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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 were 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.
A man detached himself from the group around Di Silva and hurried toward her. He was carrying a manila envelope. He walked past her to another young assistant district attorney and handed him the envelope. The Chief wants you to give this to Stela.
She could rewrite the scene as many times as she liked, but nothing was changed. One foolish mistake had destroyed her. And yet – who said she was destroyed? The press? Di Silva? She had not heard another word about her disbarment, and until she did she was still an attorney. There are law firms that made me offers, Jennifer told herself.
Filled with a new sense of resolve, Jennifer pulled out the list of the firms she had talked to and began to make a series of telephone calls. None of the men she asked to speak to was in, and not one of her calls was returned. It took her four days to realize that she was the pariah of the legal profession. The furor over the case had died down, but everyone still remembered.
Jennifer kept telephoning prospective employers, going from despair to indignation to frustration and back to despair again. She wondered what she was going to do with the rest of her life, and each time it came back to the same thing: All she wanted to do, the one thing she really cared about, was to practice law. She was a lawyer and, by God, until they stopped her she was going to find a way to practice her profession.
She began to make the rounds of Manhattan law offices. She would walk in unannounced, give her name to the receptionist and ask to see the head of personnel. Occasionally she was granted an interview, but when she was, Jennifer had the feeling it was out of curiosity. She was a freak and they wanted to see what she looked like in person. Most of the time she was simply informed there were no openings.
At the end of six weeks, Jennifer’s money was running out. She would have moved to a cheaper apartment, but there were no cheaper apartments. She began to skip breakfast and lunch, and to have dinner at one of the little corner dinettes where the food was bad but the prices were good. She discovered the Steak & Brew and Roast-and-Brew, where for a modest sum she was able to get a main course, all the salad she could eat, and all the beer she could drink. Jennifer hated beer, but it was filling.
When Jennifer had gone through her list of large law firms, she armed herself with a list of smaller firms and began to call on them, but her reputation had preceded her even there. She received a lot of propositions from interested males, but no job offers. She was beginning to get desperate. All right, she thought defiantly, if no one wants to hire me, I’ll open my own law office. The catch was that that took money. Ten thousand dollars, at least. She would need enough for rent, telephone, a secretary, law books, a desk and chairs, stationery … she could not even afford the stamps.
Jennifer had counted on her salary from the District Attorney’s office but that, of course, was gone forever. She could forget about severance pay. She had not been severed; she had been beheaded. No, there was no way she could afford to open her own office, no matter how small. The answer was to find someone with whom to share offices.
Jennifer bought a copy of The New York Times and began to search through the want ads. It was not until she was near the bottom of the page that she came across a small advertisement that read: Wanted:/Prof man sh sm off w/2 oth/prof men. Rs rent.
The last two words appealed to Jennifer enormously. She was not a professional man, but her sex should not matter. She tore out the ad and took the subway down to the address listed.
It was a dilapidated old building on lower Broadway. The office was on the tenth floor and the flaking sign on the door read:
KENNETH BAILEY
ACE INVEST GA IONS
Beneath it:
ROCKEFELLER C LLECTION AG NCY
Jennifer took a deep breath, opened the door and walked in. She was standing in the middle of a small, windowless office. There were three scarred desks and chairs crowded into the room, two of them occupied.
Seated at one of the desks was a bald, shabbily dressed, middle-aged man working on some papers. Against the opposite wall at another desk was a man in his early thirties. He had brick-red hair and bright blue eyes. His skin was pale and freckled. He was dressed in tight-fitting jeans, a tee shirt, and white canvas shoes without socks. He was talking into the telephone.
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Desser, I have two of my best operatives working on your case. We should have news of your husband any day now. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you for a little more expense money … No, don’t bother mailing it. The mails are terrible. I’ll be in your neighborhood this afternoon. I’ll stop by and pick it up.’
He replaced the receiver and looked up and saw Jennifer.
He rose to his feet, smiled and held out a strong, firm hand. ‘I’m Kenneth Bailey. And what can I do for you this morning?’
Jennifer looked around the small, airless room and said uncertainly, ‘I – I came about your ad.’
‘Oh.’ There was surprise in his blue eyes.
The bald-headed man was staring at Jennifer.
Kenneth Bailey said, ‘This is Otto Wenzel. He’s the Rockefeller Collection Agency.’
Jennifer nodded. ‘Hello.’ She turned back to Kenneth Bailey. ‘And you’re Ace Investigations?’
‘That’s right. What’s your scam?’
‘My –?’ Then, realizing, ‘I’m an attorney.’
Kenneth Bailey studied her skeptically. ‘And you want to set up an office here?’
Jennifer looked around the dreary office again and visualized herself at the empty desk, between these two men.
‘Perhaps I’ll look a little further,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure –’
‘Your rent would only be ninety dollars a month.’
‘I could buy this building for ninety dollars a month,’ Jennifer replied. She turned to leave.
‘Hey, wait a minute.’
Jennifer paused.
Kenneth Bailey ran a hand over his pale chin. ‘I’ll make a deal with you. Sixty. When your business gets rolling we’ll talk about an increase.’
It was a bargain. Jennifer knew that she could never find any space elsewhere for that amount. On the other hand, there was no way she could ever attract clients to this hellhole. There was one other thing she had to consider. She did not have the sixty dollars.
‘I’ll take it,’ Jennifer said.
‘You won’t be sorry,’ Kenneth Bailey promised. ‘When do you want to move your things in?’
‘They’re in.’
Kenneth Bailey painted the sign on the door himself. It read:
JENNIFER PARKER
ATTORNEY AT LAW
Jennifer studied the sign with mixed feelings. In her deepest depressions it had never occurred to her that she would have her name under that of a private investigator and a bill collector. Yet, as she looked at the faintly crooked sign, she could not help feeling a sense of pride. She was an attorney. The sign on the door proved it.
Now that Jennifer had office space, the only thing she lacked was clients.
Jennifer could no longer afford even the Steak & Brew. She made herself a breakfast of toast and coffee on the hot plate she had set up over the radiator in her tiny bathroom. She ate no lunch and had dinner at Chock Full O’Nuts or Zum Zum, where they served large pieces of wurst, slabs of bread and hot potato salad.
She arrived at her desk promptly at nine o’clock every morning, but there was nothing for her to do except listen to Ken Bailey and Otto Wenzel talking on the telephone.
Ken Bailey’s cases seemed to consist mostly of finding runaway spouses and children, and at first Jennifer was convinced that he was a con man, making extravagant promises and collecting large advances. But Jennifer quickly learned that Ken Bailey worked hard and delivered often. He was bright and he was clever.
Otto Wenzel was an enigma. His telephone rang constantly. He would pick it up, mutter a few words into it, write something on a piece of paper and disappear for a few hours.
‘Oscar does repo’s,’ Ken Bailey explained to Jennifer one day.
‘Repo’s?’
‘Yeah. Collection companies use him to get back automobiles, television sets, washing machines – you name it.’ He looked at Jennifer curiously. ‘You got any clients?’
‘I have some things coming up,’ Jennifer said evasively.
He nodded. ‘Don’t let it get you down. Anyone can make a mistake.’
Jennifer felt herself flushing. So he knew about her.
Ken Bailey was unwrapping a large, thick roast-beef sandwich. ‘Like some?’
It looked delicious. ‘No, thanks,’ Jennifer said firmly. ‘I never eat lunch.’
‘Okay.’
She watched him bite into the juicy sandwich. He saw her expression and said, ‘You sure you – ?’
‘No, thank you. I – I have an appointment.’
Ken Bailey watched Jennifer walk out of the office and his face was thoughtful. He prided himself on his ability to read character, but Jennifer Parker puzzled him. From the television and newspaper accounts he had been sure someone had paid this girl to destroy the case against Michael Moretti. After meeting Jennifer, Ken was less certain. He had been married once and had gone through hell, and he held women in low esteem. But something told him that this one was special. She was beautiful, bright and very proud. Jesus! he said to himself. Don’t be a fool! One murder on your conscience is enough.
Emma Lazarus was a sentimental idiot, Jennifer thought. ‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free … Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me.’ Indeed! Anyone manufacturing welcome mats in New York would have gone out of business in an hour. In New York no one cared whether you lived or died. Stop feeling sorry for yourself! Jennifer told herself. But it was difficult. Her resources had dwindled to eighteen dollars, the rent on her apartment was overdue, and her share of the office rent was due in two days. She did not have enough money to stay in New York any longer, and she did not have enough money to leave.
Jennifer had gone through the Yellow Pages, calling law offices alphabetically, trying to get a job. She made the calls from telephone booths because she was too embarrassed to let Ken Bailey and Otto Wenzel hear her conversations. The results were always the same. No one was interested in hiring her. She would have to return to Kelso and get a job as a legal aide or as a secretary to one of her father’s friends. How he would have hated that! It was a bitter defeat, but there were no choices left. She would be returning home a failure. The immediate problem facing her was transportation. She looked through the afternoon New York Post and found an ad for someone to share driving expenses to Seattle. There was a telephone number and Jennifer called it. There was no answer. She decided she would try again in the morning.
The following day, Jennifer went to her office for the last time. Otto Wenzel was out, but Ken Bailey was there, on the telephone, as usual. He was wearing blue jeans and a veeneck cashmere sweater.
‘I found your wife,’ he was saying. ‘The only problem, pal, is that she doesn’t want to go home … I know. Who can figure women out? … Okay. I’ll tell you where she’s staying and you can try to sweet-talk her into coming back.’ He gave the address of a midtown hotel. ‘My pleasure.’ He hung up and swung around to face Jennifer. ‘You’re late this morning.’
‘Mr Bailey, I – I’m afraid I’m going to have to be leaving. I’ll send you the rent money I owe you as soon as I’m able to.’
Ken Bailey leaned back in his chair and studied her. His look made Jennifer uncomfortable.
‘Will that be all right?’ she asked.
‘Going back to Washington?’
Jennifer nodded.
Ken Bailey said, ‘Before you leave, would you do me a little favor? A lawyer friend’s been bugging me to serve some subpoenas for him, and I haven’t got time. He pays twelve-fifty for each subpoena plus mileage. Would you help me out?’
One hour later Jennifer Parker found herself in the plush law offices of Peabody & Peabody. This was the kind of firm she had visualized working in one day, a full partner with a beautiful corner suite. She was escorted to a small back room where a harassed secretary handed her a stack of subpoenas.
‘Here. Be sure to keep a record of your mileage. You do have a car, don’t you?’
‘No, I’m afraid I –’
