Warren Oakes, her criminal law professor, told her: “That’s a real tribute, young lady. It’s very difficult for a woman to get into a good law firm.”
Jennifer’s dilemma was that she no longer had a home or roots. She was not certain where she wanted to live.
Shortly before graduation Jennifer’s problem was solved for her. Professor Oakes asked her to see him after class.
“I have a letter from the District Attorney’s office in Manhattan, asking me to recommend my brightest graduate for his staff. Interested?”
New York. “Yes, sir.” Jennifer was so stunned that the answer just popped out.
She flew to New York to take the bar examination, and returned to Kelso to close her father’s law office. It was a bittersweet experience, filled with memories of the past and it seemed to Jennifer that she had grown up in that office.
She got a job as an assistant in the law library of the university to tide her over until she heard whether she had passed the New York bar examination.
“It’s one of the toughest in the country,” Professor Oakes warned her.
But Jennifer knew.
She received her notice that she had passed and an offer from the New York District Attorney’s office on the same day.
One week later, Jennifer was on her way east.
She found a tiny apartment (Spc W/U fpl gd loc nds sm wk, the ad said) on lower Third Avenue, with a fake fireplace in a steep fourth-floor walk-up. The exercise will do me good, Jennifer told herself. There were no mountains to climb in Manhattan, no rapids to ride. The apartment consisted of a small living room with a couch that turned into a lumpy bed, and a tiny bathroom with a window that someone long ago had painted over with black paint, sealing it shut. The furniture looked like something that could have been donated by the Salvation Army. Oh, well, I won’t be living in this place long. Jennifer thought. This is just temporary until I prove myself as a lawyer.
That had been the dream. The reality was that she had been in New York less than seventy-two hours, had been thrown off the District Attorney’s staff and was facing disbarment.
Jennifer quit reading newspapers and magazines and stopped watching television, because wherever she turned she saw herself. She felt that people were staring at her on the street, on the bus, and at the market. She began to hide out in her tiny apartment, refusing to answer the telephone or the doorbell. She thought about packing her suitcases and returning to Washington. She thought about getting a job in some other field. She thought about suicide. She spent long hours composing letters to District Attorney Robert Di Silva. Half the letters were scathing indictments of his insensitivity and lack of understanding. The other half were abject apologies, with a plea for him to give her another chance. None of the letters was ever sent.
For the first time in her life Jennifer was overwhelmed with a sense of desperation. She had no friends in New York, no one to talk to. She stayed locked in her apartment all day, and late at night she would slip out to walk the deserted streets of the city. The derelicts who peopled the night never accosted her. Perhaps they saw their own loneliness and despair mirrored in her eyes.
Over and over, as she walked, Jennifer would envision the courtroom scene in her mind, always changing the ending.
A man detached himself from the group around Di Silva and hurried toward her. He was carrying a manila envelope.
Miss Parker?
Yes.
The Chief wants you to give this to Stela.
Jennifer looked at him coolly. Let me see your identification, please.
The man panicked and ran.
A man detached himself from the group around Di Silva and hurried toward her. He was carrying a manila envelope.
Miss Parker?
Yes.
The Chief wants you to give this to Stela. He thrust the envelope into her hands.
Jennifer opened the envelope and saw the dead canary inside. I’m placing you under arrest.