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.

7

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 spit 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.