Текст книги "Rage of Angels"

Автор книги: Sidney Sheldon

Соавторы: Sidney Sheldon
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 25 страниц) [доступный отрывок для чтения: 11 страниц]

Thirty minutes later the jury filed back into the courtroom. The foreman announced they had found in favor of the plaintiff. The amount of damages she was entitled to was six million dollars.

It was the largest personal injury award in the history of the State of New York.

20

When Jennifer walked into her office the following morning she found an array of newspapers spread across her desk. She was on the front page of every one of them. There were four dozen beautiful red roses in a vase. Jennifer smiled. Adam had found time to send her flowers.

She opened the card. It read: Congratulations. Michael Moretti.

The intercom buzzed and Cynthia said, “Mr. Adams is on the line.”

Jennifer grabbed the telephone. She tried to keep her voice calm. “Hello, darling.”

“You’ve done it again.”

“I got lucky.”

“Your client got lucky. Lucky to have you as an attorney. You must be feeling wonderful.”

Winning cases made her feel good. Being with Adam made her feel wonderful.“Yes.”

“I have something important to tell you,” Adam said. “Can you meet me for a drink this afternoon?”

Jennifer’s heart sank. There was only one thing Adam could have to tell her: He was never going to see her again.

“Yes. Yes, of course…”

“Mario’s? Six o’clock?”

“Fine.”

She gave the roses to Cynthia.

Adam was waiting in the restaurant, seated at a back table. So he won’t be embarrassed if I get hysterical,Jennifer thought. Well, she was determined not to cry. Not in front of Adam.

She could tell from his gaunt, haggard face what he had been going through, and she intended to make this as easy as possible for him. Jennifer sat down and Adam took her hand in his.

“Mary Beth is giving me a divorce,” Adam said, and Jennifer stared at him, speechless.

It was Mary Beth who had begun the conversation. They had returned from a fund-raising dinner where Adam had been the main speaker. The evening had been an enormous success. Mary Beth had been quiet during the ride home, a curious tension about her.

Adam said, “I thought the evening went well, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Adam.”

Nothing more was said until they reached the house.

“Would you like a nightcap?” Adam asked.

“No, thank you. I think we should have a talk.”

“Oh? About what?”

She looked at him and said, “About you and Jennifer Parker.”

It was like a physical blow. Adam hesitated for a moment, wondering whether to deny it or—

“I’ve known it for some time. I haven’t said anything because I wanted to make up my mind about what to do.”

“Mary Beth, I—”

“Please let me finish. I know that our relationship hasn’t been—well—all we hoped it would be. In some ways, perhaps I haven’t been as good a wife as I should have been.”

“Nothing that’s happened is your fault. I—”

“Please, Adam. This is very difficult for me. I’ve made a decision. I’m not going to stand in your way.”

He looked at her unbelievingly. “I don’t—”

“I love you too much to hurt you. You have a brilliant political future ahead of you. I don’t want anything to spoil that. Obviously, I’m not making you completely happy. If Jennifer Parker can make you happy, I want you to have her.”

He had a feeling of unreality, as though the whole conversation were taking place underwater. “What will happen to you?”

Mary Beth smiled. “I’ll be fine, Adam. Don’t worry about me. I have my own plans.”

“I—I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s no need to say anything. I’ve said it all for both of us. If I held on to you and made you miserable, it wouldn’t do either of us any good, would it? I’m sure Jennifer’s lovely or you wouldn’t feel about her the way you do.” Mary Beth walked over to him and took him in her arms. “Don’t look so stricken, Adam. What I’m doing is the best thing for everyone.”

“You’re remarkable.”

“Thank you.” She gently traced his face with her fingertips and smiled. “My dearest Adam. I’ll always be your best friend. Always.” Then she came closer and put her head on his shoulder. He could hardly hear her soft voice. “It’s been such a long time since you held me in your arms, Adam. You wouldn’t have to tell me you love me, but would you—would you like to—hold me in your arms once more and make love to me? Our last time together?”

Adam was thinking of this now as he said to Jennifer, “The divorce was Mary Beth’s idea.”

Adam went on talking, but Jennifer was no longer listening to the words; she was only hearing the music. She felt as though she were floating, soaring. She had steeled herself for Adam to tell her he could never see her again—and now this! It was too much to absorb. She knew how painful the scene with Mary Beth must have been for Adam, and Jennifer had never loved Adam more than she did at this moment. She felt as though a crushing load had been lifted from her chest, as though she could breathe again.

Adam was saying, “Mary Beth was wonderful about it. She’s an incredible woman. She’s genuinely happy for both of us.”

“That’s hard to believe.”

“You don’t understand. For some time now we’ve lived more like…brother and sister. I’ve never discussed it with you, but—” he hesitated and said carefully, “Mary Beth doesn’t have strong…drives.”

“I see.”

“She’d like to meet you.”

The thought of it disturbed Jennifer. “I don’t think I could, Adam. I’d feel—uncomfortable.”

“Trust me.”

“If—if you want me to, Adam, of course.”

“Good, darling. We’ll go for tea. I’ll drive you out.”

Jennifer thought for a moment. “Wouldn’t it be better if I went alone?”

The following morning, Jennifer drove out the Saw Mill River Parkway, headed upstate. It was a crisp, clear morning, a lovely day for a drive. Jennifer turned on the car radio and tried to forget her nervousness about the meeting facing her.

The Warner house was a magnificently preserved house of Dutch origin, overlooking the river at Croton-on-Hudson, set on a large estate of rolling green acres. Jennifer drove up the driveway to the imposing front entrance. She rang the bell and a moment later the door was opened by an attractive woman in her middle thirties. The last thing Jennifer had expected was this shy southern woman who took her hand, gave her a warm smile and said, “I’m Mary Beth. Adam didn’t do you justice. Please come in.”

Adam’s wife was wearing a beige wool skirt that was softly full, and a silk blouse opened just enough to reveal a mature but still lovely breast. Her beige-blond hair was worn long and slightly curling about her face, and was flattering to her blue eyes. The pearls around her neck could never be mistaken as cultured. There was an air of old-world dignity about Mary Beth Warner.

The interior of the house was lovely, with wide, spacious rooms filled with antiques and beautiful paintings.

A butler served tea in the drawing room from a Georgian silver tea service.

When he had left the room, Mary Beth said, “I’m sure you must love Adam very much.”

Jennifer said awkwardly, “I want you to know, Mrs. Warner, that neither of us planned—”

Mary Beth Warner put a hand on Jennifer’s arm. “You don’t have to tell me that. I don’t know whether Adam told you, but our marriage has turned into a marriage of politeness. Adam and I have known each other since we were children. I think I fell in love with Adam the first time I saw him. We went to the same parties and had the same friends, and I suppose it was inevitable that one day we would get married. Don’t misunderstand. I still adore Adam and I’m sure he adores me. But people do change, don’t they?”

“Yes.”

Jennifer looked at Mary Beth and she was filled with a deep feeling of gratitude. What could have been an ugly and sordid scene had turned into something friendly and wonderful. Adam had been right. Mary Beth was a lovely lady.

“I’m very grateful to you,” Jennifer said.

“And I’m grateful to you,” Mary Beth confided. She smiled shyly and said, “You see, I’m very much in love, too. I was going to get the divorce immediately but I thought, for Adam’s sake, we’d best wait until after the election.”

Jennifer had been so busy with her own emotions that she had forgotten about the election.

Mary Beth went on: “Everyone seems sure that Adam is going to be our next senator, and a divorce now would gravely hurt his chances. It’s only six months away, so I decided it would be better for him if I delayed it.” She looked at Jennifer. “But forgive me—is that agreeable with you?”

“Of course it is,” Jennifer said.

She would have to completely readjust her thinking. Her future would now be tied to Adam. If he became senator, she would live with him in Washington, D.C. It would mean giving up her law practice here, but that did not matter. Nothing mattered except that they could be together.

Jennifer said, “Adam will make a wonderful senator.”

Mary Beth raised her head and smiled. “My dear, one day Adam Warner is going to make a wonderful President.”

The telephone was ringing when Jennifer arrived back at the apartment. It was Adam. “How did you get along with Mary Beth?”

“Adam, she was wonderful!”

“She said the same thing about you.”

“You read about old southern charm, but you don’t come across it very often. Mary Beth has it. She’s quite a lady.”

“So are you, darling. Where would you like to be married?”

Jennifer said, “Times Square, for all I care. But I think we should wait, Adam.”

“Wait for what?”

“Until after the election. Your career is important. A divorce could hurt you right now.”

“My private life is—”

“—going to become your public life. We mustn’t do anything that might spoil your chances. We can wait six months.”

“I don’t want to wait.”

“I don’t either, darling.” Jennifer smiled. “We won’t really be waiting, will we?”

21

Jennifer and Adam had lunch together almost every day, and once or twice a week Adam spent the night at their apartment. They had to be more discreet than ever, for Adam’s campaign had actively begun, and he was becoming a nationally prominent figure. He gave speeches at political rallies and fund-raising dinners, and his opinions on national issues were quoted more and more frequently in the press.

Adam and Stewart Needham were having their ritual morning tea.

“Saw you on the Todayshow this morning,” Needham said. “Fine job, Adam. You got every single point across. I understand they’ve invited you back again.”

“Stewart, I hate doing those shows. I feel like some goddamned actor up there, performing.”

Stewart nodded, unperturbed. “That’s what politicians are, Adam—actors. Playing a part, being what the public wants them to be. Hell, if politicians acted like themselves in public—what expression do the kids use?—letting it all hang out?—this country’d be a damned monarchy.”

“I don’t like the fact that running for public office has become a personality contest.”

Stewart Needham smiled. “Be grateful you’ve got the personality, my boy. Your ratings in the polls keep going up every week.” He stopped to pour more tea. “Believe me, this is only the beginning. First the Senate, then the number one target. Nothing can stop you.” He paused to take a sip of his tea. “Unless you do something foolish, that is.”

Adam looked up at him. “What do you mean?”

Stewart Needham delicately wiped his lips with a damask napkin.

“Your opponent is a gutter fighter. I’ll bet you that right now he’s examining your life under a microscope. He won’t find any ammunition, will he?”

“No.” The word came to Adam’s lips automatically.

“Good,” Stewart Needham said. “How’s Mary Beth?”

Jennifer and Adam were spending a lazy weekend at a country house in Vermont that a friend of Adam’s had loaned him. The air was crisp and fresh, hinting at the winter to come. It was a perfect weekend, comfortable and relaxed, with long hikes during the day and games and easy conversation before a blazing fire at night

They had carefully gone through all the Sunday papers. Adam was moving up in every poll. With a few exceptions, the media were for Adam. They liked his style, his honesty, his intelligence and his frankness. They kept comparing him to John Kennedy.

Adam sprawled in front of the fireplace, watching flame shadows dancing across Jennifer’s face. “How would you like to be the wife of the President?”

“Sorry. I’m already in love with a senator.”

“Will you be disappointed if I don’t win, Jennifer?”

“No. The only reason I want it is because you want it, darling.”

“If I do win, it will mean living in Washington.”

“If we’re together, nothing else matters.”

“What about your law practice?”

Jennifer smiled. “The last time I heard, they had lawyers in Washington.”

“What if I asked you to give it up?”

“I’d give it up.”

“I don’t want you to. You’re too damned good at it.”

“All I care about is being with you. I love you so much, Adam.”

He stroked her soft dark brown hair and said, “I love you, too. So much.”

They went to bed, and later, they slept.

On Sunday night they drove back to New York. They picked up Jennifer’s car at the garage where she had parked it, and Adam returned to his home. Jennifer went back to their apartment in New York.

Jennifer’s days were unbelievably full. If she had thought she was busy before, now she was besieged. She was representing international corporations that had bent a few laws and been caught, senators with their fingers in the till, movie stars who had gotten into trouble. She represented bank presidents and bank robbers, politicians and heads of unions.

Money was pouring in, but that was not important to Jennifer. She gave large bonuses to the office staff, and lavish gifts.

Corporations that came up against Jennifer no longer sent in their second string of lawyers, so Jennifer found herself pitted against some of the top legal talent of the world.

She was admitted into the American College of Trial Lawyers, and even Ken Bailey was impressed.

“Jesus,” he said, “you know, only one percent of the lawyers in this country can get in?”

“I’m their token woman,” Jennifer laughed.

When Jennifer represented a defendant in Manhattan, she could be certain that Robert Di Silva would either prosecute the case personally or mastermind it. His hatred of Jennifer had grown with every victory she had.

During one trial in which Jennifer was pitted against the District Attorney, Di Silva put a dozen top experts on the stand as witnesses for the prosecution.

Jennifer called no experts. She said to the jury: “If we want a spaceship built or the distance of a star measured, we call in the experts. But when we want something really important done, we collect twelve ordinary folks to do it. As I recall, the founder of Christianity did the same thing.”

Jennifer won the case.

One of the techniques Jennifer found effective with a jury was to say, “I know that the words ‘law’ and ‘courtroom’ sound a little frightening and remote from your lives, but when you stop to think about it, all we’re doing here is dealing with the rights and wrongs done to human beings like ourselves. Let’s forget we’re in a courtroom, my friends. Let’s just imagine we’re sitting around in my living room, talking about what’s happened to this poor defendant, this fellow human being.”

And, in their minds, the jurors weresitting in Jennifer’s living room, carried away by her spell.

This ploy worked beautifully for Jennifer until one day when she was defending a client against Robert Di Silva. The District Attorney rose to his feet and made the opening address to the jury.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Di Silva said, “I’d like for you to forget you’re in a court of law. I want you to imagine that you’re sitting at home in my living room and we’re just sitting around informally chatting about the terrible things the defendant has done.”

Ken Bailey leaned over and whispered to Jennifer, “Do you hear what that bastard’s doing? He’s stealing your stuff!”

“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 forgetyou’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 rememberwhere 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 operandiinto 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.

“Ken, I want you to dig up everything you can on Judge Stevens.”

“Judge Stevens? He’s as straight as an arrow. He—”

“I know he is. Do it, please.”

The federal prosecutor who was handling the case was an old pro named Carter Gifford.

“How are you going to plead him?” Gifford asked.

Jennifer gave him a look of innocent surprise. “Not guilty, of course.”

He laughed sardonically. “Judge Stevens will get a kick out of that. I suppose you’re going to move for a jury trial.”

“No.”

Gifford studied Jennifer suspiciously. “You mean you’re going to put your client in the hands of the hanging judge?”

“That’s right.”

Gifford grinned. “I knew you’d go around the bend one day, Jennifer. I can’t wait to see this.”

“The United States of America versus Paul Richards. Is the defendant present?”

The court clerk said, “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Would the attorneys please approach the bench and identify themselves?”

Jennifer and Carter Gifford moved toward Judge Stevens.

“Jennifer Parker representing the defendant”

“Carter Gifford representing the United States Government.”

Judge Stevens turned to Jennifer and said brusquely, “I’m aware of your reputation, Miss Parker. So I’m going to tell you right now that I do not intend to waste this court’s time. I will brook no delays in this case. I want to get on with this preliminary hearing and get the arraignment over with. I intend to set a trial date as speedily as possible. I presume you will want a jury trial and—”

“No, Your Honor.”

Judge Stevens looked at her in surprise. “You’re not asking for a jury trial?”

“I am not. Because I don’t think there’s going to be an arraignment.”

Carter Gifford was staring at her. “What?”

“In my opinion, you don’t have enough evidence to bring my client to trial.”

Carter Gifford snapped, “You need another opinion!” He turned to Judge Stevens. “Your Honor, the government has a very strong case. The defendant has already been convicted of committing exactly the same crime in exactly the same manner. Our computer picked him out of over two thousand possible suspects. We have the guilty man right here in this courtroom, and the prosecution has no intention of dropping the case against him.”

Judge Stevens turned to Jennifer. “It seems to the court that there is enough prima facieevidence here to have an arraignment and a trial. Do you have anything more to say?”

“I do, Your Honor. There is not one single witness who can positively identify Paul Richards. The FBI has been unable to find any of the stolen money. In fact, the only thing that links the defendant to this crime is the imagination of the prosecutor.”

The judge stared down at Jennifer and said with ominous softness, “What about the computer that picked him out?”

Jennifer sighed. “That brings us to a problem, Your Honor.”

Judge Stevens said grimly, “I imagine it does. It is easy to confuse a live witness, but it is difficult to confuse a computer.”

Carter Gifford nodded smugly, “Exactly, Your Honor.”

Jennifer turned to face Gifford. “The FBI used the IBM 370/168, didn’t it?”

“That’s right. It’s the most sophisticated equipment in the world.”

Judge Stevens asked Jennifer, “Does the defense intend to challenge the efficiency of that computer?”

“On the contrary, Your Honor. I have a computer expert here in court today who works for the company that manufactures the 370/168. He programmed the information that turned up the name of my client.”

“Where is he?”

Jennifer turned and motioned to a tall, thin man seated on a bench. He nervously came forward.

Jennifer said, “This is Mr. Edward Monroe.”

“If you’ve been tampering with my witness,” the prosecuting attorney exploded, “I’ll—”

“All I did was to request Mr. Monroe to ask the computer if there were other possible suspects. I selected ten people who had certain general characteristics similar to my client. For purposes of identification, Mr. Monroe programmed in statistics on age, height, weight, color of eyes, birthplace—the same kind of data that produced the name of my client.”

Judge Stevens asked impatiently, “What is the point of all this, Miss Parker?”

“The point is that the computer identified one of the ten people as a prime suspect in the bank robbery.”

Judge Stevens turned to Edward Monroe. “Is this true?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Edward Monroe opened his briefcase and pulled out a computer readout

The bailiff took it from Monroe and handed it to the judge. Judge Stevens glanced at it and his face became red.

He looked at Edward Monroe. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“No, sir.”

“The computer picked meas a possible suspect?” Judge Stevens asked.

“Yes, sir, it did.”

Jennifer explained, “The computer has no reasoning power, Your Honor. It can only respond to the information it is given. You and my client happen to be the same weight, height and age. You both drive green sedans, and you both come from the same state. That’s really as much evidence as the prosecuting attorney has. The only other factor is the way in which the crime was done. When Paul Richards committed that bank robbery ten years ago, millions of people read about it. Any one of them could have imitated his modus operandi.Someone did.” Jennifer indicated the piece of paper in Judge Stevens’ hand. “That shows you how flimsy the State’s case really is.”

Carter Gifford sputtered, “Your Honor—” and stopped. He did not know what to say.

Judge Stevens looked again at the computer readout in his hand and then at Jennifer.

“What would you have done,” he asked, “if the court had been a younger man, thinner than I, who drove a bluecar?”

“The computer gave me ten other possible suspects,” Jennifer said. “My next choice would have been New York District Attorney Robert Di Silva.”

Jennifer was sitting in her office, reading the headlines, when Cynthia announced, “Mr. Paul Richards is here.”

“Send him in, Cynthia.”

He came into the office wearing a black raincoat and carrying a candy box tied with a red ribbon.

“I just wanted to tell you thanks.”

“You see? Sometimes justice doestriumph.”

“I’m leaving town. I decided I need a little vacation.” He handed Jennifer the candy box. “A little token of my appreciation.”

“Thank you, Paul.”

He looked at her admiringly. “I think you’re terrific.”

And he was gone.

Jennifer looked at the box of candy on her desk and smiled. She had received less for handling most of Father Ryan’s friends. If she got fat, it would be Father Ryan’s fault.

Jennifer untied the ribbon and opened the box. Inside was ten thousand dollars in used currency.

One afternoon as Jennifer was leaving the courthouse, she noticed a large, black, chauffeured Cadillac limousine at the curb. As she started to walk past it, Michael Moretti stepped out. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Close up, there was an electric vitality to the man that was almost overpowering.

“Get out of my way,” Jennifer said. Her face was flushed and angry, and she was even more beautiful than Michael Moretti had remembered.

“Hey,” he laughed, “cool down. All I want to do is talk to you. All you have to do is listen. I’ll pay you for your time.”

“You’ll never have enough money.”

She started to move past him. Michael Moretti put a conciliatory hand on her arm. Just touching her increased his excitement.

He turned on all of his charm. “Be reasonable. You won’t know what you’re turning down until you hear what I have to say. Ten minutes. That’s all I want. I’ll drop you off at your office. We can talk on the way.”

Jennifer studied him a moment and said, “I’ll go with you on one condition. I want the answer to a question.”

Michael nodded. “Sure. Go ahead.”

“Whose idea was it to frame me with the dead canary?”

He answered without hesitation. “Mine.”

So now she knew. And she could have killed him. Grimly she stepped into the limousine and Michael Moretti moved in beside her. Jennifer noted that he gave the driver the address of her office building without asking.

As the limousine drove off, Michael Moretti said, “I’m glad about all the great things that are happening to you.”

Jennifer did not bother to reply.

“I really mean that.”

“You haven’t told me what it is you want.”

“I want to make you rich.”

“Thanks. I’m rich enough.” Her voice was filled with the contempt she felt toward him.

Michael Moretti’s face flushed. “I’m trying to do you a favor and you keep fighting me.”

Jennifer turned to look at him. “I don’t want any favors from you.”

He made his voice conciliatory. “Okay. Maybe I’m trying to make up a little for what I did to you. Look, I can send you a lot of clients. Important clients. Big money. You have no idea—”

Jennifer interrupted. “Mr. Moretti, do us both a favor. Don’t say another word.”

“But I can—”

“I don’t want to represent you or any of your friends.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I represented one of you, from then on you’d own me.”

“You’ve got it all wrong,” Michael protested. “My friends are in legitimate businesses. I mean banks, insurance companies—”

“Save your breath. My services aren’t available to the Mafia.”

“Who said anything about the Mafia?”

“Call it whatever you like. No one owns me but me. I intend to keep it that way.”

The limousine stopped for a red light.

Jennifer said, “This is close enough. Thank you for the lift.” She opened the door and stepped out.

Michael said, “When can I see you again?”

“Not ever, Mr. Moretti.”

Michael watched her walk away.

My God,he thought, that’s a woman!He suddenly became aware that he had an erection and smiled, because he knew that one way or another, he was going to have her.

23

It was the end of October, two weeks before the election, and the senatorial race was in full swing. Adam was running against the incumbent Senator John Trowbridge, a veteran politician, and the experts agreed it was going to be a close battle.

Jennifer sat at home one night, watching Adam and his opponent in a television debate. Mary Beth had been right. A divorce now could easily have wrecked Adam’s growing chances for victory.

When Jennifer walked into the office after a long business lunch, there was an urgent message for her to call Rick Arlen.

“He’s called three times in the last half-hour,” Cynthia said.

Rick Arlen was a rock star who had, almost overnight, become the hottest singer in the world. Jennifer had heard about the enormous incomes of rock stars, but until she got involved with Rick Arlen’s affairs, she had had no idea what that really meant. From records, personal appearances, merchandising and now motion pictures, Rick Arlen’s income was more than fifteen million dollars a year. Rick was twenty-five years old, an Alabama farm boy who had been born with a gold mine in his throat.