Rage of Angels

Walking down the long corridor on her way to meet with Abraham Wilson, Je

A guard had told Je

Je

“I’m going to do everything I can,” Je

Three days before the Abraham Wilson trial was to begin, Je

7

At four o’clock on a Monday morning in late September of 1970, the day the trial of Abraham Wilson was to begin, Je

Each dream was different, but they were all similar. In the last one, Abraham Wilson was strapped in the electric chair. As Je

As she bathed and dressed she had a premonition of doom. She felt like wearing black, but she chose a green Chanel copy she had bought on sale at Loehma

At eight-thirty, Je

A reporter said, “Miss Parker, this is your first time in court, isn’t it, since you fouled up the Michael Moretti case for the District Attorney?”

Ken Bailey had warned her. She was the central attraction, not her client. The reporters were not there as objective observers; they were there as birds of prey and she was to be their carrion.

A young woman in jeans pushed a microphone up to Je

“No comment.” Je

“The District Attorney issued a statement last night that he thinks you shouldn’t be allowed to practice law in the New York courts. Would you like to say anything about that?”

“No comment.” Je

“Last year Judge Waldman tried to get you disbarred. Are you going to ask him to disqualify himself from—?”

Je

The trial was scheduled to take place in Room 37. The corridor outside was crowded with people trying to get in, but the courtroom was already full. It was buzzing with noise and there was a carnival atmosphere in the air. There were extra rows reserved for members of the press. Di Silva saw to that, Je

Abraham Wilson was seated at the defense table, towering over everyone around him like an evil mountain. He was dressed in a dark blue suit that was too small for him, and a white shirt and blue tie that Je

Wilson was staring defiantly around the courtroom, glowering at everyone who met his look. Je

There was not a trace in Abraham Wilson’s personality that was loveable. There was nothing about his appearance that could evoke sympathy. There was only that ugly, scarred face with its broken nose and missing teeth, that enormous body that would inspire fear.

Je

He glanced over at her and said, “I didn’t think you was comin’.”

Je

He shrugged indifferently. “It don’t matter one way or another. They’s go

There was a stir around the prosecutor’s table and Je

A court officer said, “All rise,” and Judge Lawrence Waldman entered from the judge’s robing room.

“Hear ye, Hear ye. All people having business with Part Thirty-seven of this Court, draw near, give your attention and you shall be heard. The Honorable Justice Lawrence Waldman presiding.”

The only one who refused to stand was Abraham Wilson. Je

“Fuck ‘em, baby. They go

Je

He looked at her for a long moment, then slowly got to his feet, towering over her.

Judge Waldman took his place on the bench. The spectators resumed their seats. The court clerk handed a court calendar to the judge.

“The People of the State of New York versus Abraham Wilson, charged with the murder of Raymond Thorpe.”

Je

By late afternoon of the second day, Je