Jennifer finished reading the transcripts at three o’clock in the morning. She turned off the lights, unable to sleep. On paper, justice had been done. But the image of Connie Garrett kept coming into her mind. A girl in her twenties, without arms or legs. Jennifer visualized the truck hitting the young girl, the awful agony she must have suffered, the series of terrible operations that had been performed, each one cutting away parts of her limbs. Jennifer turned on the light and sat up in bed. She dialed Melvin Hutcherson’s home number.
“There’s nothing in the transcripts about the doctors,” Jennifer said into the telephone. “Did you look into the possibility of malpractice?”
A groggy voice said, “Who the fuck is this?”
“Jennifer Parker. Did you—”
“For Christ’s sake! It’s—it’s four o’clock in the morning! Don’t you have a watch?”
“This is important. The hospital wasn’t named in the suit. What about those operations that were performed on Connie Garrett? Did you check into them?”
There was a pause while Melvin Hutcherson tried to gather his thoughts. “I talked to the heads of neurology and orthopedics at the hospital that took care of her. The operations were necessary to save her life. They were performed by the top men there and were done properly. That’s why the hospital wasn’t named in the suit.”
Jennifer felt a sharp sense of frustration. “I see.”
“Look, I told you before, you’re wasting your time on this one. Now why don’t we both get some sleep?”
And the receiver clicked in Jennifer’s ear. She turned out the light and lay back again. But sleep was farther away than ever. After a while, Jennifer gave up the struggle, arose and made herself a pot of coffee. She sat on her sofa drinking it, watching the rising sun paint the Manhattan skyline, the faint pink gradually turning into a bright, explosive red.
Jennifer was disturbed. For every injustice there was supposed to be a remedy at law. Had justice been done in Connie Garrett’s case? She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was six-thirty. Jennifer picked up the telephone again and dialed Melvin Hutcherson’s number.
“Did you check out the record of the truck driver?” Jennifer asked.
A sleepy voice said, “Jesus Christ! Are you some kind of crazy? When do you sleep?”
“The driver of the utility truck. Did you check out his record?”
“Lady, you’re beginning to insult me.”
“I’m sorry,” Jennifer insisted, “but I have to know.”
“The answer is yes. He had a perfect record. This was his first accident.”
So that avenue was closed. “I see.” Jennifer was thinking hard.
“Miss Parker,” Melvin Hutcherson said, “do me a big favor, will you? If you have any more questions, call me during office hours.”
“Sorry,” Jennifer said absently. “Go back to sleep.”
“Thanks a lot!”
Jennifer replaced the receiver. It was time to get dressed and go to work.
13
It had been three weeks since Jennifer had had dinner with Adam at Lutèce. She tried to put him out of her mind, but everything reminded her of Adam: A chance phrase, the back of a stranger’s head, a tie similar to the one he had worn. There were many men who tried to date her. She was propositioned by clients, by attorneys she had opposed in court and by a night-court judge, but Jennifer wanted none of them. Lawyers invited her out for what was cynically referred to as “funch,” but she was not interested. There was an independence about her that was a challenge to men.
Ken Bailey was always there, but that fact did nothing to assuage Jennifer’s loneliness. There was only one person who could do that, damn him!
He telephoned on a Monday morning. “I thought I’d take a chance and see if you happened to be free for lunch today.”
She was not. She said, “Of course I am.”
Jennifer had sworn to herself that if Adam ever called her again she would be friendly yet distant, and courteous but definitely not available.
The moment she heard Adam’s voice she forgot all those things and said, Of course I am.
The last thing in the world she should have said.
They had lunch at a small restaurant in Chinatown, and they talked steadily for two hours that seemed like two minutes. They talked about law and politics and the theater, and solved all the complex problems of the world. Adam was brilliant and incisive and fascinating. He was genuinely interested in what Jennifer was doing, and took a joyous pride in her successes. He has a right to, Jennifer thought. If not for him, I’d be back in Kelso, Washington.
When Jennifer returned to the office, Ken Bailey was waiting for her.
“Have a good lunch?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Is Adam Warner going to become a client?” His tone was too casual.
“No, Ken. We’re just friends.”
And it was true.
The following week, Adam invited Jennifer to have lunch in the private dining room of his law firm. Jennifer was impressed with the huge, modern complex of offices. Adam introduced her to various members of the firm, and Jennifer felt like a minor celebrity, for they seemed to know all about her. She met Stewart Needham, the senior partner. He was distantly polite to Jennifer, and she remembered that Adam was married to his niece.
Adam and Jennifer had lunch in the walnut-paneled dining room run by a chef and two waiters.
“This is where the partners bring their problems.”
Jennifer wondered whether he was referring to her. It was hard for her to concentrate on the meal.