The Law of Second Chances jt-2

by James Sheehan

  Hitchens butted in at that point and stood between the two men. “All right, that’s it-end of discussion. Nick, the investigation is officially over at this point. We may reopen it down the road when Benny is convicted. For now it’s over-got it?”

  “Sure thing, Chief. You’re the boss,” Nick replied, still looking directly at Taylor who wasn’t saying a word.

  Nick was still seething as he walked out of the building. It never ceased to amaze him: somebody with money and a little fame gets killed and shitheads like Taylor start coming out of the woodwork and throwing their weight around. He was also sure that Tony Severino had broken the sacred code between partners and talked to the state attorney’s office behind his back. He didn’t have any hard evidence to support that suspicion but somebody had filled Taylor in on the particulars of Benny’s interview and Nick remembered the guilt in Severino’s voice earlier in the day.

  What else did he tell them and why? Nick asked himself.

  Maybe it is time to retire.

  24

  Rico called Johnny at home on Sunday, the day after the Vikings game.

  “What happened?” Johnny asked.

  “Piece of cake,” Rico told him. “Floyd clammed up and I started ranting and raving about the ambulance drivers-how it took them forever to show up. Well, city cops don’t wanna hear that, so after about an hour they let us go. It ain’t over yet, but they ain’t got shit on us.”

  “Rico, I don’t think that’s going to work. You get the wrong people mad at you and it usually backfires. Listen. Let me come down with you the next time they call you. I’ve got an uncle who’s a cop. Maybe he’ll help us.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Johnny. Floyd and I can handle it. I appreciate the offer, though. I really do.”

  The team didn’t find out until the following Tuesday that because of the common opponents they had beaten and the margins of victory, they had won a tiebreaker with the Vikings. They were going to the championship game after all. Joe Sheffield called every player personally to let him know. Practice was as usual on Thursday night, and there would be a full practice on Saturday. The championship would be the following Saturday.

  On Thursday night, the coach opened auditions for a long snapper and a holder. It was a little late in the season, but Joe figured he had nothing to lose. Rico grabbed Johnny.

  “C’mon, we’re gonna volunteer.”

  “I don’t know anything about that stuff!”

  “There’s nothing to know. You’ve got good hands. I’ll be the long snapper and I’ll teach you what to do.”

  Nobody else volunteered, so Joe Sheffield let Rico and Johnny go off with Jimmy Walsh and practice kicking. He figured they knew their regular jobs pretty well.

  For the next hour and a half they practiced extra points.

  “It’s all about timing,” Rico told them. “Jimmy, when the ball hits Johnny’s hands, you gotta start moving toward it. You gotta trust that Johnny is gonna get it down in time. Mayor, you just concentrate on catching the ball and getting it set. You don’t even look at Jimmy.” Johnny wondered how Rico knew so much.

  Rico had taken three balls from the equipment bag, so they got plenty of repetitions in. It wasn’t working too well at the start. Gradually, however, Jimmy Walsh got Johnny’s rhythm down and adjusted his approach to the ball. Rico was remarkably good at the long snap. By the end of the hour and a half, Jimmy was kicking four out of five balls through the uprights. He was stoked.

  “I knew I was a good kicker,” he told them. “We just had no timing.”

  “Yeah, well, you don’t get timing in one practice,” Rico said. “Timing comes from repetition. The timing you have now will be gone by next week.”

  “So what are we gonna do?” Jimmy Walsh asked.

  “Can you get to the park at four o’clock every day next week?” Rico asked him.

  “Yeah,” Jimmy replied.

  “How about you, Johnny?”

  “I think I can, yeah.”

  “All right, it’s settled. We’ll meet at the Hamilton statue every day next week at four o’clock and then go to the big field and practice extra points.”

  They shook hands on it.

  By the last practice on the Thursday before the championship game, the new kicking team was very consistent. Jimmy Walsh was getting almost every ball through the uprights. Joe Sheffield was impressed. He announced to the rest of the team at the end of practice that Rico, Johnny, and Jimmy were the official new extra-point team. He had another announcement for them as well.

  “We’re going to meet at 8:30 in the morning on Saturday in front of the Carlow East. The regulars at the Carlow chipped in and rented a bus so we can travel together to the game.”

  Everybody cheered. They wouldn’t have to lug their equipment on the subway to the Bronx. They’d be traveling in style.

  Joe Sheffield saved the final surprise for Saturday morning when they were all assembled in front of the big yellow school bus. Mary McKenna was there. She opened the bar up and Joe ushered everybody into the back of the room. He stood next to Mary, who was smiling from ear to ear. They were standing behind a table with two cardboard boxes in front of them.

  “Mary called me the other night,” Joe said, scanning their faces. “She didn’t want you guys going up to the Bronx to represent this neighborhood looking like a bunch of ragamuffins. So we had some jerseys made.” Joe pulled a jersey out of one of the boxes. It was white with short sleeves, kelly-green trim around the shoulders, and a shamrock on each sleeve. It had a big number ten in kelly green on the front and back. Everybody cheered when they saw it.

  “Everybody has to have a number for the championship game,” Joe went on. “I have already handed in a roster with your name and number on it. There’s a program they’ll hand out today, and each of you will be in it.” More cheers. “So come up here when I call your name, pick up your jersey, and get on the bus. We’ve got to get moving.”

  Johnny watched Floyd as he took his jersey and walked over to Mary McKenna and gave her a big hug. Ever since the night Mary kicked Joe Meeley out of the bar they had developed a special relationship.

  Joe Sheffield called Johnny’s name. He got his jersey, number thirty-three, put it on over his T-shirt and headed for the bus. After a send-off like this, he was sure they were going to bring the championship trophy back to the Carlow.

  Johnny sat next to Floyd on the bus ride to Mount Vernon.

  “What happened with that police thing?” he asked. “Rico keeps saying nothing happened.”

  “It’s over,” Floyd told him.

  “That’s it? They just dropped it?”

  “They didn’t just drop it. They didn’t have anything on us, really. I mean, it was just a tackle. Rico kept talking about the ambulance guys not showing up and I think it made them mad-you know, like he was trying to use it as an excuse even though it was absolutely true. If they had showed up in five minutes instead of twenty-five, that guy would still be alive. Anyway, the last time they called us down to the station they had an Army recruiter there. They told us they would drop all the charges if we agreed to sign up for four years. If we didn’t, they were going to charge us with manslaughter.”

  “So you signed up?”

  “Yeah. We had no choice.”

  “You could have fought it and won.”

  “Johnny, where we come from, getting rousted by the cops is a daily occurrence. Fighting with them only makes it worse. Part of me thinks that if they’d nabbed you instead of Rico, this wouldn’t have happened. They don’t have the balls to railroad a white kid from a nice neighborhood.”

  “I can change that. I can still say it was me.”

  “It’s too late now. It’s done.”

  Johnny was silent. Floyd was right. There was nothing either of them could do about it.

  25

  Charlie decided to stay an extra week when she heard about Henry. Jack and Pat initially protested, but Charlie dismissed their objectio
ns.

  “I’m staying. You’ve got things to do, Jack, and so do Pat and I. We’re going to spend all your hard-earned money.”

  That was the end of it. Charlie’s presence freed Jack up to concentrate on Henry’s situation. Pat was always on his mind-but he could see that Pat was having a lot more fun with Charlie than she would have with him.

  He called Susan Fletcher’s office every day that week about the motion for rehearing, but he never managed to speak to her.

  “She knows about your motion, Mr. Tobin,” her secretary told him. “I give her your message every day. She’s very busy. She’s in court right now.”

  With just three days to go before the execution, Jack called Wofford.

  “I can’t get through to Judge Fletcher. I don’t think she wants to overturn a decision of one of her colleagues, so she’s just ignoring it and letting the time run out.”

  “You’re probably right,” Wofford told him. “Have you talked to Henry?”

  “Every day for about two minutes. I’ve kept him informed, but I need to see him in person. I’ve got a federal habeas corpus action prepared, but I need his permission to file it.”

  “You have to talk him into it?” Wofford asked.

  “He’s a stubborn man. It was a chore to get him to agree to the original motion. He’s just sick of the system.”

  “I’ll tell you what, Jack. You go see Henry, and I’ll take care of the Susan Fletcher problem. Trust me. One way or another, you are going to have an order.”

  “Okay, Wofford, I’ll leave Susan Fletcher in your hands.”

  The next morning, Jack left for Starke, where he planned to stay until Henry either got a stay or was executed. The last time he’d taken such a trip, Pat went with him. She knew the ordeal he was in for. She held his face in her hands as she kissed him good-bye.

  “Remember that I’m with you in this, right next to you. I know that you will do everything for Henry that is humanly possible because that is who you are. I’ll be praying for both of you.”

  Henry doesn’t know how lucky he is, Jack thought as he set out on his long journey to North Florida. Having Pat as an advocate before the Almighty is as good as you can get. He was hopeful suddenly that the Almighty, seeing the sorry shape that he was in, would give Pat a little more time before He called her home.

  On the eve of his execution, Henry’s handlers were giving him all kinds of special treatment. He was allowed to be with Jack in their special meeting room unfettered by handcuffs and shackles. The two men shook hands for the first time.

  “You did a good job, Counselor. You did everything you possibly could for me. Remember that.”

  “We’re not done yet, Henry. Not by a long shot. I’ve got a habeas corpus petition to file in federal court. There’s a study that says the lethal injection method is cruel and unusual. I just need your permission to file it.”

  “The answer is no, Jack. You may not be done, but I am. I’m not going to let them strap me on that gurney tomorrow night just to release me at the last minute so they can do it again a month from now.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Do you honestly think they’re going to stop executing people because there might be a flaw in the lethal injection process? They’ve gone from the noose to the electric chair to lethal injection-which, by the way, is optional. They still have Old Sparky. What I’m saying, Jack, is if I don’t get a new trial and I’m not found innocent, I don’t want to play their game. Let’s get it over with.”

  Jack didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. Henry had a right to decide when enough was enough. It was now up to Judge Susan Fletcher whether Henry would live or die.

  Wofford Benton had thought that because he was a judge Susan Fletcher would take his calls. After trying every hour on the hour for a day and a half, he realized he was sorely mistaken.

  On Thursday, October 29, 1998, the day Henry Wilson was scheduled to die, Judge Susan Fletcher was in her courtroom in downtown Miami presiding over preliminary hearings when an overweight, balding man in his mid-sixties walked in and came straight down the middle aisle. He strode deliberately past the bar that separated the people from the judge, her staff, and the attorneys. The courtroom was full with those who were being brought before the court, their attorneys, the state’s attorneys, sheriff’s deputies, and numerous other spectators and court personnel.

  An attorney was standing at the podium arguing on behalf of his client when the intruder interrupted him in mid-sentence.

  “Excuse me, sir. I’ll just be a minute,” the man said to the attorney, turning to the judge, who had not yet recognized him. “Your Honor, I am Judge Wofford Benton from Polk County and I have been trying to get in touch with you for two days. I want to talk to you about a motion that is pending before you regarding a man who is about to be executed today-Henry Wilson. I would like to know why you have not addressed that motion.”

  There was dead silence in the courtroom. All eyes were on Judge Fletcher.

  Wofford had learned a long time ago that transparency created its own pressure. He knew that he would not have gotten anywhere if he had gone to the judge’s chambers and tried to see her. Now that he had stated his position in open court, she would have to address the issue. He wasn’t just another lawyer that she could tell to sit down. He was her peer.

  Susan Fletcher glared at Wofford. They knew each other, although not very well.

  “We’re going to take a ten-minute recess,” she announced as she stood up. “Judge Benton, if you will follow me, we’ll discuss this matter in my chambers.”

  As soon as they were in chambers and the door was closed, Judge Fletcher erupted.

  “How dare you walk in my courtroom and make an accusation like that?”

  “I didn’t make an accusation. I made a statement that is true. You have not addressed the motion and today is the last day.”

  “What’s your stake in this, Wofford? Arthur Hendrick has already denied the motion. The tactics this Tobin guy has used-and I understand he has a very good reputation on the civil side here in Miami-these tactics border on the unethical. He’s forum-shopping and I don’t want to be part of it.”

  “Wait a minute, Susan. He moved to recuse a judge for a valid reason. Artie Hendrick signed the order because he had to. That’s not forum-shopping. Why the hell do you think they have the rule? It was my suggestion, by the way. And you shouldn’t be prejudging his motives without reading the damn motion.”

  “Your suggestion? You still haven’t told me what your stake in this is. No matter-you are way out of bounds. Coaching a lawyer on a pending case? The Judicial Qualifications Commission will have your ass, Wofford.”

  “I represented the man on death row seventeen years ago. He’s there because of my incompetence. I’m having a difficult time with that, Susan, so I’m now going to see that he gets justice no matter what it costs me.”

  “It might cost you your seat on the bench.”

  “So be it. This man may be innocent, and I’m not going to sit idly by and watch him die because of something I neglected to do seventeen years ago.”

  Susan sighed. “Even if I look at this motion, I might not think it merits an evidentiary hearing or a new trial. Seventeen years is a long time. I’m sure every stone has been turned over.”

  “Just look with an open mind, that’s all I ask. Don’t think about the seventeen years. Don’t think about Artie Hendrick’s recusal. Just read the motion. If you think the facts merit an evidentiary hearing, then enter an order setting one. That will stop the execution. Here is the number to call.” Wofford handed her a card. “If you don’t think it merits an evidentiary hearing, then enter an order denying the motion.”

  Susan Fletcher looked at him.

  “All right, Wofford. I’ll read the motion this afternoon. I make no promises, however. If there is no new evidence that warrants a hearing, I’m going to deny it. What time is the execution scheduled for?”

  �
�Six o’clock.”

  “All right. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a courtroom full of people I’ve got to get through before this afternoon.”

  26

  Sal Paglia’s American dream was pretty much like everybody else’s-a good career, a nice car, a big house, and a loving family. And he’d almost made it. His criminal law practice had been going fairly well, he drove a Cadillac, and he owned-along with the bank, of course-his own two-story home in the Bronx not too far from his office. He’d made a mess of the family part, however.

  Sal was a little guy and part of his Napoleon complex was his perceived sexual prowess. He represented a boatload of hookers, so blow jobs were a regular component of his fee. Every now and then, when a high-class hooker got busted-it wasn’t every day because high-class hooker and the Bronx were words that usually didn’t go in the same sentence-Sal would require the whole enchilada, and then some. He was collecting the “then some” one night at his office from Brigitte Babcock-aka Amy Stevens, originally from Peoria, Illinois-when his wife, Cynthia, showed up unexpectedly.

  Cynthia Paglia had been suspecting Sal of infidelity for some time. The clue was always the same-a late night at the office, followed by Sal dragging his ass through the door smelling of alcohol and perfume. One thing about Sal-even though they had been married for ten years, he was still as horny as a teenager on his first date. All she had to do was express an interest in sex and he was ready-except on those nights he worked late at the office. Then he was dead to her in every way.

  Cynthia desperately needed to resolve her suspicions and she decided to do it personally. She had an office key made early one Saturday morning while Sal was sleeping. The very next time he called to say he’d be working late-the night he was with Brigitte Babcock-Cynthia hung up the phone, jumped in the car, and drove directly to his office on Webster Avenue about twenty minutes from the house. Slipping in very quietly, she tiptoed past the vacant secretary’s desk and cracked open the door of Sal’s inner sanctum. Her eyes scanned the room. She smelled the pot first. Then she saw the half-empty bottle of Chivas Regal on the corner of the desk and a woman all decked out in a beautiful black leather outfit-complete with boots, garter belt, stockings, and one of those designer whips with the little tassels on the end. She was standing over a nude male who had his head in the seat of an upholstered high-back chair and his buttocks raised toward the whip.