Otto Wenzel was completely different. The short, potbellied little man was happily married. He regarded Jennifer as a daughter and he constantly brought her soups and cakes that his wife made. Unfortunately, his wife was a terrible cook, but Jennifer forced herself to eat whatever Otto Wenzel brought in, because she did not want to hurt his feelings. One Friday evening Jennifer was invited to the Wenzel home for dinner. Mrs. Wenzel had prepared stuffed cabbage, her specialty. The cabbage was soggy, the meat inside was hard, and the rice halfcooked. The whole dish swam in a lake of chicken fat. Jennifer attacked it bravely, taking small bites and pushing the food around on her plate to make it seem as though she were eating.

"How do you like it?" Mrs. Wenzel beamed.

"It-it's one of my favorites."

From that time on, Jennifer had dinner at the Wenzel's every Friday night, and Mrs. Wenzel always prepared Jennifer's favorite dish.

Early one morning, Jennifer received a telephone call from the personal secretary of Mr. Peabody, Jr.

"Mr. Peabody would like to see you this morning at eleven o'clock. Be prompt, please."

"Yes, ma'am."

In the past, Jennifer had only dealt with secretaries and law clerks in the Peabody office. It was a large, prestigious firm, one that young lawyers dreamed of being invited to join. On the way to keep her appointment, Jennifer began to fantasize. If Mr. Peabody himself wanted to see her, it had to be about something important. He probably had seen the light and was going to offer her a job as a lawyer with his firm, to give her a chance to show what she could do. She was going to surprise all of them. Some day it might even be Peabody, Peabody & Parker.

Jennifer killed thirty minutes in the corridor outside the office, and at exactly eleven o'clock, she entered the reception room. She did not want to seem too eager. She was kept waiting for two hours, and was finally ushered into the office of Mr. Peabody, Jr. He was a tall, thin man wearing a vested suit and shoes that had been made for him in London.

He did not invite her to sit down. "Miss Potter-" He had an unpleasant, high-pitched voice.

"Parker."

He picked up a piece of paper from his desk. "This is a summons. I would like you to serve it."

At that instant, Jennifer sensed that she was not going to become a member of the firm.

Mr. Peabody, Jr., handed Jennifer the summons and said, "Your fee will be five hundred dollars."

Jennifer was sure she had misunderstood him. "Did you say five hundred dollars?"

"That is correct. If you are successful, of course."

"There's a problem," Jennifer guessed.

"Well, yes," Mr. Peabody, Jr., admitted. "We've been trying to serve this man for more than a year. His name is William Carlisle. He lives on an estate in Long Island and he never leaves his house. To be quite truthful, a dozen people have tried to serve him. He has a bodyguard-butler who keeps everyone away."

Jennifer said, "I don't see how I-"

Mr. Peabody, Jr. leaned forward. "There's a great deal of money at stake here. But I can't get William Carlisle into court unless I can serve him, Miss Potter." Jennifer did not bother to correct him. "Do you think you can handle it?"

Jennifer thought about what she could do with five hundred dollars. "I'll find a way."

At two o'clock that afternoon, Jennifer was standing outside the imposing estate of William Carlisle. The house itself was Georgian, set in the middle of ten acres of beautiful, carefully tended grounds. A curving driveway led to the front of the house, which was framed by graceful fir trees. Jennifer had given a lot of thought to her problem. Since it was impossible to get into the house, the only solution was to find a way to get Mr. William Carlisle to come out.

Half a block down the street was a gardener's truck. Jennifer studied the truck a moment, then walked over to it, looking for the gardeners. There were three of them at work, and they were j.a.panese.

Jennifer walked up to the men. "Who's in charge here?"

One of them straightened up. "I am."

"I have a little job for you..." Jennifer began.

"Sorry, miss. Too busy."

"This will only take five minutes."

"No. Impossible to-"

"I'll pay you one hundred dollars."

The three men stopped to look at her. The chief gardener said, "You pay us one hundred dollars for five minutes' work?"

"That's right."

"What we have to do...?"

Five minutes later, the gardener's truck pulled into the driveway of William Carlisle's estate and Jennifer and the three gardeners got out. Jennifer looked around, selected a beautiful tree next to the front door and said to the gardeners, "Dig it up."

They took their spades from the truck and began to dig. Before a minute had gone by, the front door burst open and an enormous man in a butler's uniform came storming out.

"What the h.e.l.l do you think you're doing?"

"Long Island Nursery," Jennifer said crisply. "We're takin' out all these trees."

The butler stared at her. "You're what what?"

Jennifer held up a piece of paper. "I have an order here to dig up these trees."

"That's impossible! Mr. Carlisle would have a fit!" He turned to the gardeners. "You stop that!"

"Look, mister," Jennifer said, "I'm just doin' my job." She looked at the gardeners. "Keep diggin', fellas."

"No!" the butler shouted. "I'm telling you there's been a mistake! Mr. Carlisle didn't order any trees dug up."

Jennifer shrugged and said, "My boss says he did."

"Where can I get in touch with your boss?"

Jennifer looked at her watch. "He's out on a job in Brooklyn. He should be back in the office around six."

The butler glared at her, furious. "Just a minute! Don't do anything until I return."

"Keep diggin'," Jennifer told the gardeners.

The butler turned and hurried into the house, slamming the door behind him. A few moments later the door opened and the butler returned, accompanied by a tiny middle-aged man.

"Would you mind telling me what the devil is going on here?"

"What business is it of yours?" Jennifer demanded.

"I'll tell you what business it is of mine," he snapped. "I'm William Carlisle and this happens to be my property."

"In that case, Mr. Carlisle," Jennifer said, "I have something for you." She reached in her pocket and put the summons in his hand. She turned to the gardeners. "You can stop digging now."

Early the next morning Adam Warner telephoned. Jennifer recognized his voice instantly.

"I thought you would like to know," Adam said, "that the disbarment proceedings have been officially dropped. You have nothing more to worry about."

Jennifer closed her eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks. "I-I can't tell you how much I appreciate what you've done."

"Justice isn't always blind."

Adam did not mention the scene he had had with Stewart Needham and Robert Di Silva. Needham had been disappointed, but philosophical.

The District Attorney had carried on like a raging bull. "You let that b.i.t.c.h get away with this? Jesus Christ, she's Mafia, Adam! Couldn't you see that? She's conning you!"

And on and on, until Adam had tired of it.

"All the evidence against her was circ.u.mstantial, Robert. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time and she got mousetrapped. That doesn't spell Mafia to me."

Finally Robert Di Silva had said, "Okay, so she's still a lawyer. I just hope to G.o.d she practices in New York, because the minute she sets foot in any of my courtrooms, I'm going to wipe her out."

Now, talking to Jennifer, Adam said nothing of this. Jennifer had made a deadly enemy, but there was nothing that could be done about it. Robert Di Silva was a vindictive man, and Jennifer was a vulnerable target. She was bright and idealistic and achingly young and lovely.

Adam knew he must never see her again.

There were days and weeks and months when Jennifer was ready to quit. The sign on the door still read Jennifer Parker, Attorney at Law, Jennifer Parker, Attorney at Law, but it did not deceive anyone, least of all Jennifer. She was not practicing law: Her days were spent running around in rain and sleet and snow, delivering subpoenas and summons to people who hated her for it. Now and then she accepted a but it did not deceive anyone, least of all Jennifer. She was not practicing law: Her days were spent running around in rain and sleet and snow, delivering subpoenas and summons to people who hated her for it. Now and then she accepted a pro bono pro bono case, helping the elderly get food stamps, solving various legal problems of ghetto Blacks and Puerto Ricans and other underprivileged people. But she felt trapped. case, helping the elderly get food stamps, solving various legal problems of ghetto Blacks and Puerto Ricans and other underprivileged people. But she felt trapped.

The nights were worse than the days. They were endless, for Jennifer had insomnia and when she did sleep, her dreams were filled with demons. It had begun the night her mother had deserted Jennifer and her father, and she had not been able to exorcise whatever it was that was causing her nightmares.

She was consumed by loneliness. She went out on occasional dates with young lawyers, but inevitably she found herself comparing them to Adam Warner, and they all fell short. There would be dinner and a movie or a play, followed by a struggle at her front door. Jennifer was never sure whether they expected her to go to bed with them because they had bought her dinner, or because they had had to climb up and down four steep flights of stairs. There were times when she was strongly tempted to say Yes Yes, just to have someone with her for the night, someone to hold, someone to share herself with. But she needed more in her bed than a warm body that talked; she needed someone who cared, someone for whom she could care.

The most interesting men who propositioned Jennifer were all married, and she flatly refused to go out with any of them. She remembered a line from Billy Wilder's wonderful film The Apartment The Apartment: "When you're in love with a married man you shouldn't wear mascara." Jennifer's mother had destroyed a marriage, had killed Jennifer's father. She could never forget that.

Christmas came and New Year's Eve, and Jennifer spent them alone. There had been a heavy snowfall and the city looked like a gigantic Christmas card. Jennifer walked the streets, watching pedestrians hurrying to the warmth of their homes and families, and she ached with a feeling of emptiness. She missed her father terribly. She was glad when the holidays were over. Nineteen seventy is going to be a better year Nineteen seventy is going to be a better year, Jennifer told herself.

On Jennifer's worst days, Ken Bailey would cheer her up. He took her out to Madison Square Garden to watch the Rangers play, to a disco club and to an occasional play or movie. Jennifer knew he was attracted to her, and yet he kept a barrier between them.

In March, Otto Wenzel decided to move to Florida with his wife.

"My bones are getting too old for these New York winters," he told Jennifer.

"I'll miss you." Jennifer meant it. She had grown genuinely fond of him.

"Take care of Ken."

Jennifer looked at him quizzically.

"He never told you, did he?"

"Told me what?"

He hesitated, then said, "His wife committed suicide. He blames himself."

Jennifer was shocked. "How terrible! Why-why did she do it?"

"She caught Ken in bed with a young blond man."

"Oh, my G.o.d!"

"She shot Ken and then turned the gun on herself. He lived. She didn't."

"How awful! I had no idea that...that-"

"I know. He smiles a lot, but he carries his own h.e.l.l with him."

"Thanks for telling me."

When Jennifer returned to the office, Ken said, "So old Otto's leaving us."

"Yes."

Ken Bailey grinned. "I guess it's you and me against the world."

"I guess so."

And in a way, Jennifer thought, Jennifer thought, it is true. it is true.

Jennifer looked at Ken with different eyes now. They had lunches and dinners together, and Jennifer could detect no signs of h.o.m.os.e.xuality about him but she knew that Otto Wenzel had told her the truth: Ken Bailey carried his own private h.e.l.l with him.

A few clients walked in off the street. They were usually poorly dressed, bewildered and, in some instances, out-and-out nut cases.

Prost.i.tutes came in to ask Jennifer to handle their bail, and Jennifer was amazed at how young and lovely some of them were. They became a small but steady source of income. She could not find out who sent them to her. When she mentioned it to Ken Bailey, he shrugged in a gesture of ignorance and walked away.

Whenever a client came to see Jennifer, Ken Bailey would discreetly leave. He was like a proud father, encouraging Jennifer to succeed.

Jennifer was offered several divorce cases and turned them down. She could not forget what one of her law professors had once said: Divorce is to the practice of law what proctology is to the practice of medicine. Divorce is to the practice of law what proctology is to the practice of medicine. Most divorce lawyers had bad reputations. The maxim was that when a married couple saw red, lawyers saw green. A high-priced divorce lawyer was known as a Most divorce lawyers had bad reputations. The maxim was that when a married couple saw red, lawyers saw green. A high-priced divorce lawyer was known as a bomber, bomber, for he would use legal high explosives to win a case for a client and, in the process, often destroyed the husband, the wife and the children. for he would use legal high explosives to win a case for a client and, in the process, often destroyed the husband, the wife and the children.