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."
SIDNEY SHELDON 61
"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."
"rm 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.
"rm 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
rm 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. "Dodo 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
62 RAGE OF ANGELS
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. rm 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-2' Jennifer moaned, "Pm
starvedt"
The next few weeks raced by. Jennifer found herself busy from early morning
until late at night, serving summonsescourt 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
64 RAGE OF ANGELS
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, 1r.
"Mr. Peabody would like to see you this morning at eleven o'clock. Be
prompt, please."
"Yes, maam."
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
SIDNEY SHELDON 65
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 bland 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?"
66 RAGE OF ANGELS
Jennifer thought about what she could do with five hundred dollars. "I'll
find a vvay."
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.
SIDNEY SHELDON 67
"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 Join' 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.
"rll 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
68 RAGE OF ANGELS
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 youl"
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 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
SIDNEY SHELDON 69
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.
70 RAGE OF ANGELS
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."
SIDNEY SHELDON 71
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.
72 RAGE OF ANGELS
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."
SIDNEY SHELDON 73
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.
74 RAGE OF ANGELS
"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
SIDNEY SHELDON 75
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
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