Rage of Angels

‘Jesus H. Christ!’

‘Would you tell me what the charges are?’

‘Hold on. I’ll find her ticket. Luna Tarner. That’s a hot one … here we are. Pross. Picked up by CWAC, down below.’

‘Quack?’

‘You’re new around here, huh? CWAC is the City-Wide Anti-Crime unit. A pross is a hooker, and down below is south of Forty-Second Street. Capish?’

‘Capish.’

Night court depressed Jennifer. It was filled with a human tide that ceaselessly surged in and out, washed up on the shores of justice.

There were more than a hundred and fifty cases heard each night. There were whores and transvestites, stinking, battered drunks and drug addicts. There were Puerto Ricans and Mexicans and Jews and Irish and Greeks and Italians, and they were accused of rape and theft and possession of guns or dope or assault or prostitution. And they all had one thing in common: They were poor. They were poor and defeated and lost. They were the dregs, the misfits whom the affluent society had passed by. A large proportion of them came from Central Harlem, and because there was no more room in the prison system, all but the most serious offenders were dismissed or fined. They returned home to St Nicholas Avenue and Morningside and Manhattan Avenues, where in three and one-half square miles there lived two hundred and thirty-three thousand blacks, eight thousand Puerto Ricans, and an estimated one million rats.

The majority of clients who came to Jennifer’s office were people who had been ground down by poverty, the system, themselves. They were people who had long since surrendered. Jennifer found that their fears fed her self-confidence. She did not feel superior to them. She certainly could not hold herself up as a shining example of success, and yet she knew there was one big difference between her and her clients: She would never give up.

Ken Bailey introduced Jennifer to Father Francis Joseph Ryan. Father Ryan was in his late fifties, a radiant, vital man with crisp gray-and-black hair that curled about his ears. He was always in serious need of a haircut. Jennifer liked him at once.

From time to time, when one of his parishioners would disappear, Father Ryan would come to Ken and enlist his services. Invariably, Ken would find the errant husband, wife, daughter or son. There would never be a charge.

‘It’s a down payment on heaven,’ Ken would explain.

One afternoon when Jennifer was alone Father Ryan dropped by the office.

‘Ken’s out, Father Ryan. He won’t be back today.’

‘It’s really you I wanted to see, Jennifer,’ Father Ryan said. He sat down in the uncomfortable old wooden chair in front of Jennifer’s desk. ‘I have a friend who has a bit of a problem.’

That was the way he always started out with Ken.

‘Yes, Father?’

‘She’s an elderly parishioner, and the poor dear’s having trouble getting her Social Security payments. She moved into my neighborhood a few months ago and some damned computer lost all her records, may it rust in hell.’

‘I see.’

‘I knew you would,’ Father Ryan said, getting to his feet. ‘I’m afraid there won’t be any money in it for you.’

Jennifer smiled. ‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll try to straighten things out.’

She had thought it would be a simple matter, but it had taken her almost three days to get the computer reprogrammed.

One morning a month later, Father Ryan walked into Jennifer’s office and said, ‘I hate to bother you, my dear, but I have a friend who has a bit of a problem. I’m afraid he has no –’ He hesitated.

‘– Money,’ Jennifer guessed.

‘Ah! That’s it. Exactly. But the poor fellow needs help badly.’

‘All right. Tell me about him.’

‘His name is Abraham. Abraham Wilson. He’s the son of one of my parishioners. Abraham is serving a life sentence in Sing Sing for killing a liquor store owner during a holdup.’

‘If he was convicted and is serving his sentence, I don’t see how I can help. Father.’

Father Ryan looked at Jennifer and sighed. ‘That’s not his problem.’

‘It isn’t?’

‘No. A few weeks ago Abraham killed another man – a fellow prisoner named Raymond Thorpe. They’re going to try him for murder, and go for the death penalty.’

Jennifer had read something about the case. ‘If I remember correctly, he beat the man to death.’

‘So they say.’

Jennifer picked up a pad and a pen. ‘Do you know if there were any witnesses?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘How many?’

‘Oh, a hundred or so. It happened in the prison yard, you see.’

‘Terrific. What is it you want me to do?’

Father Ryan said simply, ‘Help Abraham.’

Jennifer put down her pen. ‘Father, it’s going to take your Boss to help him.’ She sat back in her chair. ‘He’s going in with three strikes against him. He’s black, he’s a convicted murderer, and he killed another man in front of a hundred witnesses. Assuming he did it, there just aren’t any grounds for defense. If another prisoner was threatening him, there were guards he could have asked to help him. Instead, he took the law into his own hands. There isn’t a jury in the world that wouldn’t convict him.’

‘He’s still a fellow human being. Would you just talk to him?’

Jennifer sighed. ‘I’ll talk to him if you want me to, but I won’t make any commitment.’

Father Ryan nodded. ‘I understand. It would probably mean a great deal of publicity.’

They were both thinking the same thing. Abraham Wilson was not the only one who had strikes against him.

Sing Sing Prison is situated at the town of Ossining, thirty miles upstate of Manhattan on the east bank of the Hudson River, overlooking the Tappan Zee and Haverstraw Bay.

Jennifer went up by bus. She had telephoned the assistant warden and he had made arrangements for her to see Abraham Wilson, who was being held in solitary confinement.

During the bus ride, Jennifer was filled with a sense of purpose she had not felt in a long time. She was on her way to Sing Sing to meet a possible client charged with murder. This was the kind of case she had studied for, prepared herself for. She felt like a lawyer for the first time in a year, and yet she knew she was being unrealistic. She was not on her way to see a client. She was on her way to tell a man she could not represent him. She could not afford to become involved in a highly publicized case that she had no chance of winning.

Abraham Wilson would have to find someone else to defend him.

A dilapidated taxi took Jennifer from the bus station to the penitentiary, situated on seventy acres of land near the river. Jennifer rang the bell at the side entrance and a guard opened the door, checked off her name against his list, and directed her to the assistant warden’s office.

The assistant warden was a large, square man with an old-fashioned military haircut and an acne-pitted face. His name was Howard Patterson.