.

"The son of a bitch is a born-again puritan," Ken Bailey complained.

They were seated in the conference room at midnight, the night before the paternity trial was to begin. "I've talked to one of the attorneys in Davis's office, Jennifer. They're going to destroy our client. They're not bluffing."

"Why are you sticking your neck out for this girl?" Dan Martin asked.

"I'm not here to judge her sex life, Dan. She believes that Curtis Randall is the father of her baby. I mean, she really believes it. All she wants is money for her daughter - nothing for herself. I think she deserves her day in court."

"We're not thinking about her," Ken replied. "We're thinking about you. You're on a hot roll. Everybody's watching you. I think this is a no-win case. It's going to be a black mark against you."

"Let's all get some sleep," Jennifer said. "I'll see you in court."

The trial went even worse than Ken Bailey had predicted. Jennifer had had Loretta Marshall bring her baby into the courtroom, but now Jennifer wondered if she had not made a tactical error. She sat there, helpless, as Roger Davis brought witness after witness to the stand and forced each of them to admit they had slept with Loretta Marshall. Jennifer did not dare cross-examine them. They were victims, and they were testifying in public only because they had been forced to. All Jennifer could do was sit by while her client's name was besmirched. She watched the faces of the jurors, and she could read the growing hostility there. Roger Davis was too clever to characterize Loretta Marshall as a whore. He did not have to. The people on the stand did it for him.

Jennifer had brought in her own character witnesses to testify to the good work that Loretta Marshall had done as a teacher, to the fact that she attended church regularly and was a good mother; but all this made no impression in the face of the horrifying array of Loretta Marshall's lovers. Jennifer had hoped to play on the sympathy of the jury by dramatizing the plight of a young woman who had been betrayed by a wealthy playboy and then abandoned when she had become pregnant. The trial was not working out that way.

Curtis Randall III was seated at the defendant's table. He could have been chosen by a casting director. He was an elegant-looking man in his late fifties, with striking gray hair and tanned, regular features. He came from a social background, belonged to all the right clubs and was wealthy and successful. Jennifer could feel the women on the jury mentally undressing him.

Sure, Jennifer thought. They're thinking that they're worthy to go to bed with Mr. Charming, but not that what-does-he-see-in-her slut sitting in the courtroom with a ten-month old baby in her arms.

Unfortunately for Loretta Marshall, the child looked nothing like its father. Or its mother, for that matter. It could have belonged to anybody.

As though reading Jennifer's thoughts, Roger Davis said to the jury, "There they sit, ladies and gentlemen, mother and child. Ah! But whose child? You've seen the defendant. I defy anyone in this courtroom to point out one single point of resemblance between the defendant and this infant. Surely, if my client were the father of this child, there would be some sign of it. Something in the eyes, the nose, the chin. Where is that resemblance? It doesn't exist, and for a very simple reason. The defendant is not the father of this child. No, I'm very much afraid that what we have here is the classic example of a loose woman who was careless, got pregnant, and then looked around to see which lover could best afford to pay the bills."

His voice softened. "Now, none of us is here to judge her. What Loretta Marshall chooses to do with her personal life is her own business. The fact that she is a teacher and can influence the minds of small children, well, that is not in my purview, either. I am not here to moralize; I'm simply here to protect the interests of an innocent man."

Jennifer studied the jury and she had the sinking feeling that every one of them was on the side of Curtis Randall. Jennifer still believed Loretta Marshall. If only the baby looked like its father! Roger Davis was right. There was no resemblance at all. And he had made sure the jury was aware of that.

Jennifer called Curtis Randall to the stand. She knew that this was her only chance to try to repair the damage that had been done, her final opportunity to turn the case around. She studied the man in the witness chair for a moment.

"Have you ever been married, Mr. Randall?"

"Yes. My wife died in a fire." There was an instinctive reaction of sympathy from the jury.

Damn! Jennifer moved on quickly. "You never remarried?"

"No. I loved my wife very much, and I - "

"Did you and your wife have any children?"

"No. Unfortunately, she was not able to."

Jennifer gestured toward the baby. "Then Melanie is your only - "

"Objection!"

"Sustained. Counsel for the plaintiff knows better than that."

"I'm sorry, Your Honor. It slipped out." Jennifer turned back to Curtis Randall. "Do you like children?"

"Yes, very much."

"You're the chairman of the board of your own corporation, are you not, Mr. Randall?"

"Yes."

"Haven't you ever wished for a son to carry on your name?"

"I suppose every man wants that."

"So if Melanie had been born a boy instead of - "

"Objection!"

"Sustained." The judge turned to Jennifer. "Miss Parker, I will ask you again to stop doing that."

"Sorry, Your Honor." Jennifer turned back to Curtis Randall. "Mr. Randall, are you in the habit of picking up strange women and taking them to hotels?"

Curtis Randall ran his tongue nervously over his lower lip. "No, I am not."

"Isn't it true that you first met Loretta Marshall in a bar and took her to a hotel room?"

His tongue was working at his lips again. "Yes, ma'am, but that was just - that was just sex."

Jennifer stared at him. "You say 'that was just sex' as though you feel sex is something dirty."

"No, ma'am." His tongue flicked out again.

Jennifer was watching it, fascinated, as it moved across his lips. She was filled with a sudden, wild sense of hope. She knew now what she had to do. She had to keep pushing him. And yet she could not push him so hard that the jury would become antagonistic toward her.

"How many women have you picked up in bars?"

Roger Davis was on his feet. "Irrelevant, Your Honor. And I object to this line of questioning. The only woman involved in this case is Loretta Marshall. We have already stipulated that the defendant had sexual intercourse with her. Aside from that, his personal life has no relevance in this courtroom."

"I disagree, Your Honor. If the defendant is the kind of man who - "

"Sustained. Please discontinue that line of questioning, Miss Parker."

Jennifer shrugged. "Yes, Your Honor." She turned back to Curtis Randall. "Let's get back to the night you picked up Loretta Marshall in a bar. What kind of bar was it?"

"I - I really don't know. I'd never been there before."

"It was a singles bar, wasn't it?"

"I have no idea."

"Well, for your information, the Play Pen was and is a singles bar. It has the reputation of being a pickup place, a rendezvous where men and women go to meet partners they can take to bed. Isn't that why you went there, Mr. Randall?"

Curtis Randall began to lick his lips again. "It - it may have been. I don't remember."

"You don't remember?" Jennifer's voice was weighted with sarcasm. "Do you happen to remember the date on which you first met Loretta Marshall in that bar?"

"No, I don't. Not exactly."

"Then let me refresh your memory."

Jennifer walked over to the plaintiff's table and began looking through some papers. She scribbled a note as though she were copying a date and handed it to Ken Bailey. He studied it, a puzzled expression on his face.

Jennifer moved back toward the witness box. "It was on January eighteenth, Mr. Randall."

Out of the corner of her eye, Jennifer saw Ken Bailey leaving the courtroom.

"It could have been, I suppose. As I said, I don't remember."

For the next fifteen minutes, Jennifer went on questioning Curtis Randall. It was a rambling, gentle cross-examination, and Roger Davis did not interrupt, because he saw that Jennifer was making no points with the jurors, who were beginning to look bored.

Jennifer kept talking, keeping an eye out for Ken Bailey. In the middle of a question, Jennifer saw him hurry into the courtroom, carrying a small package.

Jennifer turned to the judge. "Your Honor, may I ask for a fifteen-minute recess?"

The judge looked at the clock on the wall. "Since it's almost time for lunch, the court will adjourn until one-thirty."

At one-thirty the court was in session again. Jennifer had moved Loretta Marshall to a seat closer to the jury box, with the baby on her lap.

The judge said, "Mr. Randall, you are still under oath. You will not have to be sworn in again. Take the stand, please."

Jennifer watched as Curtis Randall sat down in the witness box. She walked up to him and said, "Mr. Randall, how many illegitimate children have you sired?"

Roger Davis was on his feet. "Objection! This is outrageous, Your Honor. I will not have my client subjected to this kind of humiliation."

The judge said, "Objection sustained." He turned to Jennifer. "Miss Parker, I have warned you - "

Jennifer said contritely, "I'm sorry, Your Honor."

She looked at Curtis Randall and saw that she had accomplished what she had wanted. He was nervously licking his lips. Jennifer turned toward Loretta Marshall and her baby. The baby was busily licking its lips. Jennifer slowly walked over to the baby and stood in front of her a long moment, focusing the attention of the jury.

"Look at that child," Jennifer said softly.

They were all staring at little Melanie, her pink tongue licking her underlip.

Jennifer turned and walked back to the witness box. "And look at this man."

Twelve pairs of eyes turned to focus on Curtis Randall. He sat there nervously licking his underlip, and suddenly the resemblance was unmistakable. Forgotten was the fact that Loretta Marshall had slept with dozens of other men. Forgotten was the fact that Curtis Randall was a pillar of the community.

"This is a man," Jennifer said mournfully, "of position and means. A man everyone looks up to. I want to ask you only one question: What kind of man is it who would deny his own child?"

The jury was out less than one hour, returning with a judgment for the plaintiff. Loretta Marshall would receive two hundred thousand dollars in cash and two thousand dollars a month for child support.

When the verdict came in, Roger Davis strode up to Jennifer, his face flushed with anger. "Did you do something with that baby?"

"What do you mean?"

Roger Davis hesitated, unsure of himself. "That lip thing. That's what won the jury over, the baby licking her lips like that. Can you explain it?"

"As a matter of fact," Jennifer said loftily, "I can. It's called heredity." And she walked away.

Jennifer and Ken Bailey disposed of the bottle of corn syrup on the way back to the office.