She spent as much time as possible at Sing Sing, looking over the scene of the killing in the recreation yard, talking to guards and Abraham, and she interviewed dozens of convicts who had witnessed the killing.

“Raymond Thorpe attacked Abraham Wilson with a knife,” Jennifer said. “A large butcher knife. You must have seen it.”

“Me? I didn’t see no knife.”

“You must have. You were right there.”

“Lady, I didn’t see nothin’.”

Not one of them was willing to get involved.

Occasionally Jennifer would take time out to have a regular meal, but usually she grabbed a quick sandwich at the coffee shop on the main floor of the courthouse. She was beginning to lose weight and she had dizzy spells.

Ken Bailey was becoming concerned about her. He took her to Forlini’s across from the courthouse, and ordered a large lunch for her.

“Are you trying to kill yourself?” he demanded.

“Of course not.”

“Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

“No.”

He studied her and said, “If you have any sense, you’ll drop this case.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re setting yourself up as a clay pigeon. Jennifer, I hear things on the street. The press is peeing in its collective pants, they’re so eager to start taking potshots at you again.”

“I’m an attorney,” Jennifer said stubbornly. “Abraham Wilson is entitled to a fair trial. I’m going to try to see that he gets one.” She saw the look of concern on Ken Bailey’s face. “Don’t worry about it. The case isn’t going to get that much publicity.”

“It isn’t, huh? Do you know who’s prosecuting?”

“No.”

“Robert Di Silva.”

Jennifer arrived at the Leonard Street entrance of the Criminal Courts Building and pushed her way past the people churning through the lobby, past the uniformed policemen, the detectives dressed like hippies, the lawyers identified by the briefcases they carried. Jennifer walked toward the large circular information desk, where no attendant had ever been posted, and took the elevator to the sixth floor. She was on her way to see the District Attorney. It had been almost a year since her last encounter with Robert Di Silva, and Jennifer was not looking forward to this one. She was going to inform him that she was resigning from Abraham Wilson’s defense.

It had taken Jennifer three sleepless nights to make her decision. What it came down to finally was that the primary consideration had to be the best interests of her client. The Wilson case was not important enough for Di Silva to handle himself. The only reason, therefore, for the District Attorney’s giving it his personal attention was because of Jennifer’s involvement. Di Silva wanted vengeance. He was planning to teach Jennifer a lesson. And so she had finally decided she had no choice but to withdraw from Wilson’s defense. She could not let him be executed because of a mistake she had once made. With her off the case, Robert Di Silva would probably deal with Wilson more leniently. Jennifer was on her way to save Abraham Wilson’s life.

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 deal. 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.