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.
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?”