The Law of Second Chances jt-2

by James Sheehan

  Minutes later everything began to change again. One bird sang a note, then another joined in. Before long it was a symphony. A deer appeared on the far bank, dipping its head to the morning water. A heron and two egrets ventured past the edge of the shoreline, studying the shallow water intently for signs of breakfast. A gator surfaced not far away, the shorebirds taking notice. Robins and blue jays glided overhead while above them, atop the highest tree, lording over his realm, sat a lone osprey.

  Jack remembered the first time he had brought Pat here. He remembered the wonder in her eyes, the astonished smile on her face, and the satisfaction he felt giving her this gift for the first time. It had been a cool morning, unlike this day, but Pat had shed her warm clothes and her bikini and plunged into the brisk water. He smiled to himself at the memory. He had almost tipped the boat that day following her lead.

  Pat was having the same memory at the same time. What better way, she thought, to relieve the burdens of yesterday. She unzipped the light jacket she had worn, slipped out of her bikini, and dove joyfully into the water-again.

  As she stood to jump off the boat, Jack kept his eyes on her. She was so beautiful. Admittedly she had been losing weight steadily for the last six months, but she still looked great. How could anyone who looks that good be so sick? he thought, but he didn’t dwell on it. Instead, he pulled off his bathing trunks and jumped overboard.

  They came up together not fifty yards from the gator. Jack put his arms around her.

  “Are you afraid?” he asked.

  “Of what, the gator? No. And I’m not afraid of the rest either, Jack. We’ll get through it one way or the other. Remember this-no matter what happens, we’ll always have this place and these moments to cherish.”

  She kissed him and Jack held her tight there in the water. He wished that he could squeeze her so hard that she would become a part of him and he could take up the battle with her. The gator eyed them cautiously.

  Later, as they swam together in that narrow cove, they seemed to blend seamlessly with the mangroves, the shorebirds, the gator, and the osprey.

  Jack had filed his motion for new trial the day after he met with Henry. He also filed a request for an evidentiary hearing, knowing that the court would have to first hear testimony from both sides and allow for cross-examination before deciding the motion for new trial. The motion would have to state a basis for the court to even consider an evidentiary hearing. Jack attached with it the affidavits of Wofford, Ted Griffin, and Anthony Webster, along with Webster’s notes. He hoped that was enough.

  The case was assigned to Judge Arthur Hendrick, a circuit judge in Dade County. Jack called every day to check on the status of his pleadings-something he normally wouldn’t do, because it might irritate the judge, but he couldn’t afford to adhere to the typical niceties of practice. Henry’s time was running out.

  Jack never found out whether it was his constant nagging or a lack of merit in his legal arguments, but five days later the judge denied both the motion for new trial and the request for evidentiary hearing. Jack didn’t even have time to be disappointed-he had less than two weeks left. He called Wofford Benton to see if he had any ideas on how to handle this latest setback.

  “Everything’s been denied,” he told Wofford. “I’m not sure whether I should file an appeal directly to the Florida Supreme Court or a motion for rehearing and ask the circuit judge to take another look at it. What do you think?”

  A motion for rehearing was a request for the court-in most cases the same judge-to reconsider the original motion for new trial on the basis that it may have overlooked something. It was rarely granted.

  “Did the judge give any reason for the denial?” Wofford asked.

  “None. It was just a summary denial.”

  “A summary denial,” Wofford mused. “The last bastion of cowards. Who was the judge?”

  “Arthur Hendrick.”

  “Damn, I could have told you going in that Artie would deny the motion. I’ve known him a long time. We went to law school together and we’ve maintained a pretty good friendship over the years, although our politics are on opposite ends of the spectrum. He’s a wonderful guy in a lot of ways but he’s a law-and-order man. It’s all black-and-white in Artie’s world-no gray areas whatsoever. You’d better just file your appeal, Jack. You won’t get anywhere on rehearing.”

  Jack didn’t respond right away. He was mulling over Wofford’s advice when the judge spoke again. “Hang on, I’ve got a better idea-move to recuse him. I’ll give you another affidavit stating the nature of our friendship over the years, including the fact that we room together at all the judicial conferences. Artie would die before he’d enter an order finding me incompetent as an attorney, even if it was seventeen years ago. He simply shouldn’t be on this case.”

  “Do you really think he would recuse himself?” Jack asked.

  “He has to, especially if I put it in my affidavit, which I will, that he could not be fair and impartial when it comes to me. I’ve even got a case for you right here in Polk County-a similar situation. The attorney was a sitting circuit judge at the time of the motion, and all the circuit judges in Polk County recused themselves from hearing the case. You have an even stronger basis because of my close friendship with Artie. Either he recuses himself or you have a winnable issue on appeal.”

  “I’m running out of time, Wofford. Am I better off getting another judge or just appealing this denial?” Jack favored an immediate appeal, but he wanted to hear what Wofford had to say.

  “Think about it, Jack. You got a flat denial from Artie-no reasoning, nothing. Your chances on appeal with an order like that are slim at best. On the other hand, if you get a new judge, you’ve got another shot and you still have an appeal.”

  Wofford’s analysis made perfect sense. “You’re right,” Jack said. “I’ll get started on both motions today.”

  “Take the recusal motion over yourself to his office and bring an order for him to sign, and then wait for him to sign it. I’ll fax you my affidavit within the hour.”

  “You guys aren’t going to be rooming together anymore,” Jack told him. “He probably won’t ever talk to you again.”

  “I don’t give a shit, Jack. We’ve got more important fish to fry.”

  Jack was a little surprised at Wofford Benton’s colorful language but not his message. Something had changed in the judge, and Jack thought he knew why: Wofford Benton had made a mistake seventeen years ago and he wanted to rectify it. The judge was committed to doing whatever was necessary to get Henry a new trial.

  20

  After Paul and David picked Benny out in separate lineups, Nick and Tony had him brought down to the basement of the station house for questioning. A uniform cop led him into a rectangular room with mirrors on both sides, one door, and no windows.

  Benny had seen enough television shows to know what the mirrors were for and what was going to happen next. He remembered what Joe Fogarty told him: “Shut up and ask for a lawyer.”

  The cop sat him down in one of four chairs clustered around a steel table and left him with his hands still cuffed behind his back.

  Nick Walsh and Tony Severino were standing in a separate room behind one of the mirrors when Benny and the cop walked into the interrogation room. Their lieutenant, Angelo Amato, was with them. Amato had already determined that Nick would do the questioning alone, and Nick could tell that Tony didn’t take too well to that decision. Tony had found Benny, and Nick knew that Tony thought he should get the honors. At that point, it didn’t matter to Nick who did the questioning. His thinking was about to change.

  “The brass upstairs wants this case over yesterday,” Lieutenant Amato told Nick before the detective left to enter the interrogation room.

  Nick Walsh was a planner about most things. A good homicide detective had to be able to patiently and methodically build a case, often starting from the minutest details. However, when he walked into a room to question a suspect, Nick d
id not have a set agenda, a certain style, or even a specific list of questions. He learned in advance everything there was to possibly know about the man he was going to interrogate, and, of course, he knew every detail of the criminal investigation.

  Nick’s plan, if someone wanted to call it that, was to start a conversation with the suspect-about anything under the sun-and gradually, when a rapport had been established, get around to the crime at hand. It was a time-consuming process that required a lot of patience, although Nick could be forceful when necessary and was not above making threats. He simply let the circumstances dictate who he was going to be on any particular day.

  Benny was a little guy, almost emaciated. There was quite a contrast between Nick with his huge hands and thick forearms and little Benny. Nick knew he had to soften his appearance if he was going to get Benny to open up. He rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt and opened his shirt collar, letting his tie hang loosely around his neck like an unwanted appendage. He walked in the room with his hands in his pockets and a slight smile on his face, although he didn’t overdo it. This was a criminal investigation, after all.

  “Mr. Avrile, I’m Detective Nick Walsh,” he said to Benny, who was sitting uncomfortably on the edge of a chair with his hands still cuffed. Before Benny could answer, Nick approached him. “Let me get those cuffs off you,” he said, “so you can be comfortable when we talk.” He reached behind Benny and deftly removed the cuffs. Then he shook Benny’s hand.

  “Nice touch,” Tony said to Lieutenant Amato on the other side of the mirror.

  “You can call me Nick,” Nick said to Benny.

  The last thing Benny expected was to be shaking hands with his interrogator. He had envisoned the room darkening, the overhead lamp being pulled close to the table, and some body knocking him around the place with body shots until he started talking.

  “You can call me Benny,” he said to Nick.

  “How are you doing, Benny? Are they treating you okay?”

  Benny thought he would ask for the moon right away since Nick was being so pleasant. “Not bad. Can you get me out of here, Nick?”

  “Sorry, Benny. I can’t do that, but we’ll talk about what I can do for you in a few minutes. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself-where are you from?”

  “Well, I was born in Spanish Harlem.”

  “Really? So was I-Ninety-seventh and Park.”

  “How about that,” Benny replied. “I was born on Ninety-ninth between Third and Lex. My father grew up there but I didn’t live there too long. My mother and father were drug addicts and she split from him after a couple of years, and we lived all over the city until she got strung out and I got put in a foster home.”

  “Sounds like an all-American childhood.”

  “Yeah. I guess the best I can say is, I survived.” Something happened at that point in the conversation that Nick Walsh had not and could not have anticipated. For some strange reason, as he looked at this skinny little Puerto Rican sitting in that chair trying to pretend he wasn’t scared, he thought of his younger brother Jimmy, and a feeling of both empathy and sorrow for Benny and his plight rushed over him like a tidal wave.

  They didn’t look alike at all-Jimmy had been tall and fair-skinned. If anything, Jimmy had been more like Benny’s father-he found his courage and his pleasure at the end of a needle. He was younger than Benny when he died of an overdose.

  Nick had interrogated hundreds of drug addicts since Jimmy’s death. Why does this Benny conjure up memories of my brother? he asked himself. Why do I care about this guy? Maybe it was the neighborhood connection, he didn’t know for sure. He tried to put it from his mind.

  “Benny, listen to me. You’re not in a strong bargaining position here. I’ve got two eyewitnesses who have picked you out of a lineup and identified you as the person they saw leaning over a man who had just been shot on Seventy-eighth Street and East End Avenue on August twenty-ninth of this year.”

  Behind the mirror Angelo Amato and Tony Severino looked at each other in surprise. Nick Walsh did not usually cut to the chase that quickly.

  Benny didn’t reply, so Nick continued.

  “Which means you are the prime suspect in the murder. You may not know this, but we now have the death penalty in New York and our good governor was elected in part because of his sworn promise to use it. I can’t get you out of here but if you work with me-if you tell me who the woman was who was your accomplice-maybe I can get you life imprisonment.”

  Nick watched as the words death penalty and life imprisonment hit Benny like a torpedo to the chest. The little man lost his breath for a minute and started hyperventilating. It wouldn’t be long before he was spilling his guts. But Benny surprised Nick, although he couldn’t keep his mouth shut totally, as Joe Fogarty had advised.

  “I’m sorry Nick, I can’t talk to you. I need to see a lawyer. This woman you’re talking about. I don’t know her name or where she came from.”

  Nick now had his opening with Benny’s half answer about the woman, and he could easily drive a steel tank through that opening with a barrage of questions. Nobody was better at it than he was. He took one last look at Benny-and saw Jimmy again.

  “All right, Benny. If that’s what you want, we’ll get you a lawyer.” Nick stood up and walked out of the room.

  Behind the two-way mirror, Tony and Angelo looked at each other in shock.

  21

  Everybody started to walk with an air of confidence, a swagger, after the team won their fourth game. They felt unbeatable. But it didn’t last long. They lost the very next week to the Redskins by a score of thirteen to twelve. They missed both extra points, and that had cost them the game. They hadn’t made an extra point all season.

  “If we could have made just one kick we could have tied the game,” the coach, Joe Sheffield, reminded the team several times afterward. Joe was angry at himself, not the team. He knew he should have worked harder on the kicking game before the season started. Normally he was just trying to field a decent team, not vie for a championship. This year was different. He shared that thought with the team.

  “Now, we’re going to have to win every game if we want to make the championship,” he told them. It was the first time that he had mentioned the championship game since the season started-and it certainly got the boys’ attention.

  They won the next two games and were tied for the lead going into the last game of the season, against the Tremont Avenue Vikings.

  Two teams in the league were consistent winners-the Tremont Avenue Vikings and the Mount Vernon Navajos. Both had great organizations and money behind them. Every year they got new jerseys and their equipment was updated. They leased a team bus for all their away games. The Navajos were tearing up the other division as they usually did. Both teams had that arrogance about them that comes with a winning tradition.

  The odds were stacked against a motley crew like the Lexingtons beating both teams in back-to-back games in a three-week period.

  The Vikings game started off slow. The Vikings were a running team, and they liked to pound it up the middle. They were finding it hard to run against the heart of the Lexingtons’ run defense, however. It was only a matter of time before they changed their plan of attack.

  “Watch the ends,” Frankie O’Connor told everybody in the huddle. “They’ll be testing us outside real soon.”

  Sure enough, on the very next play the Vikings halfback came around the left side. He got past Mikey, who was playing outside linebacker, but Rico and Floyd converged on him, catching him at the same time from opposite angles. The hits were clean and hard, but everybody in the vicinity heard a loud snap as the man went down.

  “Oh shit, shit, shit,” the guy shrieked. “Get off! Get the fuck off!”

  Both Rico and Floyd scrambled to get off, but it was too late. One of the bones in the man’s right leg had snapped just below the knee and was protruding from the skin. It hurt just to look at, and Johnny winced at the sight
. Blood was everywhere, and the man lay on the field groaning. The referees stopped the game to call an ambulance.

  Meanwhile, somebody brought the guy with the broken leg a beer and a cigarette, and as the wait extended from ten minutes to twenty, another beer and then another. Pretty soon the guy was sitting up talking to his buddies-despite the fact that one part of his leg was going one way and the other part the other way. The bone was still sticking out, but the blood had slowed to a trickle even though nobody had thought to apply a tourniquet.

  When the ambulance pulled onto the field, everybody turned to look-except Johnny, whose eyes were riveted on the man with the broken leg. Johnny had seen him drop the cigarette and slump over.

  Johnny ran to him. The man was not moving. “He’s unconscious!” Johnny yelled at the top of his lungs. “Tell them to hurry up!”

  The emergency guys tried to revive him on the field but couldn’t. They transferred him to a stretcher, put him in the ambulance, and drove off. Before the sound of the siren had faded and the lights were out of sight, the referee blew his whistle and yelled, “Play ball!”

  Johnny was bewildered. Football was the last thing on his mind, but he did what everybody else did. He huddled up and got ready for the next play.

  “Stay focused,” Frankie told them in the huddle. “They just lost their best guy.”

  Even though they had lost their best guy, the Vikings didn’t give up. The game the Lexingtons absolutely needed to win ended in a tie.

  They were standing on the sideline listening dejectedly to Joe Sheffield tell them they had “played a hell of a game” when a cop came up to the coach. There were three other cops on the far sideline talking to the Vikings players.

  “Hey, Coach, can I talk to you for a minute?” the cop asked, motioning Joe Sheffield to step to the side. Joe looked at him and then at his nameplate, Dan Gillette. Dan was very fat, his face was purple and bloated, and he was breathing heavily from his walk across the field.