well.’ Judge Lawrence Waldman rapped his gavel on the bench. ‘This court stands adjourned until two o’clock.’
Everyone in the courtroom rose as the judge stood up and walked through the side door to his chambers. The jurors began to file out of the room. Four armed deputies surrounded Camillo Stela and escorted him through a door near the front of the courtroom that led to the witness room.
At once, Di Silva was engulfed by reporters.
‘Will you give us a statement?’
‘How do you think the case is going so far, Mr District Attorney?’
‘How are you going to protect Stela when this is over?’
Ordinarily Robert Di Silva would not have tolerated such an intrusion in the courtroom, but he needed now, with his political ambitions, to keep the press on his side, and so he went out of his way to be polite to them.
Jennifer Parker sat there, watching the District Attorney parrying the reporters’ questions.
‘Are you going to get a conviction?’
‘I’m not a fortune teller,’ Jennifer heard Di Silva say modestly. ‘That’s what we have juries for, ladies and gentlemen. The jurors will have to decide whether Mr Moretti is innocent or guilty.’
Jennifer watched as Michael Moretti rose to his feet. He looked calm and relaxed. Boyish was the word that came to Jennifer’s mind. It was difficult for her to believe that he was guilty of all the terrible things of which he was accused. If I had to choose the guilty one, Jennifer thought, I’d choose Stela, the Twitcher.
The reporters had moved off and Di Silva was in conference with members of his staff. Jennifer would have given anything to hear what they were discussing.
Jennifer watched as a man said something to Di Silva, detached himself from the group around the District Attorney, and hurried over toward Jennifer. He was carrying a large manila envelope. ‘Miss Parker?’
Jennifer looked up in surprise. ‘Yes.’
‘The Chief wants you to give this to Stela. Tell him to refresh his memory about these dates. Colfax is going to try to tear his testimony apart this afternoon and the Chief wants to make sure Stela doesn’t foul up.’
He handed the envelope to Jennifer and she looked over at Di Silva. He remembered my name, she thought. It’s a good omen.
‘Better get moving. The D.A. doesn’t think Stela’s that fast a study.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Jennifer hurried to her feet.
She walked over to the door she had seen Stela go through. An armed deputy blocked her way.
‘Can I help you, miss?’
‘District Attorney’s office,’ Jennifer said crisply. She took out her identification card and showed it. ‘I have an envelope to deliver to Mr Stela from Mr Di Silva.’
The guard examined the card carefully, then opened the door, and Jennifer found herself inside the witness room. It was a small, uncomfortable-looking room containing a battered desk, an old sofa and wooden chairs. Stela was seated in one of them, his arm twitching wildly. There were four armed deputies in the room.
As Jennifer entered, one of the guards said, ‘Hey! Nobody’s allowed in here.’
The outside guard called, ‘It’s okay, Al. D.A.’s office.’
Jennifer handed Stela the envelope. ‘Mr Di Silva wants you to refresh your recollection about these dates.’
Stela blinked at her and kept twitching.
As Jennifer was making her way out of the Criminal Courts Building on her way to lunch, she passed the open door of a deserted courtroom. She could not resist stepping inside the room for a moment.
There were fifteen rows of spectators’ benches on each side of the rear area. Facing the judge’s bench were two long tables, the one on the left marked Plaintiff and the one on the right marked Defendant. The jury box contained two rows of eight chairs each. It’s an ordinary courtroom, Jennifer thought, plain – even ugly – but it’s the heart of freedom. This room and all the courtrooms like it represented the difference between civilization and savagery. The right to a trial by a jury of one’s peers was what lay at the heart of every free nation. Jennifer thought of all the countries in the world that did not have this little room, countries where citizens were taken from their beds in the middle of the night and tortured and murdered by anonymous enemies for undisclosed reasons: Iran, Uganda, Argentina, Peru, Brazil, Romania, Russia, Czechoslovakia … the list was depressingly long.
If the American courts were ever stripped of their power, Jennifer thought, if citizens were ever denied the right to a trial by jury, then America would cease to exist as a free nation. She was a part of the system now and, standing there, Jennifer was filled with an overwhelming feeling of pride. She would do everything she could to honor it, to help preserve it. She stood there for a long moment, then turned to leave.
From the far end of the hall there was a distant hum that got louder and louder, and became pandemonium. Alarm bells began to ring. Jennifer heard the sound of running feet in the corridor and saw policemen with drawn guns racing toward the front entrance of the courthouse. Jennifer’s instant thought was that Michael Moretti had escaped, had somehow gotten past the barrier of guards. She hurried out into the corridor. It was bedlam. People were racing around frantically, shouting orders over the din of the clanging bells. Guards armed with riot guns had taken up positions at the exit doors. Reporters who had been telephoning in their stories were hurrying into the corridor to find out what was happening. Far down the hall, Jennifer saw District Attorney Robert Di Silva wildly issuing instructions to half a dozen policemen, his face drained of color.
My God! He’s going to have a heart attack, Jennifer thought.
She pushed her way through the crowd and moved toward him, thinking that perhaps she could be of some use. As she approached, one of the deputies who had been guarding Camillo Stela looked up and saw Jennifer. He raised an arm and pointed to her, and five seconds later Jennifer Parker found herself being grabbed, handcuffed and placed under arrest.
There were four people in Judge Lawrence Waldman’s chambers: Judge Waldman, District Attorney Robert Di Silva, Thomas Colfax, and Jennifer.
‘You have the right to have an attorney present before you make any statement,’ Judge Waldman informed Jennifer, ‘and you have the right to remain silent. If you –’
‘I don’t need an attorney, Your Honor! I can explain what happened.’
Robert Di Silva was leaning so close to her that Jennifer could see the throbbing of a vein in his temple. ‘Who paid you to give that package to Camillo Stela?’
‘Paid me? Nobody paid me!’ Jennifer’s voice was quavering with indignation.
Di Silva picked up
