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.
It had taken Jennifer three sleepless nights to make her decision. What it came down to finally was that the primary consideration had to be the best interests of her client. The Wilson case was not important enough for Di Silva to handle himself. The only reason, therefore, for the District Attorney’s giving it his personal attention was because of Jennifer’s involvement. Di Silva wanted vengeance. He was planning to teach Jennifer a lesson. And so she had finally decided she had no choice but to withdraw from Wilson’s defense. She could not let him be executed because of a mistake she had once made. With her off the case, Robert Di Silva would probably deal with Wilson more leniently. Jennifer was on her way to save Abraham Wilson’s life.
There was an odd feeling of reliving the past as she got off at the sixth floor and walked toward the familiar door marked District Attorney, County of New York. Inside, the same secretary was seated at the same desk.
“I’m Jennifer Parker. I have an appointment with—”
“Go right in,” the secretary said. “The District Attorney is expecting you.”
Robert Di Silva was standing behind his desk, chewing on a wet cigar, giving orders to two assistants. He stopped as Jennifer entered.
“I was betting you wouldn’t show up.”
“I’m here.”
“I thought you would have turned tail and run out of town by now. What do you want?”
There were two chairs opposite Robert Di Silva’s desk, but he did not invite Jennifer to sit.
“I came here to talk about my client, Abraham Wilson.”
Robert Di Silva sat down, leaned back in his chair and pretended to think. “Abraham Wilson…oh, yes. That’s the nigger murderer who beat a man to death in prison. You shouldn’t have any trouble defending him.” He glanced at his two assistants and they left the