And, in their minds, the jurors were sitting in Jennifer’s living room, carried away by her spell.
This ploy worked beautifully for Jennifer until one day when she was defending a client against Robert Di Silva. The District Attorney rose to his feet and made the opening address to the jury.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Di Silva said, “I’d like for you to forget you’re in a court of law. I want you to imagine that you’re sitting at home in my living room and we’re just sitting around informally chatting about the terrible things the defendant has done.”
Ken Bailey leaned over and whispered to Jennifer, “Do you hear what that bastard’s doing? He’s stealing your stuff!”
“Don’t worry about it,” Jennifer replied coolly.
When Jennifer got up to address the jury, she said:
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve never heard anything as outrageous as the remarks of the District Attorney.” Her voice rang with righteous indignation. “For a minute, I couldn’t believe I had heard him correctly. How dare he tell you to forget you’re sitting in a court of law! This courtroom is one of the most precious possessions our nation has! It is the foundation of our freedom. Yours and mine and the defendant’s. And for the District Attorney to suggest that you forget where you are, that you forget your sworn duty, I find both shocking and contemptible. I’m asking you, ladies and gentlemen, to remember where you are, to remember that all of us are here to see that justice is done and that the defendant is vindicated.”
The jurors were nodding approvingly.
Jennifer glanced toward the table where Robert Di Silva was sitting. He was staring straight ahead, a glazed look in his eyes.
Jennifer’s client was acquitted.
After each court victory, there would be four dozen red roses on Jennifer’s desk, with a card from Michael Moretti. Each time, Jennifer would tear up the cards and have Cynthia take away the flowers. Somehow they seemed obscene coming from him. Finally Jennifer sent Michael Moretti a note, asking him to stop sending her flowers.
When Jennifer returned from the courtroom after winning her next case, there were five dozen red roses waiting for her.
22
The Rainy Day Robber case brought Jennifer new headlines. The accused man had been called to her attention by Father Ryan.
“A friend of mine has a bit of a problem—” he began, and they both burst out laughing.
The friend turned out to be Paul Richards, a transient, accused of robbing a bank of a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. A robber had walked into the bank wearing a long black raincoat, under which was hidden a sawed-off shotgun. The collar of the raincoat was raised so that his face was partially hidden. Once inside the bank, the man had brandished the shotgun and forced a teller to hand over all his available cash. The robber had then fled in a waiting automobile. Several witnesses had seen the getaway car, a green sedan, but the license number had been covered with mud.
Since bank robberies were a federal offense, the FBI had entered the case. They had put the modus operandi into a central computer and it had come up with the name of Paul Richards.
Jennifer went to visit him at Riker’s Island.
“I swear to God I didn’t do it,” Paul Richards said. He was in his fifties, a red-faced man with cherubic blue eyes, too old to be running around pulling bank robberies.
“I don’t care whether you’re innocent or guilty,” Jennifer explained, “but I have one rule. I won’t represent a client who lies to me.”
“I swear on my mother’s life I didn’t do it.”
Oaths had ceased to impress Jennifer long ago. Clients had sworn their innocence to her on the lives of their mothers, wives, sweethearts and children. If God had taken those oaths seriously, there would have been a serious decline in the population.
Jennifer asked, “Why do you think the FBI arrested you?”
Paul Richards answered without hesitation. “Because about ten years ago I pulled a bank job and was dumb enough to get caught.”
“You used a sawed-off shotgun under a raincoat?”
“That’s right. I waited until it was raining, and then hit a bank.”
“But you didn’t do this last job?”
“No. Some smart bastard copied my act.”
The preliminary hearing was before Judge Fred Stevens, a strict disciplinarian. It was rumored that he was in favor of shipping all criminals off to some inaccessible island where they would stay for the rest of their lives. Judge Stevens believed that anyone caught stealing for the first time should have his right hand chopped off, and if caught again, should have his left hand chopped off, in ancient Islamic tradition. He was the worst judge Jennifer could have asked for. She sent for Ken Bailey.
“Ken, I want you to dig up everything you can on Judge Stevens.”
“Judge Stevens? He’s as straight as an arrow. He—”
“I know he is. Do it, please.”
The federal prosecutor who was handling the case was an old pro named Carter Gifford.
“How are you going to plead him?” Gifford asked.
Jennifer gave him a look of innocent surprise. “Not guilty, of course.”
He laughed sardonically. “Judge Stevens will get a kick out of that. I suppose you’re going to move for a jury trial.”
“No.”
Gifford studied Jennifer suspiciously. “You mean you’re going to put your client in the hands of the hanging judge?”
“That’s right.”
Gifford grinned. “I knew you’d go around the bend one day, Jennifer. I can’t wait to see this.”
“The United States of America versus Paul Richards. Is the defendant present?”
The court clerk said, “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Would the attorneys please approach the bench and identify themselves?”
Jennifer and Carter Gifford moved toward Judge Stevens.
“Jennifer Parker representing the defendant”
“Carter Gifford representing the United States Government.”
Judge Stevens turned to Jennifer and said brusquely, “I’m aware of your reputation, Miss Parker. So I’m going to tell you right now that I do not intend to waste this court’s time. I will brook no delays in this case. I want to get on with this preliminary hearing and get the arraignment over with. I intend to set a trial date as speedily as possible. I presume you will want a jury trial and—”
“No, Your Honor.”
Judge Stevens looked at her in surprise. “You’re not asking for a jury trial?”
“I am not. Because I don’t think there’s going to be an arraignment.”
Carter Gifford was staring at her. “What?”
“In my opinion, you don’t have enough evidence to bring my client to trial.”
Carter Gifford snapped, “You need another opinion!” He turned to Judge Stevens. “Your Honor, the government has a very strong case. The defendant has already been convicted of committing exactly the same crime in exactly the same manner. Our computer picked him out of over two thousand possible suspects. We have the guilty man right here in this courtroom, and the prosecution has no intention of dropping the case against him.”
Judge Stevens turned to Jennifer. “It seems to the court that there is enough prima facie evidence here to have an arraignment and a trial. Do you have anything more to say?”
“I do, Your Honor. There is not one single witness who can positively identify Paul Richards. The FBI has been unable to find any of the stolen money. In fact, the only thing that links the defendant to this crime is the imagination of the prosecutor.”
The judge stared down at Jennifer and said with ominous softness, “What about the computer that picked him out?”