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.”
6
Jennifer prepared for Abraham Wilson’s trial as she had never prepared for anything before in her life. She spent endless hours in the law library checking for procedures and defenses, and with her client, drawing from him every scrap of information she could. It was no easy task. From the beginning, Wilson was truculent and sarcastic.
“You wanna know about me, honey? I got my first fuck when I was ten. How ole was you?”
Jennifer forced herself to ignore his hatred and his contempt, for she was aware that they covered up a deep fear. And so Jennifer persisted, demanding to know what Wilson’s early life was like, what his parents were like, what had shaped the boy into the man. Over a period of weeks, Abraham Wilson’s reluctance gave way to interest, and his interest finally gave way to fascination. He had never before had reason to think of himself in terms of what kind of person he was, or why.
Jennifer’s prodding questions began to arouse memories, some merely unpleasant, others unbearably painful. Several times during the sessions when Jennifer was questioning Abraham Wilson about his father, who had regularly given him savage beatings, Wilson would order Jennifer to leave him alone. She left, but she always returned.
If Jennifer had had little personal life before, she now had none. When she was not with Abraham Wilson, she was at her office, seven days a week, from early morning until long after midnight, reading everything she could find about the crimes of murder and manslaughter, voluntary and involuntary. She studied hundreds of appellate court decisions, briefs, affidavits, exhibits, motions, transcripts. She pored over files on intent and premeditation, self-defense, double jeopardy, and temporary insanity.
She studied ways to get the charge reduced to manslaughter.
Abraham had not planned to kill the man. But would a jury believe that? Particularly a local jury. The townspeople hated the prisoners in their midst. Jennifer moved for a change of venue, and it was granted. The trial would be held in Manhattan.
Jennifer had an important decision to make: Should she allow Abraham Wilson to testify? He presented a forbidding figure, but if the jurors were able to hear his side of the story from his own lips, they might have some sympathy for him. The problem was that putting Abraham Wilson on the stand would allow the prosecution to reveal Wilson’s background and past record, including the previous murder he had committed.
Jennifer wondered which one of the assistant district attorneys Di Silva would assign to be her adversary. There were half a dozen very good ones who prosecuted murder trials, and Jennifer familiarized herself with their techniques.
She spent as much time as possible at Sing Sing, looking over the scene of the killing in the recreation yard, talking to guards and Abraham, and she interviewed dozens of convicts who had witnessed the killing.
“Raymond Thorpe attacked Abraham Wilson with a knife,” Jennifer said. “A large butcher knife. You must have seen it.”
“Me? I didn’t see no knife.”
“You must have. You were right there.”
“Lady, I didn’t see nothin’.”
Not one of them was willing to get involved.
Occasionally Jennifer would take time out to have a regular meal, but usually she grabbed a quick sandwich at the coffee shop on the main floor of the courthouse. She was beginning to lose weight and she had dizzy spells.
Ken Bailey was becoming concerned about her. He took her to Forlini’s across from the courthouse, and ordered a large lunch for her.
“Are you trying to kill yourself?” he demanded.
“Of course not.”
“Have you looked in a mirror lately?”
“No.”
He studied her and said, “If you have any sense, you’ll drop this case.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re setting yourself up as a clay pigeon. Jennifer, I hear things on the street. The press is peeing in its collective pants, they’re so eager to start taking potshots at you again.”
“I’m an attorney,” Jennifer said stubbornly. “Abraham Wilson is entitled to a fair trial. I’m going to try to see that he gets one.” She saw the look of concern on Ken Bailey’s face. “Don’t worry about it. The case isn’t going to get that much publicity.”
“It isn’t, huh? Do you know who’s prosecuting?”
“No.”
“Robert Di Silva.”
Jennifer arrived at the Leonard Street entrance of the Criminal Courts Building and pushed her way past the people churning through the lobby, past the uniformed policemen, the detectives dressed like hippies, the lawyers identified by the briefcases they carried. Jennifer walked toward the large circular information desk, where no attendant had ever been posted, and took the elevator to the sixth floor. She was on her way to see the District Attorney. It had been almost a year since her last encounter with Robert Di Silva, and Jennifer was not looking forward to this one. She was going to inform him that she was resigning from Abraham Wilson’s defense.