At three, Joshua suddenly became an angel, gentle, affectionate and loving. He had the physical coordination of his father, and he loved doing things with his hands. He no longer broke things. He enjoyed playing outdoors, climbing and running and riding his tricycle.
Jennifer took him to the Bronx Zoo and to marionette plays. They walked along the beach and saw a festival of Marx Brothers movies in Manhattan, and had ice cream sodas afterward at Old Fashioned Mr. Jennings on the ninth floor of Bonwit Teller.
Joshua had become a companion. As a Mother’s Day gift, Joshua learned a favorite song of Jennifer’s father—Shine On, Harvest Moon—and sang it to Jennifer. It was the most touching moment of her life.
It’s true, Jennifer thought, that we do not inherit the world from our parents; we borrow it from our children.
Joshua had started nursery school and was enjoying it. At night when Jennifer came home, they would sit in front of the fireplace and read together. Jennifer would read Trial Magazine and The Barrister and Joshua would read his picture books. Jennifer would watch Joshua as he sprawled out on the floor, his brow knit in concentration, and she would suddenly be reminded of Adam. It was still like an open wound. She wondered where Adam was and what he was doing.
What he and Mary Beth and Samantha were doing.
Jennifer managed to keep her private and professional life separate, and the only link between the two was Ken Bailey.
He brought Joshua toys and books and played games with him and was, in a sense, a surrogate father.
One Sunday afternoon Jennifer and Ken stood near the tree house, watching Joshua climb up to it.
“Do you know what he needs?” Ken asked.
“No.”
“A father.” He turned to Jennifer. “His real father must be one prize shit.”
“Please don’t, Ken.”
“Sorry. It’s none of my business. That’s the past. It’s the future I’m concerned about. It isn’t natural for you to be living alone like—”
“I’m not alone. I have Joshua.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” He took Jennifer in his arms and kissed her gently. “Oh, God damn it, Jennifer. I’m sorry…”
Michael Moretti had telephoned Jennifer a dozen times. She returned none of his calls. Once she thought she caught a glimpse of him sitting in the back of a courtroom where she was defending a case, but when she looked again he was gone.
35
Late one afternoon as Jennifer was getting ready to leave the office, Cynthia said, “There’s a Mr. Clark Holman on the phone.”
Jennifer hesitated, then said, “I’ll take it.”
Clark Holman was an attorney with the Legal Aid Society.
“Sorry to bother you, Jennifer,” he said, “but we have a case downtown that no one wants to touch, and I’d really appreciate it if you could help us out. I know how busy you are, but—”
“Who’s the defendant?”
“Jack Scanlon.”
The name registered instantly. It had been on the front pages of the newspapers for the past two days. Jack Scanlon had been arrested for kidnapping a four-year-old girl and holding her for ransom. He had been identified from a composite drawing the police had obtained from witnesses to the abduction.
“Why me, Clark?”
“Scanlon asked for you.”
Jennifer looked at the clock on the wall. She was going to be late for Joshua. “Where is he now?”
“At the Metropolitan Correctional Center.”
Jennifer made a quick decision. “I’ll go down and talk to him. Make the arrangements, will you?”
“Right. Thanks a million. I owe you one.”
Jennifer telephoned Mrs. Mackey. “I’m going to be a little late. Give Joshua his dinner and tell him to wait up for me.”
Ten minutes later, Jennifer was on her way downtown.
To Jennifer, kidnapping was the most vicious of all crimes, particularly the kidnapping of a helpless young child; but every accused person was entitled to a hearing no matter how terrible the crime. That was the foundation of the law: justice for the lowliest as well as the highest.
Jennifer identified herself to the guard at the reception desk and was taken to the Lawyers’ Visiting Room.
The guard said, “I’ll get Scanlon for you.”
A few minutes later a thin, aesthetic-looking man in his late thirties, with a blond beard and light blond hair was brought into the room. He looked almost Christlike.
He said, “Thank you for coming, Miss Parker.” His voice was soft and gentle. “Thank you for caring.”
“Sit down.”
He took a chair opposite Jennifer.
“You asked to see me?”
“Yes. Even though I think only God can help me. I’ve done a very foolish thing.”
She regarded him distastefully. “You call kidnapping a helpless little girl for ransom a ‘foolish thing’?”
“I didn’t kidnap Tammy for ransom.”
“Oh? Why did you kidnap her?”
There was a long silence before Jack Scanlon spoke. “My wife, Evelyn, died in childbirth. I loved her more than anything in the world. If ever there was a saint on earth, it was that woman. Evelyn wasn’t a strong person. Our doctor advised her not to have a baby, but she didn’t listen.” He looked down at the floor in embarrassment. “It—it may be hard for you to understand, but she said she wanted it anyway, because it would be like having another part of me.”
How well Jennifer understood that.
Jack Scanlon had stopped speaking, his thoughts far away.