Rage of Angels by Sidney Sheldon

“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.