Rage of Angels

‘Looking at it from the pessimist’s point of view, I’m trying my first case against the smartest District Attorney in the country, who has a vendetta against me, and my client is a convicted black killer who killed again in front of a hundred and twenty witnesses.’

‘Terrific. What’s the optimist’s point of view?’

‘I could get hit by a truck this afternoon.’

The trial date was only three weeks away now. Jennifer arranged for Abraham Wilson to be transferred to the prison at Riker’s Island. He was put in the House of Detention for Men, the largest and oldest jail on the island. Ninety-five percent of his prison mates were there awaiting trial for felonies: murder, arson, rape, armed robbery and sodomy.

No private cars were allowed on the island, and Jennifer was transported in a small green bus to the gray brick control building where she showed her identification. There were two armed guards in a green booth to the left of the building, and beyond that a gate where all unauthorized visitors were stopped. From the control building, Jennifer was driven down Hazen Street, the little road that went through the prison grounds, to the Anna M. Kross Center Building, where Abraham Wilson was brought to see her in the counsel room, with its eight cubicles reserved for attorney-client meetings.

Walking down the long corridor on her way to meet with Abraham Wilson, Jennifer thought: This must be like the waiting room to hell. There was an incredible cacophony. The prison was made of brick and steel and stone and tile. Steel gates were constantly opening and clanging shut. There were more than one hundred men in each cellblock, talking and yelling at the same time, with two television sets tuned to different channels and a music system playing country rock. Three hundred guards were assigned to the building, and their bellowing could be heard over the prison symphony.

A guard had told Jennifer, ‘Prison society is the politest society in the world. If a prisoner ever brushes up against another one, he immediately says, “Excuse me.” Prisoners have a lot on their minds and the least little thing …’

Jennifer sat across from Abraham Wilson and she thought: This man’s life is in my hands. If he dies, it will be because I failed him. She looked into his eyes and saw the despair there.

‘I’m going to do everything I can,’ Jennifer promised.

Three days before the Abraham Wilson trial was to begin, Jennifer learned that the presiding judge was to be the Honorable Lawrence Waldman, who had presided over the Michael Moretti trial and had tried to get Jennifer disbarred.

Chapter Seven (#ulink_fadf36c7-c669-5f61-973f-a767cf0f34ba)

At four o’clock on a Monday morning in late September of 1970, the day the trial of Abraham Wilson was to begin, Jennifer awakened feeling tired and heavy-eyed. She had slept badly, her mind filled with dreams of the trial. In one of the dreams, Robert Di Silva had put her in the witness box and asked her about Michael Moretti. Each time Jennifer tried to answer the questions, the jurors interrupted her with a chant: Liar! Liar! Liar!

Each dream was different, but they were all similar. In the last one, Abraham Wilson was strapped in the electric chair. As Jennifer leaned over to console him, he spat in her face. Jennifer awoke trembling, and it was impossible for her to go back to sleep. She sat up in a chair until dawn and watched the sun come up. She was too nervous to eat. She wished she could have slept the night before. She wished that she were not so tense. She wished that this day was over.

As she bathed and dressed she had a premonition of doom. She felt like wearing black, but she chose a green Chanel copy she had bought on sale at Loehmann’s.

At eight-thirty, Jennifer Parker arrived at the Criminal Courts Building to begin the defense in the case of The People of the State of New York against Abraham Wilson. There was a crowd outside the entrance and Jennifer’s first thought was that there had been an accident. She saw a battery of television cameras and microphones, and before Jennifer realized what was happening, she was surrounded by reporters.

A reporter said, ‘Miss Parker, this is your first time in court, isn’t it, since you fouled up the Michael Moretti case for the District Attorney?’

Ken Bailey had warned her. She was the central attraction, not her client. The reporters were not there as objective observers; they were there as birds of prey and she was to be their carrion.

A young woman in jeans pushed a microphone up to Jennifer’s face. ‘Is it true that District Attorney Di Silva is out to get you?’

‘No comment.’ Jennifer began to fight her way toward the entrance of the building.

‘The District Attorney issued a statement last night that he thinks you shouldn’t be allowed to practice law in the New York courts. Would you like to say anything about that?’

‘No comment.’ Jennifer had almost reached the entrance.

‘Last year Judge Waldman tried to get you disbarred. Are you going to ask him to disqualify himself from –?’

Jennifer was inside the courthouse.

The trial was scheduled to take place in Room 37. The corridor outside was crowded with people trying to get in, but the courtroom was already full. It was buzzing with noise and there was a carnival atmosphere in the air. There were extra rows reserved for members of the press. Di Silva saw to that, Jennifer thought.

Abraham Wilson was seated at the defense table, towering over everyone around him like an evil mountain. He was dressed in a dark blue suit that was too small for him, and a white shirt and blue tie that Jennifer had bought him. They did not help. Abraham Wilson looked like an ugly killer in a dark blue suit. He might just as well have worn his prison clothes, Jennifer thought, discouraged.

Wilson was staring defiantly around the courtroom, glowering at everyone who met his look. Jennifer knew her client well enough now to understand that his belligerence was a cover-up for his fright; but what would come over to everyone – including the judge and the jury – was an impression of hostility and hatred. The huge man was a threat. They would regard him as someone to be feared, to be destroyed.

There was not a trace in Abraham Wilson’s personality that was loveable. There was nothing about his appearance that could evoke sympathy. There was only that ugly, scarred face with its broken nose and missing teeth, that enormous body that would inspire fear.

Jennifer walked over to the defense table where Abraham Wilson was sitting and took the seat next to him. ‘Good morning, Abraham.’

He glanced over at her and said, ‘I didn’t think you was comin’.’

Jennifer remembered her dream. She looked into his small, slitted eyes. ‘You knew I’d be here.’

He shrugged indifferently. ‘It don’t matter one way or another. They’s gonna get me, baby. They’s gonna convict me of murder and then they’s gonna pass a law makin’ it legal to boil me in oil, then they’s gonna boil me in oil. This ain’t gonna be no trial. This is gonna be a show. I hope you brung your popcorn.’

There was a stir around the prosecutor’s table and Jennifer looked up to see District Attorney Di Silva taking his place at the table next to a battery of assistants. He looked at Jennifer and smiled. Jennifer felt a growing sense of panic.

A court officer said, ‘All rise,’ and Judge Lawrence Waldman entered from the judge’s robing room.

‘Hear ye, Hear ye. All people having business with Part Thirty-seven of this Court, draw near, give your attention and you shall be heard. The Honorable Justice Lawrence Waldman presiding.’

The only one who refused to stand was Abraham Wilson. Jennifer whispered out of the corner of her mouth, ‘Stand up!’

‘Fuck ’em, baby. They gonna have to come and drag me up.’

Jennifer took his giant hand in hers. ‘On your feet, Abraham. We’re going to beat them.’

He looked at her for a long moment, then slowly got to his feet, towering over her.

Judge Waldman took his place on the bench. The spectators resumed their seats. The court clerk handed a court calendar to the judge.

‘The People of the State of New York versus Abraham Wilson, charged with the murder of Raymond Thorpe.’

Jennifer’s instinct normally would have been to fill the jury box with blacks, but because of Abraham Wilson she was not so sure. Wilson was not one of them. He was a renegade, a killer, ‘a disgrace to their race’. They might convict him more readily than would whites. All Jennifer could do was try to keep the more obvious bigots off the jury. But bigots did not go around advertising. They would keep quiet about their prejudices, waiting to get their vengeance.

By late afternoon of the second day, Jennifer had used up her ten peremptory challenges. She felt that her voir dire – the questioning of the jurors – was clumsy and awkward, while Di Silva’s was smooth and skillful. He had the knack of putting the jurors at ease, drawing them into his confidence, making friends of them.

How could I have forgotten what a good actor Di Silva is? Jennifer wondered.

Di Silva did not exercise his peremptory challenges until Jennifer had exhausted hers, and she could not understand why. When she discovered the reason, it was too late. Di Silva had outsmarted her. Among the final prospective jurors questioned were a private detective, a bank manager and the mother of a doctor – all of them Establishment – and there was nothing now that Jennifer could do to keep them off the jury. The District Attorney had sandbagged her.

Robert Di Silva rose to his feet and began his opening statement.

‘If it please the court’ – he turned to the jury – ‘and you ladies and gentlemen of the jury, first of all I would like to thank you for giving up your valuable time to sit in this case.’ He smiled sympathetically. ‘I know what a disruption jury service can be. You all have jobs to get back to, families needing your attention.’

It’s as though he’s one of them, Jennifer thought, the thirteenth juror.

‘I promise to take up as little of your time as possible. This is really a very simple case. That’s the defendant sitting over there – Abraham Wilson. The defendant is accused by the State of New York of murdering a fellow inmate at Sing Sing Prison, Raymond Thorpe. There’s no doubt that he did. He’s admitted it. Mr Wilson’s attorney is going to plead self-defense.’

The District Attorney turned to look at the huge figure of Abraham Wilson, and the eyes of the jurors automatically followed him. Jennifer could see the reactions on their faces. She forced herself to concentrate on what District Attorney Di Silva was saying.

‘A number of years ago twelve citizens, very much like yourselves, I am sure, voted to put Abraham Wilson away in a penitentiary. Because of certain legal technicalities, I am not permitted to discuss with you the crime that Abraham Wilson committed. I can tell you that that jury sincerely believed that locking Abraham Wilson up would prevent him from committing any further crimes. Tragically, they were wrong. For even locked away, Abraham Wilson was able to strike, to kill, to satisfy the blood lust in him. We know now, finally, that there is only one way to prevent Abraham Wilson from killing again. And that is to execute him. It won’t bring back the life of Raymond Thorpe, but it can save the lives of other men who might otherwise become the defendant’s next victims.’