She hung up and repeated the call to two other newspapers and a television station. When Jennifer was through telephoning, she looked at her watch and had another leisurely cup of coffee. She wanted to make certain the photographers had time to get to the precinct on 51st Street. She went upstairs and got dressed.
Before Jennifer left, she went into Joshua’s bedroom. His night-light was on. He was sound asleep, the blankets twisted around his restless body. Jennifer gently straightened the blankets, kissed him on the forehead and started to tiptoe out of the room.
“Where you goin’?”
She turned and said, “I’m going to work. Go back to sleep.”
“What time is it?”
“It’s four o’clock in the morning.”
Joshua giggled. “You sure work funny hours for a lady.”
She came back to his bedside. “And you sure sleep funny hours for a man.”
“Are we going to watch the Mets game tonight?”
“You bet we are. Back to Dreamland.”
“Okay, Mom. Have a good case.”
“Thanks, pal.”
A few minutes later, Jennifer was in her car, on her way into Manhattan.
When Jennifer arrived, a lone photographer from the Daily News was waiting. He stared at Jennifer and said, “It’s true! You really handling the Santini case?”
“How did you know that?” Jennifer demanded.
“A little birdie, counselor.”
“You’re wasting your time. No pictures.”
She went inside and arranged for Eddie Santini’s bail, stalling the proceedings until she was sure the television cameraman and a reporter and photographer had arrived from The New York Times. She decided she could not wait for the Post.
The police captain on duty said, “There’re some reporters and television people out front, Miss Parker. You can go out the back way if you want.”
“It’s all right,” Jennifer said. “I’ll handle them.”
She led Eddie Santini to the front corridor where the photographers and reporters were waiting.
She said, “Look, gentlemen, no pictures, please.”
And Jennifer stepped aside while the photographer and television cameraman took pictures.
A reporter asked, “What makes this case big enough for you to handle?”
“You’ll find out tomorrow. Meanwhile, I would advise you not to use those pictures.”
One of the reporters called out, “Come on, Jennifer! Haven’t you heard of freedom of the press?”
At noon Jennifer got a call from Michael Moretti. His voice was angry. “Have you seen the newspapers?”
“No.”
“Well, Eddie Santini’s picture is all over the front pages and on the television news. I didn’t tell you to turn this goddamned thing into a circus!”
“I know you didn’t. It was my own idea.”
“Jesus! What’s the point?”
“The point, Michael, is those three witnesses.”
“What about them?”
“You said they got a good look at Eddie Santini. Well, when they get up in court to identify him, they’re going to have to prove they didn’t identify him because they saw his picture all over the newspapers and television.”
There was a long silence, and then Michael’s voice said admiringly, “I’m a son of a bitch!”
Jennifer had to laugh.
Ken Bailey was waiting in her office that afternoon when Jennifer walked in, and she knew instantly from the look on his face that something was wrong.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ken demanded.
“Tell you what?”
“About you and Mike Moretti.”
Jennifer checked the retort that rose to her lips. Saying It’s none of your business was too easy. Ken was her friend; he cared. In a way, it was his business. Jennifer remembered it all, the tiny office they had shared, how he had helped her. I’ve got a lawyer friend who’s been bugging me to serve some subpoenas for him. I haven’t got time. He pays twelve-fifty for each subpoena plus mileage. Would you help me out?
“Ken, let’s not discuss this.”
His tone was filled with cold fury. “Why not? Everybody else is discussing it. The word is that you’re Moretti’s girl.” His face was pale. “Jesus!”
“My personal life—”
“He lives in a sewer and you brought that sewer into the office! You’ve got us all working for Moretti and his hoodlums.”
“Stop it!”
“I am. That’s what I came to tell you. I’m leaving.”