Rage of Angels
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 room.
‘Well, counselor?’
‘I’d like to talk about a plea.’
Robert Di Silva looked at her with exaggerated surprise. ‘You mean you came in to make a deal? You amaze me. I would have thought that someone with your great legal talent would be able to get him off scot-free.’
‘Mr Di Silva, I know this looks like an open-and-shut case,’ Jennifer began, ‘but there are extenuating circumstances. Abraham Wilson was –’
District Attorney Di Silva interrupted. ‘Let me put it in legal language you can understand, counselor. You can take your extenuating circumstances and shove them up your ass!’ He got to his feet and when he spoke his voice was trembling with rage. ‘Make a deal with you, lady? You fucked up my life! There’s a dead body and your boy’s going to burn for it. Do you hear me? I’m making it my personal business to see that he’s sent to the chair.’
‘I came up here to withdraw from the case. You could reduce this to a manslaughter charge. Wilson’s already in for life. You could –’
‘No way! He’s guilty of murder plain and simple!’
Jennifer tried to control her anger. ‘I thought the jury was supposed to decide that.’
Robert Di Silva smiled at her without mirth. ‘You don’t know how heartwarming it is to have an expert like you walk into my office and explain the law to me.’
‘Can’t we forget our personal problems? I –’
‘Not as long as I live. Say hello to your pal Michael Moretti for me.’
Half an hour later, Jennifer was having coffee with Ken Bailey.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ Jennifer confessed. ‘I thought if I got off the case Abraham Wilson would stand a better chance. But Di Silva won’t make a dèal. He’s not after Wilson – he’s after me.’
Ken Bailey looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Maybe he’s trying to psych you out. He wants you running scared.’
‘I am running scared.’ She took a sip of her coffee. It tasted bitter. ‘It’s a bad case. You should see Abraham Wilson. All the jury will have to do is look at him and they’ll vote to convict.’
‘When does the trial come up?’
‘In four weeks.’
‘Anything I can do to help?’
‘Uh-huh. Put out a contract on Di Silva.’
‘Do you think there’s any chance you can get Wilson an acquittal?’
‘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
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.’
Di Silva walked along the jury box, looking each juror in the eye. ‘I told you that this case won’t take up much of your time. I’ll tell you why I said that. The defendant sitting over there – Abraham Wilson – murdered a man in cold blood. He has confessed to the killing. But even if he had not confessed, we have witnesses who saw Abraham Wilson commit that murder in cold blood. More than a hundred witnesses, in fact.
‘Let us examine the phrase, ‘in cold blood’. Murder for any reason is as distasteful to me as I know it is to you. But sometimes murders are committed for reasons we can at least understand. Let’s say that someone with a weapon is threatening your loved one – a child, or a husband or a wife. Well, if you had a gun you might pull that trigger in order to save your loved one’s life. You and I might not condone that kind of thing, but I’m sure we can at least understand it. Or, let’s take another example. If you were suddenly awakened in the middle of the night by an intruder threatening your life and you had a chance to kill him to save yourself, and you killed him – well, I think we can all understand how that might happen. And that wouldn’t make us desperate criminals or evil people, would it? It was something we did in the heat of the moment.’ Di Silva’s voice hardened. ‘But cold-blooded murder is something else again. To take the life of another human being, without the excuse of any feelings or passions, to do it for money or drugs or the sheer pleasure of killing –’
He was deliberately prejudicing the jury, yet not overstepping the bounds, so that there could be no error calling for mistrial or reversal.
Jennifer watched the faces of the jurors, and there was no question but that Robert Di Silva had them. They were agreeing with every word he said. They shook their heads and nodded and frowned. They did everything but applaud him. He was an orchestra leader and the jury was his orchestra. Jennifer had never seen anything like it. Every time the District Attorney mentioned Abraham Wilson’s name – and he mentioned it with almost every sentence – the jury automatically looked over at the defendant. Jennifer had cautioned Wilson not to look at the jury. She had drilled it into him over and over again that he was to look anywhere in the courtroom except at the jury box, because the air of defiance he exuded was enraging. To her horror now, Jennifer found that Abraham Wilson’s eyes were fastened on the jury box, locking eyes with the jurors. Aggression seemed to be pouring out of him.
Jennifer said in a low voice, ‘Abraham …’
He did not turn.
The District Attorney was finishing his opening address. ‘The Bible says, “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.” That is vengeance. The State is not asking for vengeance. It is asking for justice. Justice for the poor man whom Abraham Wilson cold-bloodedly – cold-bloodedly – murdered. Thank you.’
The District Attorney took his seat.
As Jennifer rose to address the jury, she could feel their hostility and impatience. She had read books about how lawyers were able to read juries’ minds, and she had been skeptical. But no longer. The message from the jury was coming at her loudly and clearly. They had already decided her client was guilty, and they were impatient because Jennifer was wasting their time, keeping them in court when they could be out doing more important things, as their friend the District Attorney had pointed out. Jennifer and Abraham Wilson were the enemy.
Jennifer took a deep breath and said, ‘If Your Honor please,’ and then she turned back to the jurors. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the reason we have courtrooms, the reason we are all here today, is because the law, in its wisdom, knows that there are always two sides to every case. Listening to the District Attorney’s attack on my client, listening to him pronounce my client guilty without benefit of a jury’s verdict – your verdict – one would not think so.’
She looked into their faces for a sign of sympathy or support. There was none. She forced herself to go on. ‘District Attorney Di Silva used the phrase over and over, “Abraham Wilson is guilty.” That is a lie. Judge Waldman will tell you that no defendant is guilty until a judge or jury declares that he is guilty. That is what we are all here to find out, isn’t it? Abraham Wilson has been charged with murdering a fellow inmate at Sing Sing. But Abraham Wilson did not kill for money or for dope. He killed to save his own life. You remember those clever examples that the District Attorney gave you when he explained the difference between killing in cold blood and in hot blood. Killing in hot blood is when you’re protecting someone you love, or when you’re defending yourself. Abraham Wilson killed in self-defense, and I tell you now that any of us in this courtroom, under identical circumstances, would have done exactly the same thing.
‘The District Attorney and I agree on one point: Every man has the right to protect his own life. If Abraham Wilson had not acted exactly as he did, he would be dead.’ Jennifer’s voice was ringing with sincerity. She had forgotten her nervousness in the passion of her conviction. ‘I ask each of you to remember one thing: Under the law of this state, the prosecution must prove beyond any reasonable doubt that the act of killing was not committed in self-defense. And before this trial is over we will present solid evidence to show you that Raymond Thorpe was killed in order to prevent his murdering my client. Thank you.’
The parade of witnesses for the State began. Robert Di Silva had not missed a single opportunity. His character witnesses for the deceased, Raymond Thorpe, included a minister, prison guards and fellow convicts. One by one they took the stand and testified to the sterling character and pacific disposition of the deceased.
Each time the District Attorney was finished with a witness, he turned to Jennifer and said, ‘Your witness.’
And each time Jennifer replied, ‘No cross-examination.’
She knew that there was no point in trying to discredit the character witnesses. By the time they were finished, one would have thought that Raymond Thorpe had been wrongfully deprived of sainthood. The guards, who had been carefully coached by Robert Di Silva, testified that Thorpe had been a model prisoner who went around Sing Sing doing good works, intent only on helping his fellow man. The fact that Raymond Thorpe was a convicted bank robber and rapist was a tiny flaw in an otherwise perfect character.
What badly damaged Jennifer’s already weak defense was the physical description of Raymond Thorpe. He had been a slightly built man, only five feet nine inches tall. Robert Di Silva dwelt on that, and he never let the jurors forget it. He painted a graphic picture of how Abraham Wilson had viciously attacked the smaller man and had smashed Thorpe’s head against a concrete building in the exercise yard, instantly killing him. As Di Silva spoke, the jurors’ eyes were fastened on the giant figure of the defendant sitting at the table, dwarfing everyone near him.
The District Attorney was saying, ‘We’ll probably never know what caused Abraham Wilson to attack this harmless, defenseless little man –’
And Jennifer’s heart suddenly leaped. One word that Di Silva had said had given her the chance she needed.
‘– We may never know the reason for the defendant’s vicious attack, but one thing we do know, ladies and gentlemen – it wasn’t because the murdered man was a threat to Abraham Wilson.
‘Self-defense?’ He turned to Judge Waldman. ‘Your Honor, would you please direct the defendant to rise?’
Judge Waldman looked at Jennifer. ‘Does counsel for the defense have any objection?’
Jennifer had an idea what was coming, but she knew that any objection on her part could only be damaging. ‘No, Your Honor.’
Judge Waldman said, ‘Will the defendant rise, please?’
Abraham Wilson sat there a moment, his face defiant; then he slowly rose to his full height of six feet four inches.
Di Silva said, ‘There is a court clerk here, Mr Galin, who is five feet nine inches tall, the exact height of the murdered man, Raymond Thorpe. Mr Galin, would you please go over and stand next to the defendant?’
The court clerk walked over to Abraham Wilson and stood next to him. The contrast between the two men was ludicrous. Jennifer knew she had been outmaneuvered again, but there was nothing she could do about it. The visual impression could never be erased. The District Attorney stood there looking at the two men for a moment, and then said to the jury, his voice almost a whisper, ‘Self-defense?’
The trial was going worse than Jennifer had dreamed in her wildest nightmares. She could feel the jury’s eagerness to get the trial over with so they could deliver a verdict of guilty.
Ken Bailey was seated among the spectators and, during a recess, Jennifer had a chance to exchange a few words with him.
‘It’s not an easy case,’ Ken said sympathetically. ‘I wish you didn’t have King Kong for a client. Christ, just looking at him is enough to scare the hell out of anybody.’