Rage of Angels

Robert Di Silva had three of Michael Moretti’s men indicted for shaking down a group of lunch wagons. They were charged with conspiracy to interfere with commerce by extortion and seven counts of interference with commerce. The only witness willing to testify against the men was a woman who owned one of the stands.

“She’s going to blow us away,” Michael told Jennifer. “She’s got to be handled.”

“You own a piece of a magazine publishing company, don’t you?” Jennifer asked.

“Yes. What does that have to do with lunch wagons?”

“You’ll see.”

Jennifer quietly arranged for the magazine to offer a large sum of money for the witness’s story. The woman accepted. In court, Jennifer used that to discredit the woman’s motives, and the charges were dismissed.

Jennifer’s relationship with her associates had changed. When the office had begun to take a succession of Mafia cases, Ken Bailey had come into Jennifer’s office and said, “What’s going on? You can’t keep representing these hoodlums. They’ll ruin us.”

“Don’t worry about it, Ken. They’ll pay.”

“You can’t be that naive, Jennifer. You’re the one who’s going to pay. They’ll have you hooked.”

Because she had known he was right, Jennifer said angrily, “Drop it, Ken.”

He had looked at her for a long moment, then said, “Right. You’re the boss.”

The Criminal Courts was a small world, and news traveled swiftly. When word got out that Jennifer Parker was defending members of the Organization, well-meaning friends went to her and reiterated the same things that Judge Lawrence Waldman and Ken Bailey had told her.

“If you get involved with these hoodlums, you’ll be tarred with the same brush.”

Jennifer told them all: “Everyone is entitled to be defended.”

She appreciated their warnings, but she felt that they did not apply to her. She was not a part of the Organization; she merely represented some of its members. She was a lawyer, like her father, and she would never do anything that would have made him ashamed of her. The jungle was there, but she was still outside it.

Father Ryan had come to see her. This time it was not to ask her to help out a friend.

“I’m concerned about you, Jennifer. I hear reports that you’re handling—well—the wrong people.”

“Who are the wrong people? Do you judge the people who come to you for help? Do you turn people away from God because they’ve sinned?”

Father Ryan shook his head. “Of course not. But it’s one thing when an individual makes a mistake. It’s something else when corruption is organized. If you help those people, you’re condoning what they do. You become a part of it.”

“No. I’m a lawyer, Father. I help people in trouble.”

Jennifer came to know Michael Moretti better than anyone had ever known him. He exposed feelings to her that he had never revealed to anyone else. He was basically a lonely, solitary man, and Jennifer was the first person who had ever been able to penetrate his shell.

Jennifer felt that Michael needed her. She had never felt that with Adam. And Michael had forced her to admit how much she needed him. He had brought out feelings in her that she had kept suppressed—wild, atavistic passions that she had been afraid to let loose. There were no inhibitions with Michael. When they were in bed together, there were no limits, no barriers. Only pleasure, a pleasure Jennifer had never dreamed possible.

Michael confided to Jennifer that he did not love Rosa, but it was obvious that Rosa worshiped Michael. She was always at his service, waiting to take care of his needs.

Jennifer met other Mafia wives, and she found their lives fascinating. Their husbands went out to restaurants and bars and racetracks with their mistresses while their wives stayed home and waited for them.

A Mafia wife always had a generous allowance, but she had to be careful how she spent it, lest she attract the attention of the Internal Revenue Service.

There was a pecking order ranging from the lowly soldato to the capo di tutti capi, and the wife never owned a more expensive coat or car than the wife of her husband’s immediate superior.

The wives gave dinner parties for their husbands’ associates, but they were careful not to be more lavish than their position permitted in relation to the others.

At ceremonies such as weddings or baptisms, where gifts were called for, a wife was never allowed to spend more than the wife above her station in the hierarchy.

The protocol was as stringent as that at U.S. Steel, or any other large business corporation.

The Mafia was an incredible moneymaking machine, but Jennifer became aware that there was another element in it that was equally important: power.

“The Organization is bigger than the government of most of the countries of the world,” Michael told Jennifer. “We gross more than a half a dozen of the largest companies in America, put together.”

“There’s a difference,” Jennifer pointed out. “They’re legitimate and—”

Michael laughed. “You mean the ones that haven’t been caught. Dozens of the country’s biggest companies have been indicted for violating one law or another. Don’t kid yourself about heroes, Jennifer. The average American today can’t name two astronauts who have been up in space, but they know the names of Al Capone and Lucky Luciano.”

Jennifer realized that in his own way, Michael was equally as dedicated as Adam was. The difference was that their lives had gone in opposite directions.