She called Ken Bailey in and gave him his instructions.
He said nothing, but Jennifer could feel his disapproval and was saddened. She promised herself that this was the last time she would work for Michael.
Her private phone rang and she picked it up. Michael said, “Hello, baby. I’m hungry for you. Meet me in half an hour.”
She sat there, listening, already feeling his arms around her, his body pressing against hers.
“I’ll be there,” Jennifer said.
The promise to herself was forgotten.
The Gambutti trial lasted ten days. The press was there in full force, eager to watch District Attorney Di Silva and Jennifer Parker in open combat again. Di Silva had done his homework thoroughly, and he deliberately understated his case, letting the jurors take the suggestions he dropped and build on them, creating horrors in their minds even greater than the ones he depicted.
Jennifer sat quietly through the testimony, seldom bothering to raise objections.
On the last day of the trial, she made her move.
There is an adage in law that when you have a weak defense, you put your opponent on trial. Because Jennifer had no defense for Vasco Gambutti, she had made a decision to put Scott Norman, the slain policeman, on trial. Ken Bailey had dug up everything there was to know about Scott Norman. His record was not good, but before Jennifer was through she made it seem ten times worse than it was. Norman had been on the police force for twenty years, and in that period had been suspended three times on charges of unnecessary violence. He had shot and almost killed an unarmed suspect, he had beaten up a drunk in a bar and he had sent to the hospital a man involved in a domestic quarrel. Although these incidents had taken place over a period of twenty years, Jennifer made it seem as though the deceased had committed an unbroken series of despicable acts. Jennifer had a parade of witnesses on the stand giving testimony against the dead police officer, and there was not one thing Robert Di Silva could do about it.
In his summation, Di Silva said, “Remember, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that Officer Scott Norman is not the one on trial here. Officer Scott Norman was the victim. He was killed by”—pointing—“the defendant, Vasco Gambutti.”
But even as the District Attorney spoke, he knew it was no use. Jennifer had made Officer Scott Norman appear to be as worthless a human being as Vasco Gambutti. He was no longer the noble policeman who had given his life to apprehend a criminal. Jennifer Parker had distorted the picture so that the victim was no better than the accused slayer.
The jury returned a verdict of not guilty on the charge of murder in the first degree and convicted Vasco Gambutti of manslaughter. It was a stunning defeat for District Attorney Di Silva, and the media were quick to announce another victory for Jennifer Parker.
“Wear your chiffon. It’s a celebration,” Michael told her.
They had dinner at a seafood restaurant in the Village. The restaurant owner sent over a bottle of rare champagne and Michael and Jennifer drank a toast.
“I’m very pleased.”
Coming from Michael, it was an accolade.
He placed a small red-and-white-wrapped box in her hands. “Open it.”
He watched as she untied the gold thread and removed the lid. In the box lay a large, square-cut emerald, surrounded by diamonds.
Jennifer stared at it. She started to protest. “Oh, Michael!” And she saw the look of pride and pleasure on his face.
“Michael—what am I going to do with you?”
And she thought: Oh, Jennifer, what am I going to do with you?
“You need it for that dress.” He placed the ring on the third finger of her left hand.
“I—I don’t know what to say. I—thank you. It’s really a celebration, isn’t it!”
Michael grinned. “The celebration hasn’t started yet. This is only the foreplay.”
They were riding in the limousine on their way to an apartment that Michael kept uptown. Michael pressed a button and raised the glass that separated the rear of the car from the driver.
We’re locked away in our own little world, Jennifer thought. Michael’s nearness excited her.
She turned to look into his black eyes and he moved toward her and slid his hand along her thighs, and Jennifer’s body was instantly on fire.
Michael’s lips found hers and their bodies were pressed together. Jennifer felt the hard maleness of him and she slid down to the floor of the car. She began to make love to him, caressing him and kissing him until Michael began to moan, and Jennifer moaned with him, moving faster and faster until she felt the spasms of his body.
The celebration had begun.
Jennifer was thinking of the past now as she lay in bed in the hotel room in Tangier, listening to the sounds of Michael in the shower. She felt satisfied and happy. The only thing missing was her young son. She had thought of taking Joshua with her on some of her trips, but instinctively she wanted to keep him and Michael Moretti far away from each other. Joshua must never be touched by that part of her life. It seemed to Jennifer that her life was a series of compartments: There was Adam, there was her son and there was Michael Moretti. And each had to be kept separate from the others.
Michael walked out of the bathroom wearing only a towel. The hair on his body glistened from the dampness of the shower. He was a beautiful, exciting animal.
“Get dressed. We have work to do.”
39
It happened so gradually that it did not seem to be happening at all. It had begun with Vasco Gambutti, and shortly afterward Michael asked Jennifer to handle another case, then another, until soon it became a steady flow of cases.