“That wasn’t my question to begin with. Whaddaya think about the notes?”
“I don’t know. They make no sense to me. Maybe he was doodling and just wrote a few random words on the notepad. Hell, it could have been his bookie.”
“Could be,” Nick replied. “We’ll have to check and see if there were any horses with the names Gainesville or Breakthrough running that day.” He gave a sideways glance at his partner just to let him know that he thought he was nuts.
“What?” Tony shrugged. “I was just thinking out loud. What do the shrinks call that—free associating? I was free associating with you, Nick.”
“Good,” Nick replied. “I hope it cures you of whatever fucking psychosis you have. In the meantime, I think I’ll check out his cellphone records and find out where the call came from. What about her? What did you think of her?”
“Nice tits,” Tony answered.
“I noticed that you noticed. She probably saw you staring at them too. My question is, do you believe her story?”
“Yeah, she seemed pretty sincere. And pretty devastated too.”
“I agree,” Nick said. “I think she cared about the guy. But there’s more to the story. She seemed uncomfortable when I asked if anyone knew about Carl bringing money that night. I’ll bet she told somebody, and I’ll bet it was recently. I’m gonna go back there tonight and talk to the doorman on duty then and see if she’s had any other visitors recently.”
“I’ll go with you,” Tony offered. “By the way, was I really staring?”
Nick just looked at his partner and smiled. “I’m just grateful you didn’t have your mouth open and your tongue hanging out.”
5
New York City, August 1965
Sometimes just living in the neighborhood was stressful. At least, it was for fifteen-year-old Johnny Tobin. He’d be sixteen in another month. He was sure it wasn’t the same for his best friend Mikey, who was just a year older; Mikey was liked by everybody and always got invited everywhere.
Frankie O’Connor had a poker game at his family’s apartment on Friday nights. Frankie was two years older than Johnny, and most of the guys who went were in his age group. Mikey always got an invite and he was a year younger than Frankie. So did Norman Martin, who was the same age as Johnny. They both had older brothers—maybe that was the difference. Johnny and Mikey never talked about it, but Mikey knew Johnny wanted to go. Hell, they did everything else together.
Mikey was the one who delivered the invitation.
“Why don’t you come to Frankie’s on Friday night?” he asked on Thursday afternoon, knowing that Johnny would need some time to come up with an excuse to get out of the house. His parents were real strict.
Johnny wanted to make sure the invite was legit and not just Mikey trying to squeeze him in. There would have been nothing more embarrassing for him than to show up and then be kicked out.
“Did Frankie tell you to ask me?”
“Yeah, he did. He also said he wanted to talk to you.”
Jesus, what the hell was that about? Frankie O’Connor wanted to talk to him—in front of everybody. Maybe things had been better when he wasn’t getting invited.
Frankie O’Connor lived on the “other side” of Ninety-sixth and Lexington. The painted line running down the middle of Ninety-sixth was the unofficial demarcation separating Manhattan to the south from Spanish Harlem immediately to the north and Harlem itself beyond that. So Frankie O’Connor unofficially lived in Spanish Harlem.
Frankie had a comeback whenever anybody brought it up. “Hey, Jimmy Cagney lived on my block.” The mention of the most famous Irishman to come from the neighborhood usually shut them up.
Frankie lived with his father and brother; his mother had passed years before. The apartment was much bigger than Johnny’s four-room railroad flat, all of which would fit nicely inside Frankie’s living room. The bathroom was big enough to hold two or three people, and it had a shower. Johnny could only dream about someday living in a place that had a shower.
Frankie’s father always went out on Friday night and came home Saturday morning. His boys never knew where he went and they never asked. One day about two years earlier, the old man had simply said to Frankie, “I’m going out. I won’t be back until tomorrow. Keep an eye on your brother.” The card party hadn’t started for another year after that, when Frankie was sure that his father’s overnight excursions were a permanent thing.
There were two card tables set up in the living room and the games were already under way when Johnny arrived with Mikey and his two brothers, Danny and Eddie. Johnny brought money to play, but he had decided beforehand to be inconspicuous on his first night—just hang out and watch, get people beers, that kind of stuff. As it happened, Marty Russell lost big and cashed out early, so Johnny was drafted into one of the games.
“Hey, Tobin, get me a beer and sit in here in Marty’s place. We need your money.” The voice belonged to Doug Kline, a big, burly guy two years ahead of Johnny in school.
Johnny got the beer, put his money up, and sat down. Part of being accepted was acting like you belonged.
He won his second hand and Doug Kline pushed him good-naturedly as he raked in the pot. “We’re supposed to take your money, kid, not the other way around.”
Johnny just smiled sheepishly. He was having a great time smoking cigarettes and drinking beer.
He had only played a few hands when Frankie called him over.
“Johnny, sit out a hand or two. I want to talk to you.”
Johnny didn’t hesitate. You didn’t say no to Frankie. Not that he would beat you up or anything—Frankie wasn’t like that. He was just one of those guys you didn’t say no to.
Johnny followed Frankie into the kitchen. He was glad they were away from the others. If he had done something wrong he didn’t want the whole world to know about it.
“What’s up?” he asked as nonchalantly as he could, his knees knocking.
“I’ve been watching you play football over at the Hamilton on Saturday mornings.” The Hamilton was a clearing in Central Park where the younger guys in the neighborhood would get together to play tackle football. All the older guys had played there at one time or another. It was like a rite of passage before you hit the bigger field. One of the sideline markers just happened to be a statue of Alexander Hamilton. You had to be very careful not to run into it while running an out pattern.
“Yeah,” Johnny replied. “So?”
“So,” Frankie said, “I think it’s time you think about coming out for the Lexingtons.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you. Tryouts start next week. I wanna see you there.”
“Sure thing, Frankie. I’ll be there.”
Johnny was so excited he almost couldn’t contain himself. The Lexingtons were the neighborhood football team. All the great athletes from the neighborhood had played on the team. Frankie was one of the present stars and was the unofficial captain. Now it was Johnny’s turn to play with the big boys. Of course, Frankie had only invited him to try out. There was no guarantee he was going to make the team. And what if he got cut? He’d be the laughingstock of the whole neighborhood.
Yeah, Johnny thought as he walked home that evening, living in the neighborhood certainly was stressful.
6
Jack began working on Henry Wilson’s case by reading volumes of material: trial transcripts, appellate briefs, and the investigative files from both the state’s attorney’s and the public defender’s offices. It took him two weeks to finish. If he decided to take the case, he had six weeks before Henry’s scheduled execution to file a motion for a new trial, set an evidentiary hearing before a circuit judge, and put forward enough newly discovered evidence to convince the judge to grant a new trial. Time certainly weighed against them, but it was not the biggest hurdle. In order to meet the “newly discovered evidence” standard, Jack would have to produce some evidence that no other counsel representing Wilson in the past could hav
e discovered; evidence that had been available back then but inadvertently overlooked didn’t pass the “newly discovered evidence” test. It was a next-to-impossible standard, and so far he had nothing to go on.
He did confirm, however, that Wilson had told him the truth: there was no physical evidence linking him to the murder of Clarence Waterman. His conviction rested solely on the testimony of one man, David Hawke, and neither the snitch nor his cousin was ever charged with Waterman’s murder. Those facts alone lent credibility to Wilson’s claim of innocence.
He hashed it all out with Pat one night after dinner. Pat was reading a book in the living room while Jack had Wilson’s file spread out on the dining room table nearby.
“I don’t think this is worth it,” he told her. “I’d be okay getting Henry Wilson off death row, but not out of prison.”
“Is that your decision to make, Jack? Aren’t you supposed to simply determine whether the evidence was sufficient to prove he committed the murder?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that. My feelings about the case are always part of my decisions, Pat. They have to be. This isn’t an intellectual exercise for me—or an economic one. I have to believe I’m doing the right thing.”
“I understand,” Pat replied. “But you’ve always said that the evidence should decide a person’s guilt or innocence and nothing else. Aren’t you getting away from that?”
“I guess I am. This guy is so angry, though. I just don’t know if I want to make the effort to put him back on the street.”
“You only met him once. Why don’t you give him the benefit of the doubt for now and make your decision based on the evidence? If it’s not the right decision then you probably won’t succeed.”
“What does that mean?”
Pat smiled at him. “Things happen for a reason. All you can do is your part.”
Jack thought about it for a minute or two. “Maybe you’re right,” he admitted. “There is already a question in my mind about whether Wilson is guilty or not. I’ll continue the investigation. If there is enough evidence to move for a new trial, I’ll file the motion. After that it’s in God’s hands.”
Jack decided to continue his investigation by talking with Henry’s original lawyer, a distinguished Southern gentleman named Wofford Benton who was now a sitting circuit judge in Bartow, Florida.
Wofford Benton was an old Florida cracker born and raised in Bartow, a cozy little town in the central part of the state. He loved to tell folks that he never wore shoes until he was five years old. He spent his youth hunting and fishing and riding horses and herding cattle. When he graduated from high school, Wofford, like his daddy before him, moseyed on up to the University of Florida to get his college education. He stayed for seven years and left with a law degree.
Wofford’s first job was in the public defender’s office in Miami. Although it was a successful career move, Wofford never felt comfortable in the big city, and after twenty years he quit and went home to Bartow to run for judge.
They met for lunch at the Log Cabin Inn, an upscale steak house just outside of town where the local businessmen hung out. Inside, it looked like a real log cabin, complete with a fireplace that was hardly ever used. Among the concessions to modernity were the plush, dark blue carpeting and the seats upholstered in black leather. Judge Benton was already seated at his favorite table when Jack arrived. He was in his mid-sixties now, with a bald pate and a stomach that looked like it didn’t miss too many meals. He had a big cigar wedged in the right side of his mouth, although it wasn’t lit. The waitress came over to take Jack’s drink order as soon as the lawyer sat down. She also had a message for the judge.
“Judge,” she started with a thick Southern accent, “Walter suggests you try the prime rib sandwich today. He says it’s real good.”
Wofford smiled at Jack. “Walter’s the chef. They treat me right here,” he said proudly. “All right, Sally, you tell Walter to fix me one of those sandwiches. He knows how I like it. How about you, Jack?”
Jack wasn’t much of a red-meat eater, but he was looking for information.
“I’ll have the same,” he replied. “Medium. And a glass of water.”
“So what can I do for you, son?” Wofford asked when Sally had left.
“Well, Judge, as I told you over the phone, I’m looking into the Henry Wilson case to see if there is any basis to file a motion for a new trial.”
Henry’s trial had been almost eighteen years ago, and the judge had been a little sketchy on the details when Jack had called him initially.
“I didn’t remember the case when you first called, but I do now. I can’t see his face, but I remember Henry Wilson was a big, imposing man and he was a career criminal. I don’t know if I can help you any more than that.”
“Did you have any active participation in his subsequent appeals?”
“No. Once the trial was over I was out of the picture. I talked to some of the appellate people over the years, but I can’t remember the conversations.”
“Do you remember anything about the trial?” Jack persisted.
“Not really. I can’t tell you how many cases I’ve had since then, both as a lawyer and a judge. I’ve sentenced a number of men to death myself. It is something I don’t take lightly. I’d like to help you, but I don’t think I can.”
The waitress arrived with the prime rib sandwiches, each with a side of steak fries. She filled the judge’s coffee cup and gave Jack a large glass of water before leaving the men to continue their conversation. The break enabled Jack to collect his thoughts.
“I’d like to ask you some specific questions about the trial itself,” Jack told him.
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to answer them. You refresh my memory about the details and we’ll go from there.”
“Your defense,” Jack began, “was that someone else had committed the crime, a man named James Vernon. You put Vernon—who was in prison at the time for another drug-related crime—on the stand, and he took the Fifth. Then you called up his cellmate, a fellow named Willie Smith, to testify that Vernon had confessed to him the Friday before, do you remember that?”
“Vaguely,” the judge replied. “The prosecutor tore Willie Smith a new asshole. James Vernon supposedly confessed to him the Friday before trial. It was so convenient that it was laughable, but it was all we had.”
“Something seems to be missing,” said Jack. “I’ve read the appellate attorneys’ notes—and somewhere you told one of them that you actually talked to James Vernon while he was in prison, is that correct?”
“I don’t recall. I’ll tell you this, though—I wouldn’t have called him to the stand without knowing what he was going to say. So either I talked to him or my investigator did.”
“How did you find him?”
“Again, I have no idea. I imagine somebody gave me his name as a possible suspect.”
“And I guess you don’t recall what he told you when either you or your investigator interviewed him?”
“No. It would have had to exonerate Wilson in some way though, otherwise I wouldn’t have called him.”
“But when you put him on the stand, he took the Fifth and refused to testify?”
“Yeah. And when he did, I wanted to wring his neck and snap it like a chicken’s. I remember that.” Benton paused, put his index finger to his lips, and seemed to stare off into space for a few moments. “You know, there’s got to be a record somewhere of my interview with him. I recorded witness interviews when I was with the public defender’s office in Miami. I had to because we had so many cases. It wasn’t under oath, so I couldn’t use it in the trial or anything, but it would at least tell you what he said.”
This was news to Jack. He had meticulously combed through the appellate files and never saw a reference to a recorded statement by James Vernon. Perhaps it was nothing, perhaps it was everything. He decided to think about this for a minute while he and the judge worked on their prime rib sandwiches, whi
ch were amazingly good.
“Judge, I never heard about this recorded statement before. Did you tell the appellate attorneys about it?”
Judge Benton furrowed his brow. He seemed to Jack to be getting a little irritated with these questions about what he did or maybe failed to do seventeen years ago.
“The reason I ask is because there is no reference anywhere in any of the appellate files to a transcript of an interview with James Vernon.”
Benton put another piece of prime rib in his mouth and took his time chewing. He then took a sip of his coffee.
“If there was a transcript, wouldn’t it have been in the public defender’s file?” Jack persisted.
“Obviously not, if you and the other appellate attorneys have never come across it,” Benton answered testily. “I had my own files. I left the public defender’s office soon after the Wilson trial and took them with me—boxes and boxes. I rented a U-Haul, packed ’em all up and put ’em in my barn. Haven’t looked at them since. It’s possible it’s in one of those boxes if the rats haven’t eaten it.”
“Can you check and see?” Jack asked.
Wofford Benton took another sip of his coffee and stared at Jack.
“Now I’m angry at myself for even telling you about my personal files. I guess I didn’t think you’d be so persistent. I might have as many as fifty boxes in that barn, Counselor, so the answer to your question is no—I can’t check. I don’t have the time. I’m a judge. I’ve got work to do and I’m coming up for reelection.”
Jack wondered himself why the judge brought up the boxes in his barn if he had no intention of looking through them.
“How about if I went through them?” he asked. The waitress came to the table and started to remove their empty plates.
Benton sighed. “Counselor, I think I might be violating some ethics rules if I let you just rummage through my files. There are a lot of other people in those files besides your Mr. Wilson, you know.”
The Law of Second Chances Page 4
