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 nut cases.

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, Jennifer came to know every room in the Criminal Courts Building at 100 Centre Street and the people who inhabited them.

When one of her clients was arrested for shoplifting, mugging, prostitution or drugs, Jennifer would head downtown to arrange bail, and bargaining was a way of life.

“Bail is set at five hundred dollars.”

“Your Honor, the defendant doesn’t have that much money. If the court will reduce bail to two hundred dollars, he can go back to work and keep supporting his family.”

“Very well. Two hundred.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.”

Jennifer got to know the supervisor of the complaint room, where copies of the arrest reports were sent.

“You again, Parker! For God’s sake, don’t you ever sleep?”

“Hi, Lieutenant. A client of mine was picked up on a vagrancy charge. May I see the arrest sheet? The name is Connery. Clarence Connery.”

“Tell me something, honey. Why would you come down here at three A.M. to defend a vagrant?”

Jennifer grinned. “It keeps me off the streets.”

She became familiar with night court, held in Room 218 of the Centre Street courthouse. It was a smelly, overcrowded world, with its own arcane jargon. Jennifer was baffled by it at first.

“Parker, your client is booked on bedpain.”

“My client is booked on what?”

“Bedpain. Burglary, with a Break, Enter, Dwelling, Person, Armed, Intent to kill, at Night. Get it?”

“Got it.”

“I’m here to represent Miss Luna Tarner.”

“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.”