Rage of Angels

“Quack?”

“You’re new around here, huh? CWAC is the City-Wide Anti-Crime unit. A pross is a hooker, and down below is south of Forty-Second Street. Capish?”

“Capish.”

Night court depressed Je

There were more than a hundred and fifty cases heard each night. There were whores and transvestites, stinking, battered drunks and drug addicts. There were Puerto Ricans and Mexicans and Jews and Irish and Greeks and Italians, and they were accused of rape and theft and possession of guns or dope or assault or prostitution. And they all had one thing in common: They were poor. They were poor and defeated and lost. They were the dregs, the misfits whom the affluent society had passed by. A large proportion of them came from Central Harlem, and because there was no more room in the prison system, all but the most serious offenders were dismissed or fined. They returned home to St. Nicholas Avenue and Morningside and Manhattan Avenues, where in three and one-half square miles there lived two hundred and thirty-three thousand Blacks, eight thousand Puerto Ricans, and an estimated one million rats.

The majority of clients who came to Je

Ken Bailey introduced Je

From time to time, when one of his parishioners would disappear, Father Ryan would come to Ken and enlist his services. Invariably, Ken would find the errant husband, wife, daughter or son. There would never be a charge.

“It’s a down payment on heaven,” Ken would explain.

One afternoon when Je

“Ken’s out, Father Ryan. He won’t be back today.”

“It’s really you I wanted to see, Je

That was the way he always started out with Ken.

“Yes, Father?”

“She’s an elderly parishioner, and the poor dear’s having trouble getting her Social Security payments. She moved into my neighborhood a few months ago and some damned computer lost all her records, may it rust in hell.”

“I see.”

“I knew you would,” Father Ryan said, getting to his feet. “I’m afraid there won’t be any money in it for you.”

Je

She had thought it would be a simple matter, but it had taken her almost three days to get the computer reprogrammed.

One morning a month later, Father Ryan walked into Je

“—Money,” Je

“Ah! That’s it. Exactly. But the poor fellow needs help badly.”

“All right. Tell me about him.”

“His name is Abraham. Abraham Wilson. He’s the son of one of my parishioners. Abraham is serving a life sentence in Sing Sing for killing a liquor store owner during a holdup.”

“If he was convicted and is serving his sentence, I don’t see how I can help, Father.”

Father Ryan looked at Je

“It isn’t?”

“No. A few weeks ago Abraham killed another man—a fellow prisoner named Raymond Thorpe. They’re going to try him for murder, and go for the death penalty.”

Je

“So they say.”

Je

“I’m afraid so.”

“How many?”

“Oh, a hundred or so. It happened in the prison yard, you see.”

“Terrific. What is it you want me to do?”

Father Ryan said simply, “Help Abraham.”

Je

“He’s still a fellow human being. Would you just talk to him?”

Je

Father Ryan nodded. “I understand. It would probably mean a great deal of publicity.”

They were both thinking the same thing. Abraham Wilson was not the only one who had strikes against him.

Sing Sing Prison is situated at the town of Ossining, thirty miles upstate of Manhattan on the east bank of the Hudson River, overlooking the Tappan Zee and Haverstraw Bay.

Je

During the bus ride, Je

Abraham Wilson would have to find someone else to defend him.

A dilapidated taxi took Je

The assistant warden was a large, square man with an old-fashioned military haircut and an acne-pitted face. His name was Howard Patterson.

“I would appreciate anything you can tell me about Abraham Wilson,” Je

“If you’re looking for comfort, you’re not going to get it here.” Patterson glanced at the dossier on the desk in front of him. “Wilson’s been in and out of prisons all his life. He was caught stealing cars when he was eleven, arrested on a mugging charge when he was thirteen, picked up for rape when he was fifteen, became a pimp at eighteen, served a sentence for putting one of his girls in the hospital…” He leafed through the dossier. “You name it—stabbings, armed robbery and finally the big time—murder.”

It was a depressing recital.

Je

“Forget it. Wilson’s the first to admit it, but it wouldn’t make any difference even if he denied it. We’ve got a hundred and twenty witnesses.”