“That’s not true!”
“There was never any letter, Mr. Shorter, and you know it.”
“That’s not true, Mr. DiCarlo, I have a copy right here. I made a copy of it and kept it. I’m not sure why. Maybe just because I thought I might need it someday.”
Jimmy DiCarlo wasn’t sure he’d heard the answer right. At that moment, Clay Evans wanted to shoot this incompetent oaf with whom he had entrusted his life.
Del Shorter produced a document from his jacket pocket and held it out to Jimmy, who didn’t even want to go near it.
“Take the letter, Mr. DiCarlo,” Judge Stanton said softly. Jimmy finally took the letter.
“You could have typed this letter yesterday. The signature is unreadable,” Jimmy said after a quick glance. Questions had long ago gone by the wayside.
“I didn’t,” Del countered.
“And you don’t know if Wesley Brume ever talked to Clay Evans about this letter, do you?”
“No.”
“No further questions.” Jimmy tossed the letter onto the podium dismissively and walked back to his table acting as if he had decimated Del Shorter on cross. He didn’t even hear Jack call Philip Sheridan back to the stand.
“Mr. Sheridan, I have a letter here purported to be from your police department dated June 16, 1988. The signature is kind of hard to read. Could you take a look at it and see if you could identify the signature?” Jack handed the letter to Philip Sheridan.
“That’s my signature,” Sheridan replied after examining the letter.
“And did your department normally send out letters like this when you believed a suspect came from another state?”
“All the time.”
“How long do you keep those letters?”
“It all depends. We have what we call a ‘pending file.’ If the letter isn’t answered, it stays in the pending file and is purged after three years. If it is answered, it becomes part of the criminal investigative file and is not purged.”
“So, now that you have identified your signature on that copy, can you re-create for us what happened with this letter?”
“Sure. We probably sent it out and never received an answer and after three years purged it from our files. That’s why I testified that I had no record of such a letter.”
“Thank you, Officer Sheridan. No further questions, Your Honor.”
Jack had the letter marked and admitted into evidence over Jimmy’s strenuous objection.
“Redirect?” the judge asked, almost smiling. Jimmy had finally gotten the picture.
“No, Your Honor.”
“Any more witnesses, Mr. Tobin?”
“No, Your Honor. The prosecution rests.”
Jimmy was up before Jack had finished. “We renew our Motion for Acquittal, Your Honor.” There were actually some chuckles from the spectators and the press row.
“It’s 11:30 right now,” the judge said, looking at his watch. “I’m going to dismiss the jury for lunch and we’ll discuss the Motion for Acquittal.” The judge turned to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to give you a long lunch. You don’t have to be back until 1:30, at which time you’ll hear closing arguments. I suspect that you will be deliberating by the end of the day. Remember all my admonitions to you. Do not talk about the case to anyone or among yourselves. Enjoy your lunch.”
“Okay,” the judge started after the jury had filed out, “I’m going to give it to you short and sweet so you have time to digest it over lunch and to modify your closing arguments if necessary. I’m dismissing the case against Clay Evans.” A low murmur spread through the courtroom. Judge Stanton ignored it. “Mr. Evans was the prosecutor in the Kelly case. As such, he enjoyed absolute immunity. The only possible way he could be criminally responsible for Rudy Kelly’s murder is if, after the prosecution was completed, he participated in some illegal scheme to have Rudy Kelly executed. I listened carefully to all the testimony and there is no evidence that Mr. Evans even knew about the 1988 letter from the Del Rio police department. Maria Lopez, the state’s best witness on this issue, said she had no real proof that Wesley Brume even talked to Clay Evans about this letter. Mr. Shorter also admitted that he had no proof that Brume told Evans about the letter. Without this critical nexus, I must dismiss this case against Mr. Evans.
“As for Mr. Brume, he has limited immunity and there is ample evidence against him to send this case to the jury.
“That’s it. That’s my ruling. Mr. Evans, you are free to go. I’ll see the rest of you at 1:30 sharp.”
Jimmy was ecstatic. He went to shake Clay Evans’s hand but thought better of it when Clay glared at him.
“We won this case in spite of you. If I had taken the stand, as you suggested, I’d be feeling like Brume over there—waiting for my death sentence. Goodbye, Jimmy. And don’t ever show up in my courtroom again.”
Jimmy knew Clay didn’t mean it. Once he got back on the bench, he’d get a hankering for old Jimmy’s satchels of cash and everything would be forgotten. For now, though, without even going near his remaining client, Jimmy headed for the courthouse steps and his afternoon press conference, where he explained to all who would listen how he had achieved Clay Evans’s release. Nobody asked about Wesley Brume.
Late that afternoon, after closing arguments and less than an hour’s deliberation, the jury came back with a guilty verdict against Wesley Brume. And the next day, in the sentencing phase of the trial, they recommended a life sentence without parole, which the judge approved. They would have given him the death penalty, but Jack had made something clear in his discussions with them.
“Rudy and I discussed this many times,” he told them. “And we agreed that the death penalty has been arbitrarily applied in this country and we also agreed that the criminal justice system is too flawed to have a death penalty—just look what happened to Rudy. Therefore, I know Rudy would want me to ask you to give Wesley Brume the sentence of life in prison without the possibility of parole instead of death.”
And they had agreed to his—to Rudy’s—request.
When it was all over, Judge Stanton just looked at Jack and nodded. Jack read the message in that nod. By declaring a mistrial and cleaning up the record, he had ensured a solid case against Wesley Brume. Brume could appeal from now until Doomsday and he wouldn’t get anywhere. As for Clay Evans, that case had always been a long shot. At least Stanton had let him put on his entire case, and he’d had a chance to show a fairly wide audience just what kind of man Clay Evans was. He’d wanted to finish the job, of course, to wring Evans’s slimy neck with a well-fashioned legal rope, but the law hadn’t let him. Jack had a real problem with the law that had let Evans wriggle away, but not with the judge. His friend Harley’s assessment had been only partially correct: Harry Stanton was never reversed on appeal because he worked as hard as the lawyers to make things get done right.
Jack didn’t leave the courtroom that day when everyone else did. He needed to be alone for a while longer. Mikey had told him so many years before that one day he was going to do a great thing and that it would be about the both of them. And now all he could think was how he’d failed to save Rudy and he’d failed to convict Clay Evans. But he’d given his heart and his soul—and he would have given his life.
What was it that Mikey had said so long ago? “And when it’s over—because you’ll finish it, whatever it is, you finish everything you start—I want you to remember this day and what I told you.”
This case was over but it wasn’t finished. In a way, it was just beginning.
He picked up his papers, pushed his chair in at the table, and turned to walk out of the courtroom. He knew he’d be back.
EPILOGUE
Jack and Pat finally told everyone that they were going to get married. It was two weeks after the trial. They were in Joaquin’s room at the hospital. Joaquin had just received clearance from his doctor to go home, and he was awaiting his wheelchair escort. Dick was there with them and everybody w
as in a lighthearted mood.
“Why don’t we get married together?” It was Maria who made the suggestion. “I mean, we all kind of fell in love together.”
Pat liked the idea. “We could do it at the ranch and we could invite Steve and his family—including his sister.” Everybody looked at Dick.
“Okay, okay, I’ve been seeing Steve’s sister. But I won’t be joining you at the altar,” Dick told them. “I should tell you all that you will be getting married at my house. I made Steve an offer and he has verbally accepted it, which is good enough for me. I’ll be a lot happier over here.”
“Are you going to stand up for me?” Joaquin asked.
“Who else would?” Dick replied.
“I’d like you both to stand up for me,” Jack said.
Pat looked at Maria. “Would you stand up for me, Maria?”
“Of course, Pat, but I have to have my daughter as my maid of honor. Otherwise I’d ask you.”
“I understand. Then it’s all settled. When do you want to do it?”
“I’ll need at least a month to recuperate,” Joaquin said, a twinkle coming into his eyes. “With Maria’s help, of course.”
“Don’t be fresh or I’ll get a sixty-year-old nurse to take care of you,” Maria said and they all burst out laughing. “I’ll get with you, Pat, about timing.”
Six weeks later, there was a small group in attendance, including Steve’s sister—a pretty, pleasant woman in her mid-forties—when Jack and Pat, and then Joaquin and Maria, pledged their love to each other. Afterwards, they had a little reception at the house.
“I’m glad I rented this place to you,” Steve said to Jack, clinking his champagne glass. “I thought I’d have to eat it Now I’ve got a buyer and it still might stay in the family.” They both laughed. What a wonderful day, Jack thought. What wonderful people.
Six months after that wonderful day, Clay Evans stopped at his favorite coffee shop near his home in a rural section of Homestead, a suburb of Miami, to get a cup to go as he did every morning. As he exited the building, someone said they heard what sounded like a firecracker going off. It came from the woods across the road. Clay Evans was killed instandly by the bullet, which pierced his skull and shattered his brain. The bullet came from an unregistered rifle and the police had absolutely no clues as to the perpetrator, although some were sure the shot had to have been fired by a sniper.
The case was eventually put in a pile of unsolved murders. It was the same fate of the case of four murdered men found on a back road in Cobb County.
A few weeks after the trial was over, in the early morning before sunrise, Jack and Pat and Nancy’s father, Jim, went out on the river in Jack’s little outboard. They had two little urns containing the ashes of Nancy and Rudy. A few miles down the river, Jack made a right turn out of the busy traffic into a narrow canal bordered on both sides by thick mangroves and tall pines. He motored a ways down the canal and cut the motor. They sat in the dark for several minutes listening to the crickets drone and the frogs croak. As the sun started to rise, everything turned silent. Jack nodded to Jim and Pat, who placed the urns together, leaned them out over the water and slowly turned them so that the ashes intermingled as they fell. When they were finished, they all sat there silently, enjoying the tranquillity until the voices of the morning broke through. Birds appeared on shore and overhead, and Jack was about to start the outboard when something happened that none of them would ever forget. Two ospreys took off from atop the tall pines and circled the little canal twice, side by side. Then they hovered high above the little boat and flapped their wings before flying off.
After a few minutes, Jack started the boat and headed down the canal. Pat turned from the sights on the shoreline to look at him. He had a smile on his face and tears in his eyes, and he was mumbling something.
“What?” Pat asked gently.
Jack almost couldn’t get the words out.
“I’m sure now,” he told her.
“Sure about what?”
“That I can tell Mikey I’ll remember. I’ll always remember.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My greatest joy has always been my family and I have been blessed in that regard. My three children, John, Justin, and Sarah, are my anchors. We have always been there for each other. John’s wife, Bethany, Justin’s wife, Becky, and my five grandchildren, Gabrielle, Hannah, Jack, Grace, and Owen, make up the rest of my inner circle. The next band of that circle is my brothers and sisters: John, Mary, Mike, Kate, and Patricia and their significant others: Marge, Tony, Linda, Bill, and John. You form a unique bond when you grow up in a four-room flat in New York City with your mother and father and five brothers and sisters. My siblings have always kept my feet firmly planted on the ground. I also have an extended family of aunts and uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews, in-laws, close friends, and three godchildren, Ariel, Madison, and Nathaniel, whom I love dearly. And I send a note of special gratitude and love to my mother’s twin sister, Aunt Anna.
At the top of my “other” family, my publishing family, sits my agent and my friend, Larry Kirshbaum. Larry was a great publisher and editor for many years before recently starting his new career as a literary agent. I am proud to say that I am and will always be his first client. His advice and expertise and that of his staff, especially Susanna Einstein, have been invaluable to me. Soon after teaming up with Larry, St. Martin’s Press became my publisher. Sally Richardson and Matthew Shear at St. Martin’s could not have been more enthusiastic and supportive of me and this book. I will always be indebted to Kate Hartson and Yorkville Press for giving me the opportunity to be a successful writer. Kate has not only been my publisher and my mentor for many years, she is also my sister.
I have had the benefit of two editors, Robert Sommerville, my original editor at Yorkville, and Marc Resnick at St. Martin’s. Bob did a fine job to begin with and Marc has made the book even better with his insights and suggestions. I would also like to thank a special friend, Greg Tobin, who worked with me before this project began and helped me to understand the finer points of the writing process.
Thank you to the staff at St. Martin’s for the outstanding layout and cover design of this book and to Tina Taylor for the layout and design of the original trade paperback.
I owe a large debt of gratitude to my friends who have read my work and provided me with their honest analyses and opinions. I am tempted not to name names because I might forget someone. But, having filed that disclaimer, here goes: Dottie Willits, Kay Tyler, Robert “Pops” Bella, Peter and Linda Keciorius, Diane Whitehead, Dave Walsh, Lindy Walsh, Lynn and Anthony Dennehy, Caitlin Herrity, Gary and Dawn Conboy, Gray and Bobbie Gibbs, Teresa Carlton, Linda Beth Carlton, Kerrie Beach, Cathy Curry, Dee Lawrence, Ron DeFillippo, Urban Patterson, and Richard Wolfe.
Special thanks to my brother Mike, the original Mayor of Lexington Avenue.
The Mayor of Lexington Avenue Page 39
