The Mayor of Lexington Avenue

by James Sheehan

“Don’t you? They have to. I didn’t know about those statistics. They’ve released half the number of people that they killed? That’s abominable.”

  “Yeah, it is, and I do think they are going to at least overturn the death penalty portion of the conviction, but sometimes you need somebody else to validate your feelings.”

  “That’s what I’m here for, honey—to validate your feelings.” She kissed him hard on the lips. “I’ve never been so proud to know somebody in my whole life. Did I tell you that you were magnificent? Did I tell you I love you?” This time Jack kissed her.

  On the plane ride home, he re-analyzed the entire oral argument.

  “Normally, I always leave an oral argument knowing that there was something I forgot to say. When those judges start hitting you with questions, you can’t remember everything. But I don’t feel like I missed anything this time.”

  “You didn’t,” Pat told him. “You hit every point. Don’t worry. Rudy could not have had a better advocate today.”

  Her words seemed to calm him once more—at least for a while. But when they were home and in bed she watched him toss and turn all night. Time was running out and the pressure was becoming overwhelming. At one point, she heard him mumbling in his sleep and leaned over to listen to the words:

  “Don’t give up! Don’t ever give up!” she heard Jack telling himself.

  Thirty–four

  Pat told Nancy all about the oral argument at breakfast the next morning at the Pelican. Even when Jack was in town, Pat never brought him to the Pelican. This was her and Nancy’s private sanctuary away from the office.

  “Mornin’, girls, ya havin’ the usual this morning?” Dolly asked about ten minutes after they were seated. There were three other people in the joint at the time. If this wasn’t their special place and Dolly wasn’t their own very special incompetent waitress, they probably would have walked out. But they hardly noticed. It was business as usual and besides, they had a lot to talk about.

  “I will,” Pat said, as she always did.

  “I’m going to have poached eggs on whole wheat toast,” Nancy told Dolly. It was the first time she’d ever ordered poached eggs, but Dolly didn’t flinch.

  “Youse both having coffee?” Dolly asked, as she did every morning.

  “Decaf,” Pat replied, as she always did.

  “Diet Coke,” said Nancy, which was the only “usual” she had.

  Dolly wrote the drink orders down, never acknowledging that she had, once again, gotten them wrong. The woman was consistent.

  “Do you really think they’re going to give Rudy a new trial?” Nancy asked after Dolly had departed.

  “Maybe not a new trial—at least, not yet. But I feel confident and so does Jack that they will change the death sentence to life imprisonment. That will give us time to get an even stronger defense organized.”

  “Good, because that’s what I’m working on right now.”

  “You are?”

  “I am. I’ve become friends with a woman at the police department and she’s telling me things. I mean, nothing earth-shattering yet, but she’s on the verge. It’s weird. As Rudy’s execution date gets closer and closer, I can feel that she’s going to bare her soul. She’s afraid, but something deeper inside of her is fighting to overcome her fear.”

  “What is it that she knows?”

  “I don’t know. She worked for the police department when Rudy was first brought in. She testified at his suppression hearing when Tracey James tried to suppress his confession.”

  “Did you tell Jack about all this?” Pat asked.

  “Not yet. Not until I have something concrete.”

  “Time’s running out, you know. The execution is next week. Jack could force her to talk.”

  “Pat, you know that won’t work. The woman won’t talk until she’s ready.”

  As Nancy finished the sentence, Dolly arrived with Pat’s oatmeal and bananas, and two fried eggs with sausage and white toast for Nancy.

  Nancy waited until Dolly was out of earshot. “At least she got close. I mean, I did order eggs.”

  Pat started laughing. “You know, a good investigator has to start listening when a person is providing clues,” she said between fits of laughter.

  Nancy was puzzled. “I don’t get it.”

  “Well, what does Dolly ask us every day when we come in?”

  Nancy thought about it for a minute. “She asks us if we’re having the usual.”

  “Right—and I always say yes and you always give your order. Correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Has she ever gotten my order wrong?”

  A smile of recognition spread across Nancy’s face. “She wants me to eat oatmeal and bananas every day.”

  Pat almost spit out her food she was laughing so hard. “That was good—but you get it. She wants you to be consistent. If you’re consistent she’ll remember what your order is—at least food-wise. She’ll probably never get the drinks right.”

  “What the hell is she writing on the pad, then?”

  “Love letters to the cook,” Pat said. “I don’t know.”

  It was Nancy’s turn to laugh. Pat was so good for her — for her and Jack. They were both so wound up, they probably would have killed each other by now—if Pat wasn’t around. She kept it loose.

  “What?” Pat asked when Nancy kept looking at her.

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on. You’ve got to share.”

  “All right,” Nancy said. “I was just thinking that I’ve gotta go into the kitchen to see what this cook looks like.”

  Dolly heard the two of them laughing out loud from behind the counter and glanced over. What the hell are they always laughing about?

  Thirty–five

  They got the word from the Supreme Court by fax two days before the scheduled execution. It was a fourteen-page opinion, a four to three split decision, the majority opinion written by Justice Flood. “A jury’s decision cannot be overturned except on the basis of clear error,” the opinion read. The question of whether Rudy’s confession should have been suppressed had been addressed by a previous appeal; there was no need to address it again. With the confession and the forensic evidence—Rudy’s blood in the trailer—the evidence of guilt was overwhelming, the opinion concluded. Chief Justice Walker, Judge Arquist and Judge Scott disagreed. In a dissenting opinion written by Justice Walker, the minority adopted Jack’s argument: “The presence of semen from an unidentified person places some doubt that Rudy Kelly killed Lucy Ochoa. Based on that additional circumstantial evidence, we would overturn the death sentence given by a jury that did not have this evidence.”

  Neither Pat nor Nancy had to read the opinion. They could tell what it said simply by watching Jack. He had grabbed the pages off the fax as they came in and arranged them in order before starting to read. They both saw the eagerness and the hope in his eyes fade soon after he began. His shoulders sagged. His face drained of color. He seemed to slump farther into his chair as he read each page. Nancy ran out of the office before a word was said. Pat walked behind Jack’s chair and softly began to massage his shoulders.

  “I thought we had them,” he said after several minutes, his voice a monotone. Then he took the pages that he had so carefully arranged and slammed them down on the desk. “I thought we had them!” he yelled.

  Pat just kept rubbing.

  Jack put his head on the desk and stayed motionless for the longest time. Pat went back to her computer. She knew he still had other options. He had a brief already written for the Supreme Court of the United States. All he had to do was tweak it a little bit and fax it. He had already notified the court it might be coming and given the date of the scheduled execution. And then there was the governor. They had discussed both possibilities many times while jogging—there was no need for her to mention them now. Eventually, Jack would act.

  “It’s amazing,” he finally said in a relatively normal tone, “that seven distinguished juror
s can hear the same argument and four of them can come to a completely different conclusion from the other three.” Pat could have commented but she didn’t. This was a one-person conversation. “It’s all about predisposition—mind-set,” Jack continued. “You can argue about scholarly points and logic and all that legal mumbo jumbo until the cows come home, but in the end it all comes down to mind-set: the people in favor of the death penalty versus the ones who aren’t sure—certainty versus uncertainty. And certainty wins every time. That’s the problem with this fucking country: It’s run by a bunch of idiots who are always certain they’re right.”

  Pat still didn’t say anything. She knew he had to get this anger out before putting his brain back in gear. She was almost surprised when he picked up the telephone and dialed.

  “Is Governor Richards in?” he said, skipping hello altogether. “Well, would you tell him that Jack Tobin called? Tell him it’s urgent. It’s about Rudy Kelly. I’m faxing him the Supreme Court’s decision as soon as I hang up. He has my office number and my home phone. Tell him I’m going to be here all day waiting for his call.”

  He spent several hours working on his brief to the United States Supreme Court. He faxed it in the early afternoon and called the clerk to make sure they’d received it, once again explaining the urgency and the scheduled execution date and time.

  Four more times that day he called the governor’s office but the governor never took his call. “I shouldn’t have waited,” he told Pat late in the afternoon. “I should have driven to Starke and told Rudy and then I should have headed straight for Tallahassee and confronted the bastard in person.”

  Pat wanted to tell him that he couldn’t have finished his brief and made the drive at the same time. She also wanted to tell him to calm down. The governor might be his last chance. But this was not a time for giving advice.

  “He’ll call you,” she assured him. “He’ll call you tonight. We can head for Starke first thing in the morning.”

  They didn’t go jogging that night. Jack made the five-minute car ride from the office to home in two minutes, and then they simply sat and waited for the phone to ring. At 7:45, it did.

  Pat was shocked when Jack just kept sitting there. When she made a move to pick the phone up, he stopped her.

  “Let it ring. The answering machine will click on in a second.”

  She couldn’t believe it—waiting all day and now letting the answering machine take the call. It must be some kind of macho thing, she told herself.

  The machine clicked on: “This is Jack Tobin. I’m not in right now. Please leave a message at the beep and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  The machine beeped and the distinctive voice of Bob Richards came on.

  “Jack, this is Bob. Sorry I couldn’t get back to you earlier. I was tied up in meetings all day. I’ve read the opinion—” Jack picked up the receiver.

  “Hi, Bob.” He intentionally sounded a little winded. “Just got in the door. Thanks for calling back.”

  “You bet, Jack. Listen, I read the opinion. Man, you were so close. One more justice and you would have had it.” He sounded so sympathetic.

  “Thanks, Bob. Listen, this kid is innocent. I’d stake my life on it. I just need some more time to prove it. You can do that, Bob. You can call this execution off and give me the time I need.” Jack had rehearsed what he was going to say all day. He knew he had to be short and direct.

  “Jack, you have to understand something.” Bob began a speech he had probably rehearsed all afternoon as well. “I was really pulling for Rudy. I hoped the decision was going to go the other way because I trust your judgment. I’ve read the police reports. There is a question there. But you have to understand my position. If I delay this execution even one day, I will be out of office so fast you’ll think I disappeared before your very eyes. I’m up for reelection next year, Jack. I can’t help you. I hope you understand.”

  It was the speech Jack had hoped against hope he wouldn’t hear—but it was the speech he expected. Bob Richards, the consummate politician, would take all sides. He’d tell Jack he believed his client was innocent but he’d also tell him his hands were tied and ask for his understanding. Jack knew it was futile, but he couldn’t give up just yet.

  “Bob, we’re talking about a man’s life here. Doesn’t that take precedence over politics?”

  “It’s not my decision, Jack. I’m just the public’s representative.”

  “But the public doesn’t know the facts, Bob. You do. The public doesn’t know how flawed the criminal justice system is. You do—or at least you should.”

  “I’m sorry, Jack. I can’t help you.” Bob Richards hung up the telephone.

  Ten minutes later, the roller coaster they’d been on took one more surge upwards out of the depths of despair. The phone rang again. This time Jack answered it instantly. It was Nancy.

  “Jack, I’ve got something. It’s big.”

  Jack cut her off before she could say anything more. “Don’t say anything over the telephone. Come over here.”

  “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  Two hours later there was a knock on the door. Pat answered it. A Cobb County sheriff’s deputy stood in the doorway. “Good evening, ma’am,” he said. “Is Mr. Tobin in?”

  As he was saying the words, Jack appeared in the entrance parlor. “I’m Jack Tobin. Can I help you?”

  “Mr. Tobin, there’s been an accident. I believe you know a Ms. Nancy Shea?”

  “Yes, she’s my secretary. What’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but she didn’t make it.”

  It was as if Jack and Pat had been fighting skirmishes all day with the Supreme Court and the governor and just when they thought they might survive, the heavy artillery hit them. Pat doubled over and fell back against the steps leading to the upstairs. Jack just leaned against the wall and put his head in his hands. The sheriff’s deputy, not knowing what else to do, kept providing information.

  “She was about fifteen minutes out of town on a dirt road near State Road 710 when she must have lost control of the car. She hit a telephone pole and the car burst into flames.”

  “Okay, okay,” Jack said, pulling himself together. “We’ll follow you there.” He looked at Pat, who just nodded, her face a blank.

  “Has anyone contacted her father?” Jack asked.

  “I did,” the officer replied. “He’s the one who told me to come here. Another officer is taking him to the scene. I can drive you folks if you want.”

  “We’ll be all right,” Jack said.

  They both started crying in the car on the way, neither one of them saying a word. Jack almost missed the turnoff—it was indeed a secluded dirt road—but Pat saw the flashing lights through the trees and motioned silently to him. When they pulled up, police and firefighters and a couple of rescue personnel were standing around near the car, and a few people from a subdivision about half a mile down the road were gawking from farther away. The car was a charred wreck, still steaming, and there were hoses still lying about and puddles around the wreckage. Jack could see a stretcher with a body under a sheet being loaded into the back of an ambulance. A police officer standing next to the ambulance was writing notes on a little pad.

  How long was she stuck in that car before somebody arrived? Was she unconscious or—please, God, no—trapped and struggling to get out? Questions were shooting through Jack’s brain like poison darts. He had to stop thinking about how she might have suffered or he was going to lose it again. Analyzing the facts and thinking them through, that’s what he needed to do. What was she doing out here? What did she so desperately want to tell me? And dammit, why didn’t I let her?

  Pat saw Jim Shea off in the shadows leaning against a tree. She went over and put her arm around him and tried to offer what comfort she could. Two weeks earlier, Jim and Nancy had invited them over for dinner. They’d had such a nice evening, and Pat couldn’t help but notice how close father and daughter wer
e. There had only been the two of them since Nancy’s mother died.

  He raised his head and looked at Pat, a vacant stare in his eyes. “I put the gas can in the back of the car,” he said hollowly. “I put the gas can in the back of the car,” he repeated, looking back down at the ground. Pat understood what he was saying. There was nothing she could do to stop him from blaming himself, so she just kept her arm around his shoulders.

  Jack went looking for the officer in charge. He was directed to a tall, lean state trooper named Anthony Burrows. He introduced himself and asked Trooper Burrows what happened.

  “We’re not really sure, Mr. Tobin. But Blaine Redford, an accident reconstruction specialist from the sheriff’s department, is already here and there’s a homicide investigator as well. They may be able to help you more than I can.”

  Jack took off to find Blaine Redford. He was happy about one thing: Since they were outside the town limits, he didn’t have to contend with the Bass Creek police department and Wesley Brume.

  Redford was down the dirt road away from the crowd, a notebook in one hand and a flashlight in the other, which he was methodically sweeping back and forth across the road.

  “Trying to find what caused her to lose control?” Jack asked.

  “Partially,” Deputy Redford said, not breaking his concentrated gaze at the flashlight’s beam. “I’m also looking for—”

  “Skid marks,” Jack interrupted. Blaine Redford looked up, wanting to see who this person was who was so knowledgeable.

  “Jack Tobin,” Jack said, reaching out to shake hands before he realized Deputy Redford didn’t have a free hand. “I’m an insurance defense lawyer. The victim, Nancy Shea, was my secretary. I don’t want to bother you but I’m interested in finding out what happened to her. I’m sure you understand.”

  Deputy Redford stopped walking and looked at Jack. “I understand. I saw her father earlier. I have a daughter myself. I know you want some answers but I don’t know what to tell you. This is my third time walking this road. I can’t find any obstacles. I can’t find any skid marks.”