“Well,” Jack replied, remaining seated, “it’s a simple question but a complicated answer-an answer I’ve thought about a great deal. The only thing civil suits can do is compensate people with money. There is a great deal of propaganda in this country right now about those malpractice suits: it talks about greedy trial lawyers tricking juries into awarding huge sums of money and poor doctors having to pay high insurance premiums. The doctors have jumped in bed with the insurance industry, and it remains to be seen who will get the top position in that little affair. On the other hand, many lawyers have abused the system. The people who have been intentionally excluded from this discussion are the victims, because they have no power.
“I don’t need money. And I don’t want this discussion to be about all that crap I just mentioned. I want it to be about people and how they’ve been harmed by this doctor. If you want to limit lawsuits, then you have to discipline your doctors. You can’t have it both ways. That’s criminal in my mind.”
“Mr. Tobin,” Chairman Green said as soon as Jack finished, “I understand you’ve had an unfortunate loss, but that is no reason to make accusations and use inappropriate analogies.”
Jack only heard the first part of the sentence. He exploded from his chair. “Did you just call the death of my wife-her name was Pat, by the way, in case you don’t have it on your cheat sheet up there-did you just call her death ‘an unfortunate loss’?” Before the stunned doctor could respond, Jack was at him again. “How about if I come up there and wring your skinny little neck? What adjective do you think your colleagues would supply for that loss?”
“You’re out of order, Mr. Tobin,” the chairman shouted.
“Out of order? You think I’m out of order? I’m not out of order. This is out of order.” Jack threw himself over the table that was in front of him and started toward the chairman, who looked like he was about to wet his pants and with good reason. Jack was a hell of a lot bigger than he was.
As he started forward, a huge hand reached out, grabbed him by the shoulder, and pulled him back. The shoulder and arm attached to that hand wrapped themselves around Jack’s body.
“Hold on, brother,” Henry said soothingly. At the same time, four uniformed security officers were moving toward them. Henry spoke to them as calmly as he had spoken to Jack.
“Hold on now,” he said. “Me and Mr. Tobin here were just leaving. I assure you, you don’t want to get in our way.”
Perhaps it was the way he said it, or perhaps it was the size of the man-they could see how firmly he held Jack-or perhaps it was the look in his eyes. Whatever it was, the guards stopped in their tracks. Henry and Jack left the ballroom unimpeded.
Jack was in a rage, oblivious to his surroundings. Henry didn’t let go until they were in the parking lot. Even then, he stood between Jack and the entrance to the hotel.
“Don’t worry, Henry,” Jack told him. “I’m not going back in. I’ve said all I’m going to say to those people.”
“If it makes you feel any better, Jack, people like that never listened to me either.”
“C’mon, let’s get a beer,” Jack said.
“Sure thing,” Henry replied.
Not long after Henry regained his freedom, Jack had filed a claims bill with the Florida state legislature requesting that the state of Florida compensate Henry for the seventeen years he’d spent on death row. Henry and Jack were invited to a hearing before a legislative committee of state senators and representatives. Jack had witnessed enough closing arguments by plaintiffs’ lawyers in his years as an insurance defense attorney to know how to uncork the tear ducts of even the most jaded politicians. By the time he was through telling the story of Henry’s near-execution, there were very few dry-eyed members of the committee left. They awarded Henry three million dollars.
Henry was forever grateful to Jack. After Pat’s death, he stayed at the home in Bass Creek for a couple of months before buying his own place in Miami. However, he still came out to Bass Creek to spend the weekends.
Henry had made a promise to Jack to work with him on his death penalty projects in any capacity he needed. Henry knew how to do legal research, and he could investigate in places Jack could never go. He could even serve as a bodyguard if necessary. His performance at the San Juan Capistrano proved that even when he was outnumbered, people did not want to mess with Henry Wilson.
Jack was on his fifth beer when the melancholy set in. Henry was used to it.
“It’s been a year, Henry, but it’s like I lost her yesterday.”
“A year isn’t very long, Jack, when you love someone as much as you loved Pat.”
“Yeah, but I can’t seem to get on with things. It’s like I’m stuck in place. If Pat were here she’d give me a good swift kick.”
“I was stuck in place for as long as I can remember, Jack. You’ll come out of it soon. I can see the early stirrings already. Dr. Green was part of that. I can still see his face as you started toward him.”
That got a smile out of Jack.
Maybe Henry’s right, he thought. Maybe I am coming out of it.
40
Langford Middleton was intelligent and ambitious. He was also passive and indecisive, but those qualities didn’t show up on his resume. On paper, Langford looked like he had it all-undergraduate degree from Princeton, law degree from Columbia. He was equally impressive in person, standing a little over six feet, two inches tall with a full, thick head of brown hair, a strong jaw, sharp features, and a booming baritone voice. He was the fourth generation of a prominent New York family. His mother was a professor at City College, his father a Park Avenue doctor like his father before him and his father’s father.
The powers that be at the Wall Street firm of Stockwell, Pennington, Morris, and Jewel fell in love with Langford Middleton, his resume, and his pedigree when they met him on a recruiting visit to Columbia. He was everything they were looking for in a young trial lawyer. So they offered him a job with a six-figure income, which Langford graciously accepted.
Like the other associates, Langford spent the first few years of his career in the library, researching and writing for the partners. His work was acceptable in the sense that he laid out the problems and presented the research. However, time after time, Langford failed to provide the partner he was working for with a decisive conclusion as to legal precedent or a definitive strategy on how to proceed. Even though he was transferred from partner to partner over the years, nobody seemed to notice that Langford was not living up to the expectations the firm had for its associates. He had an affable, easygoing manner about him, and in his brief appearances in court at motion hearings he was generally impressive. He even did okay sitting second chair in a few trials. Consequently, when his five years were up, Langford was offered a partnership, which he again graciously accepted.
When he had his own case files, Langford’s character flaws gradually revealed themselves to even the most myopic observer. He wouldn’t move cases along to trial, and he failed to make settlement recommendations to clients for fear that they might consider him weak-willed. He was billing okay, but he wasn’t turning cases over. Five years after becoming a partner, Langford was bewildered and befuddled and buried under a truckload of cases, old and new. He avoided clients’ calls, and they started to complain to the managing partners, who finally took notice and decided to do something. But what? Langford was a partner, and he came from a prestigious New York family. It would be both embarrassing and expensive to jettison him.
“I think we need to make him a judge,” Richard Stockwell told the other senior partners at a management meeting.
“A judge?” Howard Pennington said disbelievingly. “How the hell can he be a judge? Judges have to make decisions. He can’t decide what type of knot to put in his tie in the morning.”
“Nobody knows he can’t make a decision but us and our clients,” Stockwell persisted. “Besides, he looks like a judge. He’s got that hair and that voice.”
“He may be central casting’s ideal choice,” Frederick Morris added, “but this isn’t Hollywood. We’re talking about a real judge.”
“Come on, Fred,” Bennett Jewel, the remaining member of the Big Four, weighed in. “We’ve got a bunch of nincompoops up there right now masquerading as judges. This has been done before. Grady, Scott, and Anderson put that fool Justin Wennington on the bench just to get rid of him.”
“Okay, okay,” Fred Morris replied. “Let’s assume we were going to make him a judge. How would we go about doing it?”
“It’s very simple,” Dick Stockwell added. “We start putting Langford out there as the face of the firm. We’ll put him on bar committees, have him attend all social functions, and let him make the charitable and political contributions for the firm in his own name. We’ll divvy up his cases among the other partners so he doesn’t cost us any more bad publicity. It’ll take a year or two, but when a position comes up for appointment, with his name and face out there and our political connections, he’ll be a shoo-in.”
“What if he doesn’t want to go along?” Howard Pennington asked.
“Oh, he’ll go along,” Dick Stockwell replied. “In case you haven’t noticed, Howard, Langford doesn’t like to work very hard. We can sell this new job to him real easy. A year or two down the road when he doesn’t have any cases, he won’t have much choice in the matter.”
The plan worked like a charm. Two years after the plot was hatched, Langford Middleton, in just his twelfth year of practice, was appointed a judge in the civil trial division of the New York State Supreme Court.
Lawyers who appeared before Judge Middleton learned early on that they were not going to get a speedy resolution of their case. The judge didn’t like any pressure coming his way. Motion hearings with difficult legal issues were taken under advisement and the attorneys, after waiting months for an answer, usually reached their own resolution. He didn’t like trials at all, and he would lean hard on lawyers to reach a settlement. Complaints were made about him. For years nothing ever came of them, until a decision was finally made to transfer him to the criminal division to force him to try cases. Judge Middleton was in his fifteenth year on the bench, having just been transferred to criminal, when Benny Avrile’s case was placed on his docket.
Warren Jacobs, the district attorney, was furious when he heard Langford Middleton had been assigned the Avrile case. He discreetly tried to get it transferred to someone else, to no avail. He had to give up the effort or risk exposure and charges of judge-shopping. With no other avenues to pursue, Jacobs resorted to the direct approach. He went to see Judge Middleton personally.
“I want to get directly to the point,” Jacobs told the judge when they had dispensed with the amenities and were seated in the judge’s chambers. “I want you off the Avrile case.”
The polite, insincere smile on Langford Middleton’s face vanished. “For your information, Counselor, I want off this case as much as you want me off. Unfortunately, you’re stuck with me.”
The truth was that Langford was finally under the gun. He had tried to get rid of the case as soon as it had been assigned to him. He didn’t want that kind of publicity. The Judicial Qualifications Commission told him in no uncertain terms that the case would not be transferred and that he was being watched.
“Well, if I’m stuck with you, Judge, let me give you fair warning. This case is going to be tried, and it’s going to be tried on time. No delays-none of your usual crap to get the parties to settle. My ass is on the line here, and if you fuck around with me, I’m going after you.”
Langford Middleton was shocked. He didn’t know if Warren Jacobs was aware of the pressure he was receiving from his own superiors. He just knew he was being backed into a corner. Still, he couldn’t let Jacobs get away with such talk.
“Counselor, do you realize I could have your license for this?”
“Cut the crap, Judge. There’s nobody in this room but me and you, and I don’t think you want to get into a pissing contest with me. You just remember what I said and know that I am dead serious about this. I will bury you.”
Having said his piece, Jacobs got up and walked out before Langford had a chance to say anything else.
Judge Middleton took Warren Jacobs’s threat to heart. There were no delays. At precisely nine a.m. on the anointed date for trial, June 14th, Spencer Taylor, Norma Grier, and the judge were all in court ready to proceed, as were selected members of the press. The rest of the media were outside on the courthouse steps. The courtroom was full of spectators as well. Benny was downstairs in a holding cell. The only one missing was Sal Paglia. At 9:25, the judge called for Spencer and Norma to follow him into his chambers.
“Do you have any idea where he is?”
“No sir,” Spencer replied.
“When was the last time you talked to him?”
“Friday afternoon. He was all set to go.”
The judge called Christine, his secretary, on the intercom. “See if you can get Mr. Paglia’s office on the phone.”
Hazel answered on the second ring. She had just gotten into the office. Knowing Sal was going directly to the courthouse, she hadn’t seen any need to get to work on time. Her game of solitaire could wait, and so could the clients.
“Law office of Sal Paglia,” Hazel sang into the phone while she continued to play the game she had just started.
“This is Judge Middleton’s secretary. Is Mr. Paglia in?”
“No,” Hazel answered. “He was going directly to court this morning.”
“Well, he’s not here.”
“Something must have happened,” Hazel responded. Sal was a lot of things, but he was always on time to court. “I’ll call his apartment and call you back.”
The phone rang only once at Sal’s apartment. “Hello,” answered a voice Hazel didn’t recognize. It was a woman, which could definitely explain things.
“Who is this?” Hazel demanded.
“Detective Sarah Hingis,” the voice answered. “Who is this?”
“Detective as in police detective?” Hazel asked.
“That’s right. Now who is this?”
“Hazel Reece. I’m Mr. Paglia’s legal secretary. He was supposed to be in court this morning but he didn’t show. Is something wrong?”
“Yes, Hazel, something is very wrong. Your boss has been murdered.” Detective Hingis saw no problem in letting Hazel know about Sal’s demise, although she made sure that she didn’t provide her with any details about the murder. At this stage everybody, including Sal’s secretary, was a suspect.
Hazel couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Murdered? Sal? It took all her strength to call the judge’s secretary back and deliver the news.
When Christine told him of Sal Paglia’s untimely death, Judge Middleton could do nothing but cancel the trial and return Benny to prison.
For a fleeting moment, when he learned that the trial had been put off, Warren Jacobs considered the possibility that Langford Middleton had finally gone too far to avoid his obligations as a judge.
41
Henry wasn’t the only one looking after Jack. Charlie had been down to visit a few times since Pat’s death. She was a little more direct with Jack, especially on her last visit, which was just a few days after Jack’s performance at the San Juan Capistrano Hotel. Jack was driving her back to the airport when the conversation started.
“Jack, you have to snap out of this funk you’re in.”
“I know what you’re saying. I just feel so lost and so sad. You were close to Pat. How do you deal with the loss?”
“This may sound strange to you, Jack, but I feel that she’s still with me. I talk to her all the time.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I mean, she doesn’t talk back to me or anything like that. I don’t want you to think I’m crazy. I just feel her presence. I can’t explain it any better than that.”
“I wish I felt it.”
“You will. Have you been
to your special place since you spread her ashes there?”
“No.”
“Why don’t you go? See if it helps you.”
“Maybe I will,” he replied.
The next morning, Jack put on a T-shirt and his jogging shorts and went out for a run. It was his first time out since Pat’s death. He headed along the river trail that he and Pat had often taken. It was still dark, and the moon was full in the east. The cool October air gave him a little chill at first. But he soon warmed to his task. He felt remarkably good, although his pace was slow. It was rush hour on the river as the fishing boats headed out to the big lake. After only a few minutes, Jack took a deep breath and exhaled. I’ve missed this, he thought.
He remembered his first visit to Bass Creek on a fishing trip. He had instantly fallen in love with this podunk little town in the middle of nowhere. It was the combination of the river and the slow pace of life and the untouched beauty of the surrounding countryside. He had resolved that very day to retire in Bass Creek. Pat had loved it too. When she came there to live, all the planets seemed to have aligned. It just didn’t last very long.
Three miles later he was back at the house, where he kicked off his sneakers, took off his shirt, and jumped into the pool. His stroke was as smooth as ever as he ticked off thirty laps. He could have swum longer, but he stopped. No sense overdoing it, he told himself. You’ll feel it tomorrow morning.
After his swim, he took stock of himself in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom. He hadn’t gained much weight during the layoff, mainly because he’d stopped eating at the same time he stopped working out. I just need to tone up: three miles for two weeks, and then I’ll up it to five. Half a mile every day in the pool. I’ll be in shape in no time. Just then he thought of Charlie and the conversation they’d had the day before. Tomorrow I’m going out on the river.
He showered and dressed and headed to the Pelican for breakfast. It was a walk of a mile or so-nothing in Bass Creek was too far-and was one of the few pleasures he had these days. Bass Creek was an old town and many of the homes were run-down, but there was a depth to it, a sense of history. Its essential character hadn’t changed in over a hundred years.
The Law of Second Chances jt-2 Page 21
