“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.