“Did you tell Philly not to say anything?” Tony asked when they were in the car and driving back to the station.
“Oh yeah. When I got through with him, he was only going to talk to movie producers after he and I solve the case together.”
Tony chuckled. “I gotta admit, Nick, you certainly have a good line of bullshit.”
Nick ignored the compliment. “What did you think of David and Paul?” he asked.
“Well, they’re very credible. Their descriptions are consistent and so detailed. I can’t believe we have people scouring the neighborhood for witnesses, and they miss the two guys who had front-row seats to the action.”
“It happens. At least we found them and now we have something to go on.”
Tony glanced again at the two descriptions. Both David and Paul had written that the man leaning over Carl Robertson had been about five-seven or five-eight, with somewhat unruly or greasy hair. He was thin and dressed totally in black. Paul wrote that the man appeared to be Latin, perhaps Puerto Rican or Cuban, based solely on his skin color. David noted that he wore no jewelry and that his eyes appeared to be brown and glassy.
“How about Angie’s girlfriend?” Tony asked. “Any possible connection to the murder?”
“I don’t know,” Nick replied. “It may be a red herring but we gotta check it out.”
“If Angie is a switch hitter and this woman looks as good as Philly says, I think we should set up a surveillance.”
Nick looked at him and smiled. “I’ll let you handle that.”
9
Johnny made the team that first year, but there were times he wished he hadn’t. Practices were two nights a week and on Saturdays until the season started. Then the games were on Saturday mornings. Johnny had just turned sixteen and was by far the youngest person on the team. He barely saw any playing time.
There were eighteen teams in the Greater Metropolitan League, and they were equally divided into Eastern and Western divisions. The season was eight games long, and the winner of each division made it to the championship game. The Lexingtons were the only team from Manhattan. Four or five were from Brooklyn, and the rest were from the Bronx.
The Lexingtons didn’t have a home field; every game was an away game for them. They also didn’t have a sponsor to pay for uniforms and transportation and things like that. So they wore white shirts and white pants that each player had to supply for himself, along with his own equipment. And they had to find their own way to the football fields in the Bronx and Brooklyn. For Johnny that meant lugging his equipment on the subway. It was okay, though. He usually went with Mikey and his brothers.
You had to be at least sixteen and not older than nineteen to play, and everyone had to submit a copy of his birth certificate at the beginning of the season to prove it. The age requirements were the biggest joke in the league. You could change the date on the copy of your birth certificate pretty easily if you wanted, but it was even easier than that to beat the system. All you had to do was borrow a younger guy’s birth certificate; nobody ever bothered to check whether it was really yours.
As a result, ringers were rampant. That first year, Johnny saw guys showing up to play games with their wives-and kids! The referees never batted an eye.
Late in a game if the score was lopsided, Johnny would be sent in to play-usually at a position that required no skill, like defensive tackle. Johnny, who was six feet tall and maybe 170 pounds soaking wet, would often line up against a 250-pound, thirty-something man.
“When that ball is snapped I’m gonna kick your fucking ass, kid,” was not an uncommon line for Johnny to hear. It was a far cry from high school football, where he should have been playing. But Johnny, like everybody else on his team, was a street kid. He knew bullshit and bluster had to be ignored. He also knew that Frankie O’Connor, who played middle linebacker, expected him to do the job when he was in there, no matter what the score or who he was up against. Even though he was scared, he was not going to be intimidated in front of Frankie. He might not be stronger than the guy on the other side of the scrimmage line, but he was usually faster and he was definitely tough enough. Late in the season, after he had made some tackles for losses and recovered a couple of fumbles, the coach started to play him more-probably at the suggestion of Frankie.
I’ll be starting next year, he told himself. I’ve just got to show them I’m an athlete and I’m tough.
10
Jack called Dr. Erica Gardner early the next morning after Pat left for work. In his previous life as an insurance company defense attorney, Jack had represented many physicians in medical malpractice cases and had used the services of some of the most prominent physicians in the United States to testify as expert witnesses on behalf of his clients. Erica Gardner was one of those experts. She was from St. Louis and had graduated magna cum laude from Harvard Medical School, one of the relatively few African American women to do so. She was board-certified as a specialist in internal medicine and had a very successful and busy practice in Miami. Jack hoped he could get Pat in for an appointment within the next month.
He gave his name to the receptionist and was on hold waiting for the scheduling secretary when he heard Erica’s voice on the other end of the line. “Is that really you, Jack Tobin? I heard a rumor that you had moved to Tibet and become a monk.”
“Not quite, Erica, but close. I’m living in a small town called Bass Creek.”
“I’ve heard of Bass Creek. It’s a lovely town over by Lake Okeechobee.”
“That’s the one.”
The small talk was now out of the way. “What can I do for you, Jack?” Erica asked.
“It’s my wife, Erica.” Jack explained that Pat had had stomach pains for some nine months and her local physician kept telling her it was related to her gallbladder operation and would get better.
“Did he do a CT scan, do you know?”
“No, he hasn’t. That’s one of the reasons I’m calling you.”
“How about a pelvic ultrasound?”
“Nope. No tests of that nature.”
“Let’s get her in here right away.”
That afternoon Jack called on Ted Griffin in Miami. His office was in a run-down two-story masonry building in a seedy part of town. The inside didn’t look much better.
Ted Griffin was as tall as Jack and much heavier, with big hands and big feet. His attire was as sloppy as his office. He reached out affably to shake hands and then put his arm around Jack’s shoulders.
“You probably don’t remember me, Jack,” he said in a deep Southern drawl. “I had a few personal injury cases about twenty years ago when you were on the other side. You pasted my behind so bad that I convinced myself to stay with criminal law.”
Jack honestly couldn’t remember ever meeting the guy. He was certain they’d never tried a case against each other. He never forgot lawyers he litigated against. “I’m sure that’s an exaggeration, Ted. I’ll bet we settled.”
“We sure did, Jack-for a pittance.”
Jack detected a little resentment in the tone, yet when he looked at Ted, the man was smiling from ear to ear. He was certainly not like the typical criminal lawyers Jack had known over the years.
“What can I do for you, Jack?” Ted asked as he cleared papers off one of two client chairs in front of his desk and motioned for Jack to sit. Ted sat in the other chair next to Jack. He would have been invisible behind the desk, which was stacked almost two feet high with files.
“Well, Ted, I want to ask you some questions about an old client of yours, a man named James Vernon.”
“I remember James, all right,” Ted said quickly. “He was one of my regulars until he got himself killed a few years back. He was a slippery, slimy son-of-a-bitch. The kind of guy you could never be comfortable around. He was cold and edgy and dangerous. What do you want to know about him? Whatever it is, I’m sure he did it.”
“I’m investigating the murder of Clarence Waterman.”
Te
d leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling for a moment before answering. “Did I represent James on that one?”
“No, he was never charged. Somebody else was, a man named Henry Wilson. Clarence Waterman was a drug dealer and a hairdresser as well, and somebody slit his throat.”
“The hairdresser. Oh yeah, I remember the hairdresser,” Ted said, almost as if he was recalling a fond vision from the past.
“You do?”
“Oh yeah.”
“I’m surprised.”
“About what?”
“I’m surprised you answered so quickly,” said Jack. “I mean, the murder happened seventeen years ago. Yet as soon as I mentioned he was a hairdresser, you recalled it. Why?”
“Because James told me he slit the hairdresser’s throat. It’s not every day your client tells you something like that.”
Jack almost fell off his seat. At best, he’d expected Ted to confirm the story James Vernon had told Wofford Benton. Instead, he confirmed that Vernon had told him exactly what the snitch, Willie Smith, had testified to at trial.
“James Vernon told you he killed Clarence Waterman?”
“Yeah.” Ted said it nonchalantly, like he was talking about the score of a baseball game or what he’d had for dinner the night before.
Jack wanted to grab the man by the throat and ask him if he understood that another man was on death row for this murder. But he restrained himself. He was going to need Ted Griffin’s help in the not-too-distant future.
“What exactly did Vernon tell you?”
“He said he went to Waterman’s house to buy drugs. He said Waterman started to come on to him in a homosexual way and he took out his knife and cut his throat.”
“Was anybody else with him?”
“Two other guys, I believe. I’m a little fuzzy on that part.”
“Do you know if either one of those two other men was Henry Wilson?”
“Who is Henry Wilson?”
“My client. The man who is on death row for this murder.”
“Oh yeah, I see. That’s why you’re here. You told me that already, didn’t you? That’s the part I’m not sure about. I don’t know if your client was one of the two men with James or not.”
“Why didn’t you go to the authorities with this confession?”
“Counselor, you know I couldn’t do that. That’s privileged information.”
Jack didn’t want to argue the legalities of the attorney-client privilege with the man. He did feel compelled to inquire a little further.
“How long ago did James Vernon die?”
“About five years ago. It was some kind of a drug deal gone bad.”
“Well, if he died five years ago, the privilege died with him. Why didn’t you tell somebody then?”
“Because, first of all, I didn’t know that James was telling me the truth-I mean, he told Anthony Webster somebody else killed Waterman. Second, I didn’t know if your client was one of the other two men. I don’t know much about Henry Wilson’s case. I don’t know why they convicted him.”
“Who is Anthony Webster?”
“He was the investigator for the state. He’s retired now.”
“The prosecutor’s investigator? You mean the prosecutor was aware that James Vernon said he was at the murder scene?”
“I believe so. At least, that’s what James told me.”
“Where’s Anthony Webster now?”
“I think he moved to Lake City. I’m not sure he’s still alive.”
“Would you be willing to put what you told me today in an affidavit?”
“Go ahead and prepare it. If it’s accurate, I’ll sign it.”
Ted Griffin was an affable enough guy, but it was obvious to Jack that he wasn’t going out of his way for anybody.
On the drive back to Bass Creek later that afternoon Jack started adding all this new information to the other evidence he had uncovered. James Vernon had told both Henry’s lawyer, Wofford Benton, and the prosecutor’s investigator, Anthony Webster, that he, Vernon, was at the scene of the murder and Henry wasn’t there; he told his own lawyer, Ted Griffin, and the jailhouse snitch, Willie Smith, that he committed the murder. Unbelievably, only Willie Smith’s testimony was brought out at Henry’s trial and his two subsequent appeals. Could these recent revelations pass the “newly discovered evidence” standard? And if so, would they be enough to get Henry a new trial?
He was getting ahead of himself. He needed to contact Anthony Webster-if the man was still alive-and find out what he remembered. And then Jack needed to talk to Henry.
11
Philly Gertz, the doorman, was at the Twenty-third Precinct the next morning to “look at a few pictures.” He actually made a better appearance in slacks and a sports shirt than he did in his doorman’s uniform. Nick set him up at a table with a cup of hot coffee and several thick photo books.
Nick made Philly feel like a million bucks. “If there’s anything you need, Philly, you just let me know. If any of these uniforms ask you what you’re doing here, you just tell them you’re working for Manhattan Homicide and give them my name.”
“Sure thing, Nick.”
Philly was a little freaked out by the station. People were coming and going, talking and shouting. He was in a big room with a bunch of desks. Uniforms and plainclothes cops were everywhere. There was a little cell in the middle of the room, and a guy in the cell was yelling at a plainclothes cop.
“I gotta go to the fuckin’ bathroom,” he was saying. Philly noticed there was no toilet in the cell.
“You shut the fuck up or I’ll come in there and shut you up. You understand?” said the cop, pointing his finger. The man did shut up but started holding his groin area and jumping up and down.
Nick seemed to have vanished. He had just walked out among the desks and cops and disappeared. Philly opened his photo book for the first time and started looking at female mug shots.
Half an hour later, Paul and David arrived at the station and were led to separate rooms where Nick and Tony took their sworn statements. There were no new revelations. Everything was totally consistent with what they had said the night before.
As Philly was finishing up his first book and starting to feel a little more comfortable, Nick returned with Paul and David and several more thick photo books.
“I’m going to slide Paul here next to you, Philly, so you’ll have some company. How’s that coffee? You need a refill?”
“No, I’m okay, Nick. Thanks,” said Philly.
“We still have to keep you two apart while you look at these pictures,” Nick told Paul and David, “because you can’t talk to each other about them. David, I’m going to set you up somewhere else and we’ll split the books up. If you see someone who looks familiar, just make a note of it and let me know. Then we’ll switch books. I want your identifications to be totally independent. You understand?” Both men nodded. Nick took David to another table on the other side of the room.
Two hours later, the three men still had not picked out anybody from the photo albums. “This is a little more than looking at a few pictures,” Philly whined to Nick.
“Well, Philly, if you want to be a star you’ve got to work hard,” Nick replied. Paul and David didn’t complain, but Nick could tell they were done looking at the books as well. He decided to change gears and bring the police sketch artist in to see if they could help him come up with a composite of the suspected murderer and the woman.
Later that day, Benny Avrile was hiding in the corner of his favorite bar, Tillie’s, having a glass of beer. It was his first venture into the public since the murder two days before. It had taken him a while to come to grips with what happened that night. He’d spent most of the last two days smoking a lot of weed to calm his nerves and doing a little coke to keep his spirits up. Benny lived on the street-actually in a vacant condemned building-in a very rough section of the South Bronx, but he had never even witnessed a shooting before. He’d never seen a dead
person close up-at least not before the makeup, the powder, and the formaldehyde. Seeing Carl Robertson lying there dead had truly flipped him out.
The story had been all over the Post and the Daily News, but so far the police didn’t seem to have any leads. Benny was fervently praying that they would continue to remain in the dark.
Tillie’s was a small place and it was empty except for Tillie, who was working behind the bar. Tillie was half Puerto Rican and half Italian and about forty-five years old, and he enjoyed his own booze a little too much. “I can’t go to the party and not play,” he’d told Benny one night after they’d both had a few too many. Tillie’s compromise with his demons was to work the day shift. It was usually slow, and he had no desire to drink during the day.
Benny was not in a talkative mood, so Tillie stayed at the other end of the bar catching up on some paperwork, approaching only when Benny called for a refill. They were in their respective positions when she walked through the door.
Benny didn’t notice her right away-he was too busy praying to his beer. Tillie hardly noticed her either. He just walked over to where she’d sat down and waited for her order. There were no solicitous greetings in this place.
“Vodka and tonic,” she said, and Benny looked up. She had dark glasses on, her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was wearing a tight white tank top with jeans and sneakers, but there was no mistaking-it was definitely her.
Benny looked back down at his beer and tried to appear as inconspicuous as possible-no easy feat in an empty bar. After Tillie put her drink on the bar, she picked it up and started walking toward him. Benny didn’t budge.
“How ya doin’!” he said, turning toward her. “I’m glad you finally showed up. You know, I still don’t know your name.”
“Never mind,” she said as she came closer.
Benny snuck a glance at Tillie to make sure he was watching and listening. Tillie had a sixth sense about trouble-you didn’t last as a barkeep in this neighborhood for long if you didn’t. Benny knew he had a gun under the bar as well.
The Law of Second Chances jt-2 Page 6
