Michael had finally selected Jennifer Parker. He liked the fact that she was inexperienced and that she was tense and trying to hide it. He liked the fact that she was female and would feel under more pressure than the men. When Michael was satisfied with his decision, he turned to a man in a gray suit sitting among the spectators and nodded toward Jennifer. That was all.
Michael had watched as the District Attorney had finished his examination of that son-of-a-bitch, Camillo Stela. He had turned to Thomas Colfax and said, Your witness for cross. Thomas Colfax had risen to his feet. If it please Your Honor, it is now almost noon. I would prefer not to have my cross-examination interrupted. Might I request that the court recess for lunch now and I’ll cross-examine this afternoon?
And a recess had been declared. Now was the moment!
Michael saw his man casually drift up to join the men who were crowded around the District Attorney. The man made himself a part of the group. A few moments later, he walked over to Jennifer and handed her a large envelope. Michael sat there, holding his breath, willing Jennifer to take the envelope and move toward the witness room. She did. It was not until he saw her return without it that Michael Moretti relaxed.
That had been a year ago. The newspapers had crucified the girl, but that was her problem. Michael had not given any further thought to Jennifer Parker until the newspapers had begun recently to feature the Abraham Wilson trial. They had dragged up the old Michael Moretti case and Jennifer Parker’s part in it. They had run her picture. She was a stunning-looking girl, but there was something more—there was a sense of independence about her that stirred something in him. He stared at the picture for a long time.
Michael began to follow the Abraham Wilson trial with increasing interest. When the boys had celebrated with a victory dinner after Michael’s mistrial was declared, Salvatore Fiore had proposed a toast. “The world got rid of one more fuckin’ lawyer.”
But the world had not gotten rid of her, Michael thought. Jennifer Parker had bounced back and was still in there, fighting. Michael liked that.
He had seen her on television the night before, discussing her victory over Robert Di Silva, and Michael had been oddly pleased.
Antonio Granelli had asked, “Ain’t she the mouthpiece you set up, Mike?”
“Uh-huh. She’s got a brain, Tony. Maybe we can use her one of these days.”
10
The day after the Abraham Wilson verdict, Adam Warner telephoned. “I just called to congratulate you.”
Jennifer recognized his voice instantly and it affected her more than she would have believed possible.
“This is—”
“I know.” Oh, God, Jennifer thought. Why did I say that? There was no reason to let Adam know how often she had thought about him in the past few months.
“I wanted to tell you I thought you handled the Abraham Wilson case brilliantly. You deserved to win it.”
“Thank you.” He’s going to hang up, Jennifer thought. I’ll never see him again. He’s probably too busy with his harem.
And Adam Warner was saying, “I was wondering if you’d care to have dinner with me one evening?”
Men hate overeager girls. “What about tonight?”
Jennifer heard the smile in his voice. “I’m afraid my first free night is Friday. Are you busy?”
“No.” She had almost said, Of course not.
“Shall I pick you up at your place?”
Jennifer thought about her dreary little apartment with its lumpy sofa, the ironing board set up in a corner. “It might be easier if we met somewhere.”
“Do you like the food at Lutèce?”
“May I tell you after I’ve eaten there?”
He laughed. “How’s eight o’clock?”
“Eight o’clock is lovely.”
Lovely. Jennifer replaced the receiver and sat there in a glow of euphoria. This is ridiculous, she thought. He’s probably married and has two dozen children. Almost the first thing Jennifer had noticed about Adam when they had had dinner was that he was not wearing a wedding ring. Inconclusive evidence, she thought wryly. There definitely should be a law forcing all husbands to wear wedding rings.
Ken Bailey walked into the office. “How’s the master attorney?” He looked at her more closely. “You look like you just swallowed a client.”
Jennifer hesitated, then said, “Ken, would you run a check on someone for me?”
He walked over to her desk, picked up a pad and pencil. “Shoot. Who is it?”
She started to say Adam’s name, then stopped, feeling like a fool. What business had she prying into Adam Warner’s private life? For God’s sake, she told herself, all he did is ask you to have dinner with him, not marry him. “Never mind.”
Ken put the pencil down. “Whatever you say.”
“Ken—”
“Yes?”
“Adam Warner. His name is Adam Warner.”
Ken looked at her in surprise. “Hell, you don’t need me to run a check on him. Just read the newspapers.”
“What do you know about him?”
Ken Bailey flopped into a chair across from Jennifer and steepled his fingers together. “Let me see. He’s a partner in Needham, Finch, Pierce and Warner; Harvard Law School; comes from a rich socialite family; in his middle thirties—”
Jennifer looked at him curiously. “How do you know so much about him?”
He winked. “I have friends in high places. There’s a rumor they’re going to run Mr. Warner for the United States Senate. There’s even a little presidential ground swell going on. He’s got what they call charisma.”