The nights were worse than the days. They were endless, for Jennifer had insomnia and when she did sleep, her dreams were filled with demons. It had begun the night her mother had deserted Jennifer and her father, and she had not been able to exorcise whatever it was that was causing her nightmares.
She was consumed by loneliness. She went out on occasional dates with young lawyers, but inevitably she found herself comparing them to Adam Warner, and they all fell short. There would be dinner and a movie or a play, followed by a struggle at her front door. Jennifer was never sure whether they expected her to go to bed with them because they had bought her dinner, or because they had had to climb up and down four steep flights of stairs. There were times when she was strongly tempted to say Yes, just to have someone with her for the night, someone to hold, someone to share herself with. But she needed more in her bed than a warm body that talked; she needed someone who cared, someone for whom she could care.
The most interesting men who propositioned Jennifer were all married, and she flatly refused to go out with any of them. She remembered a line from Billy Wilder’s wonderful film The Apartment: ‘When you’re in love with a married man you shouldn’t wear mascara.’ Jennifer’s mother had destroyed a marriage, had killed Jennifer’s father. She could never forget that.
Christmas came and New Year’s Eve, and Jennifer spent them alone. There had been a heavy snowfall and the city looked like a gigantic Christmas card. Jennifer walked the streets, watching pedestrians hurrying to the warmth of their homes and families, and she ached with a feeling of emptiness. She missed her father terribly. She was glad when the holidays were over. Nineteen seventy is going to be a better year, Jennifer told herself.
On Jennifer’s worst days, Ken Bailey would cheer her up. He took her out to Madison Square Garden to watch the Rangers play, to a disco club and to an occasional play or movie. Jennifer knew he was attracted to her, and yet he kept a barrier between them.
In March, Otto Wenzel decided to move to Florida with his wife.
‘My bones are getting too old for these New York winters,’ he told Jennifer.
‘I’ll miss you.’ Jennifer meant it. She had grown genuinely fond of him.
‘Take care of Ken.’
Jennifer looked at him quizzically.
‘He never told you, did he?’
‘Told me what?’
He hesitated, then said, ‘His wife committed suicide. He blames himself.’
Jennifer was shocked. ‘How terrible! Why – why did she do it?’
‘She caught Ken in bed with a young blond man.’
‘Oh, my God!’
‘She shot Ken and then turned the gun on herself. He lived. She didn’t.’
‘How awful! I had no idea that … that –’
‘I know. He smiles a lot, but he carries his own hell with him.’
‘Thanks for telling me.’
When Jennifer returned to the office, Ken said, ‘So old Otto’s leaving us.’
‘Yes.’
Ken Bailey grinned. ‘I guess it’s you and me against the world.’
‘I guess so.’
And in a way, Jennifer thought, it is true.
Jennifer looked at Ken with different eyes now. They had lunches and dinners together, and Jennifer could detect no signs of homosexuality about him but she knew that Otto Wenzel had told her the truth: Ken Bailey carried his own private hell with him.
A few clients walked in off the street. They were usually poorly dressed, bewildered and, in some instances, out-and-out nutcases.
Prostitutes came in to ask Jennifer to handle their bail, and Jennifer was amazed at how young and lovely some of them were. They became a small but steady source of income. She could not find out who sent them to her. When she mentioned it to Ken Bailey, he shrugged in a gesture of ignorance and walked away.
Whenever a client came to see Jennifer, Ken Bailey would discreetly leave. He was like a proud father, encouraging Jennifer to succeed.
Jennifer was offered several divorce cases and turned them down. She could not forget what one of her law professors had once said: Divorce is to the practice of law what proctology is to the practice of medicine. Most divorce lawyers had bad reputations. The maxim was that when a married couple saw red, lawyers saw green. A high-priced divorce lawyer was known as a bomber, for he would use legal high explosives to win a case for a client and, in the process, often destroyed the husband, the wife and the children.
A few of the clients who came into Jennifer’s office were different in a way that puzzled her.
They were well dressed, with an air of affluence about them, and the cases they brought to her were not the nickel-and-dime cases Jennifer had been accustomed to handling. There were estates to be settled that amounted to substantial sums of money, and lawsuits that any large firm would have been delighted to represent.
‘Where did you hear about me?’ Jennifer would ask.
The replies she got were always evasive. From a friend … I read about you … your name was mentioned at a party … It was not until one of her clients, in the course of explaining his problems, mentioned Adam Warner that Jennifer suddenly understood.
‘Mr Warner sent you to me, didn’t he?’
The client was embarrassed. ‘Well, as a matter of fact, he suggested it might be better if I didn’t mention his name.’
Jennifer decided to telephone Adam. After all, she did owe him a debt of thanks. She would be polite, but formal. Naturally, she would not let him get the impression that she was calling him for any reason other than to express her appreciation. She rehearsed the conversation over and over in her mind. When Jennifer finally got up enough nerve to telephone, a secretary informed her that Mr Warner was in Europe and was not expected back for several weeks. It was an anticlimax that left Jennifer depressed.
She found herself thinking of Adam Warner more and more often. She kept remembering the evening he had come to her apartment and how badly she had behaved. He had been wonderful to put up with her childish behavior when she had taken out her anger on him. Now, in addition to everything else he had done for her, he was sending her clients.
Jennifer waited three weeks and then telephoned Adam again. This time he was in South America.
‘Is there any message?’ his secretary asked.
Jennifer hesitated. ‘No message.’
Jennifer tried to put Adam out of her mind, but it was impossible. She wondered whether he was married or engaged. She wondered what it would be like to be Mrs Adam Warner. She wondered if she were insane.
From time to time Jennifer came across the name of Michael Moretti in the newspapers or weekly magazines. There was an in-depth story in the New Yorker magazine on Antonio Granelli and the eastern Mafia Families. Antonio Granelli was reported to be in failing health and Michael Moretti, his son-in-law, was preparing to take over his empire. Life magazine ran a story about Michael Moretti’s lifestyle, and at the end of the story it spoke of Moretti’s trial. Camillo Stela was serving time in Leavenworth, while Michael Moretti was free. It reminded its readers how Jennifer Parker had destroyed the case that would have sent him to prison or the electric chair. As Jennifer read the article, her stomach churned. The electric chair? She could cheerfully have pulled the switch on Michael Moretti herself.
Most of Jennifer’s clients were unimportant, but the education was priceless. Over the months,