“Most of it would be public record by now, Judge. Besides, a man’s life is at stake.”
“A man who was found to be guilty and deserving of death by the state of Florida,” the judge replied.
“You have a point. However, his execution is less than six weeks away—he’s entitled to have every stone unturned before that time.”
Judge Benton leaned back from the table, looked up at the ceiling, and let out another deep sigh. He then picked up the unlit cigar he had set on the table and twirled it in his fingers while staring at it.
“Okay, Counselor,” he finally said. “You can take a look. I’ll give you a day. When do you want to do it?”
“First thing tomorrow.”
“All right. Be at my ranch at seven tomorrow morning and I’ll get you set up.” He put the cigar in his mouth. “Now I’m going to go outside and have a good smoke.”
The next day, Jack drove east out of town for about two miles, as the judge had instructed, made a right on Benton Road, and drove another three miles until he saw a sign for the Benton ranch. Since he hadn’t planned on spending the night in Bartow, he had on the same clothes from the day before, although he discarded the tie and jacket and rolled his shirtsleeves up.
Wofford’s ranch was out in the middle of nowhere—flat grassland for as far as the eye could see. Jack could smell the cattle before he saw them as he drove down the dirt road. Wofford was sitting on the porch in his bathrobe, waiting for Jack. The house was a modest two-story with a three-car garage. The barn was several hundred yards behind it to the southeast. It was almost as big as the house.
Wofford was much more pleasant this morning. As Jack got out of his car, the judge slipped into a pair of cowboy boots that were sitting on the porch, right by the front door. Jack thought Wofford looked quite distinguished standing there in his bathrobe and boots.
“I don’t do any of the ranching here anymore,” he told Jack as they walked toward the barn. “I have a foreman who does everything. I like being out here though. It’s where I grew up.”
The barn doors were open, indicating that work for the day had already begun. A few chickens were squawking and running around in the front, along with two cats and a rooster. As they walked in, Jack noticed some horses’ stalls off to the left, although they were empty. The loft was full of hay, but the place had a foul smell, probably from the animals and their excrement. Wofford apparently noticed that Jack had caught a whiff.
“You’ll smell good after spending a day in here, Counselor. It’s a little bit different than a day at the office. The files are over here.”
He brought Jack to a door leading to a separate room in the right rear of the barn. The door had to be opened with a key, and when Wofford did so, Jack saw stacks and stacks of boxes in racks. The room was dark and obviously musty.
“There’s no electricity in here,” Wofford told him. “I’ll get you a lantern, a chair, and a cup of coffee. After that, you’re on your own. Just be careful opening boxes—you never know what’s living in there.
“I’ve got a meeting tonight in town, so I won’t be back until late. There’s a restaurant called Rooster’s right on Main Street. Maybe we can meet there first thing in the morning for breakfast.”
Jack hadn’t planned on staying another night. Hell, it was possible he’d be done in an hour. He didn’t want to bring any of that up with the judge, however, so he agreed with Wofford’s suggestion.
“That’ll be fine—about seven?”
“Make it seven-thirty,” the judge told him. “As you’ve probably noticed, I don’t get going as quick as I used to.”
Jack’s optimism was misplaced. Although the boxes were neatly placed on racks, the files inside were a mess. Cases were not separated or labeled. He had to go through every folder and every piece of paper. He had no idea how many pages were in the transcript or if the pages were stapled together—or if the document even existed. The lighting was terrible, and, as Wofford had predicted, from time to time a mouse scurried out of the box when Jack lifted the top. Jack was just glad that he hadn’t encountered a rat—yet.
The hours ticked past and the light outside was beginning to fade when he finally opened a box and saw a large folder labeled “Wilson.” He hesitated before opening it and said a little prayer. Another hour of this place and he’d be ready for a straightjacket. He opened his eyes and looked down. Within the folder, in a jacketed cover, was the transcript of Wofford’s recorded interview with James Vernon.
7
The next morning, Jack was a very conspicuous visitor at Rooster’s, sitting among the farmers as he waited for the judge to arrive. He’d taken a shower at the hotel that morning, but for the third day in a row he had to don the same clothes—clothes that had spent the previous day in Wofford Benton’s barn. That, however, actually made him fit in with the breakfast group. He stood out because he was a stranger.
Wofford came in about ten minutes after Jack and made the rounds of each table, shaking hands with everybody in the place.
“You can never stop politicking,” he said as he sat down at Jack’s table. “You forget to shake one hand and it could cost you a hundred votes in this town. Word travels like lightning.”
Ruthie, the waitress, came over and simply inquired if the judge was going to have “the usual.” Wofford nodded that he was. Jack had already given his order.
“Did you find anything interesting?” Wofford asked when Ruthie had left.
“I did,” Jack replied. “I found the transcript of your interview with James Vernon.”
“Well . . .?”
“Well, Vernon told you that he was there when Clarence Waterman was murdered. Vernon claimed to have been there with two other guys he wouldn’t name, neither of whom was Henry Wilson. One of those other two guys supposedly slit Clarence Waterman’s throat.”
Wofford thought about what Jack had said for a moment. “It makes sense,” he finally said. “That’s why I called Vernon to the stand. I hope you noticed something though. Vernon told me he was there at the scene. He told Willie Smith, the prison snitch I called to the stand at trial, that he actually committed the murder. One of those statements is a lie, and James Vernon supposedly made both of them. Of course, Willie Smith could have been lying. It’s a problem with these criminals—they never tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”
“There was something else, Judge.”
“Really?”
“Vernon said that he also told Ted Griffin, his lawyer on the case he was in jail for, about the Waterman murder. Did you know Ted Griffin?”
“Yeah, I knew him.” Ruthie arrived with the food, and both men were quiet for a moment. Jack was careful not to press the judge. He wanted Wofford to stew over the information and come to his own conclusions.
“I guess I should have anticipated that Vernon might take the Fifth and should have had Ted Griffin ready to testify at trial. He’d have made a much better witness than that snitch I had to use—Willie Smith,” he said finally.
Jack was glad Wofford had seen the problem on his own. It didn’t matter what version of the story James Vernon gave Ted Griffin. It would have been dramatic and compelling testimony to have a lawyer on the stand telling the story after Vernon refused to testify, and it might have made the difference in the outcome of the trial. Jack had another issue he wanted to address, however, before coming back to the judge’s mistake.
“Judge, did you know that neither David Hawke nor his cousin was ever prosecuted?” he asked.
“Who are they?” the judge asked.
“David Hawke was the only witness who testified against Henry Wilson. There was no other evidence to connect Wilson to the crime. Hawke was a convicted felon, and he testified that he drove his cousin and Henry to Clarence Waterman’s house and waited outside while they went in and killed him.”
“I vaguely recall that now,” Benton admitted.
“So you didn’t know that Hawke and his cousin were never prosecuted?”
/>
“No, I didn’t.”
“What I don’t understand is why Hawke would testify that he drove his cousin and Henry to Waterman’s house and waited while they killed him. It doesn’t make sense—Hawke implicating himself like that in the crime if he was actually innocent.”
Benton looked at Jack quizzically. “Are you a criminal defense attorney?”
“No, sir. I spent my career representing insurance companies. I’ve only taken up representing death-row inmates in the last couple of years.”
“I see—your personal penance for representing those insurance companies for so long?”
Jack smiled. “I guess that’s part of it.”
“Well, let me tell you something, son. In criminal law, sometimes you don’t have any proof and yet you know something’s there. You get a whiff of it in the wind.” Benton leaned forward and lowered his voice. “As I remember, David Hawke was a career criminal, a druggie—kind of like Henry, if you want to know the truth. The state had something on David Hawke, something we’ll never know about. They probably made a deal. That’s how he came to testify at Henry Wilson’s trial.”
“Would the state put on false testimony?”
“It’s never that clear-cut, Jack. They may have nabbed Hawke for something. He finds out about this murder case—there’s a grapevine in the criminal world that you wouldn’t believe—so he concocts a story to make himself a valuable witness. He implicates Henry and starts to negotiate with the authorities. The state looks at Henry’s record and sees that he’s a pimple on the ass of society, sees that he bought drugs from the deceased—and they run with Hawke’s testimony. Should they pause and say, ‘Wait a minute, this guy is a lowlife piece of shit—we shouldn’t use him to convict somebody else, especially in a death penalty case, without other corroborating evidence’? Yes, they should. Do they? Not usually. Prosecutors have agendas too, Jack. It’s just the way of the world.”
“About this transcript of your interview with James Vernon, Judge—what do you think I should do with it?”
“Don’t be coy with me, Counselor. You know what you’re going to do with it. You’re going to claim incompetence of counsel because I didn’t call Ted Griffin to the stand.”
Jack didn’t respond to the judge’s charge. He hadn’t made any decisions yet. “Did you talk to Griffin about this?” he asked.
“I don’t remember.”
“Maybe Griffin refused to talk to you since he represented James Vernon in the past?” Jack offered.
“He may have, but I don’t remember.”
They talked a little more before Jack got up to leave. His head was spinning from all that he had learned, and he was anxious to get back to his office in Bass Creek and sort it out. The judge continued to surprise him right up to the end of his visit.
“Do what you have to do, Counselor. I’m not anxious to have my record besmirched, but I understand a man’s life is at stake. I’m still not convinced Wilson is innocent, but if he is, I’ve got some responsibility for him being where he is at. Keep me posted on this, will you? And call me if you need a sounding board.”
“I sure will, Judge.”
During their run that evening Jack told Pat all about what he had learned in the past three days. They took a different path, bypassing the river and heading directly into the woods. The crickets were already chattering.
“God, it’s good to be out here,” he said. “I felt like I was swimming in a cesspool today.”
“Why’s that?” Pat asked.
“I’ll tell you in a minute. First, tell me about your day.”
“What’s to tell? I’ve got thirty ten-year-olds all with Mexican jumping beans in their pants.”
“That’s got to be the hardest job in the world. I could never do it.”
“Well, you do have to be a certain type of person. But I love it, I really do. And I’ll tell you what, Jack. I can see how the future criminals of America get started. Kids in foster care, kids who are neglected by their parents—those are the ones with severe emotional problems. These kids don’t have a chance.
“They don’t get lost as adults, Jack. They get lost as children.” She paused, and they both concentrated on their running for a moment. “Enough about me—why did you feel you were in a cesspool today?”
“Because I learned some valuable lessons about how the criminal justice system really works. Do you ever wonder how it is that when you drop a piece of food on the ground, a thousand ants suddenly appear out of nowhere?”
“What does that have to do with your client on death row?”
“Well, apparently when a crime occurs, a similar phenomenon takes place. Eyewitnesses pop out of the woodwork. Criminals with information to sell about other criminals.”
“True information?” Pat asked.
“Who knows? Truth is what a prosecutor thinks he can sell to a jury.”
“Really? Is that what happened in Henry’s case?”
“Wofford Benton thinks it’s possible, and he was Henry’s trial lawyer. The state had no physical evidence against Henry. This guy David Hawke gave them a credible story and they went with it.
“Listen to this. I found a transcript of a conversation Wofford Benton had with a guy named James Vernon, who said he was at the murder scene with two other guys, neither of whom was Henry Wilson. And one of those two other guys slit Clarence Williams’s throat.”
“If that’s the case, how did Henry get convicted?”
“Well, Wofford called Vernon to the stand, and Vernon took the Fifth. There was another witness Vernon had told the story to, a lawyer named Ted Griffin, and Wofford never called him to the stand.”
“Why not?”
“He just forgot, I guess. He doesn’t remember ever talking to Griffin.”
“You’re kidding me!” Pat said. “Is this Wofford Benton who forgot about the other witness still practicing?”
“Practicing? He’s a circuit judge! That’s the guy I went to see. And by the way, none of this evidence means that Wilson is innocent.”
“You’re losing me, Jack.”
“James Vernon told two people two different stories, so he could have been lying.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to keep on working and see how it all shakes out. I’ll talk to the other witness, Ted Griffin, the lawyer, and listen to what he has to say.”
Later that evening, as they both lay in bed, Pat revisited their earlier conversation.
“Has your gut feeling about Henry changed?”
“I don’t know. I’m still a little too confused.”
“Well, it’ll come to you, Jack.” She kissed him softly. Then they made love. As they moved slowly, rhythmically, Pat felt a sudden stabbing pain in her abdomen. Her body went into spasm and their lovemaking ended abruptly.
“What’s the matter?” Jack asked. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, no, honey—nothing like that. I think it’s that stomach pain from the gallbladder surgery. It’s never been this severe, though. Maybe it’s just the position we were in. I’m sure it will go away.”
“The same pain you’ve told Dr. Hawthorne about for almost a year now?”
“Well, it’s never been this bad. He says it can take up to a year for these things to heal. I have some pain medication but I just don’t like to take it.”
“Has Hawthorne given you a CT scan?”
“No.”
“Well, don’t take this the wrong way, honey: Hawthorne may be a good doctor, but he’s a primary-care guy. Let me set up an appointment with somebody I know in Miami, okay?”
“Jack, it’s not necessary. It’s just a minor pain.”
“I’m probably overreacting, but humor me, okay? Let me set up the appointment?”
“All right,” she said and nestled her head in his chest and went to sleep.
Jack stayed awake for a very long time.
8
Melvin Gertz was short and slight, and he ha
d a huge nose that took over his small, narrow face, making him look a little lopsided. He also had a permanent five o’clock shadow, and to make matters worse, his blue doorman’s uniform always looked like he’d slept in it the night before. No wonder this guy works the night shift, Nick Walsh thought as Melvin opened the front door of the apartment building for him and Tony Severino.
Melvin wasn’t exactly overjoyed at seeing the two detectives either.
“I told the cop last night I don’t know nothing. People come and go. I open the door for them. That’s it.”
This was a guy who needed Nick’s special brand of persuasion. Nick didn’t need any prompting.
“Melvin, you think you don’t know anything, but you may have a valuable piece of information. You could give us something that could help us solve the whole case.”
“Me? Really? You guys are pulling my leg.”
“No we’re not,” said Nick. “It happens all the time. Remember the cabbie who delivered the baby in the backseat just last week in the Bronx? It was all over the news.”
Melvin was confused. “Yeah, I remember that, but what’s that got to do with me?”
“You give us information that blows open this case, you’re going to be a hero just like that cabdriver.”
“I already told ya, I don’t know nothing.”
“You let us be the judge of that. You just tell us everything you’ve seen. And when the TV cameras are on you and the news reporters are fighting for a quote, put in a good word for Tony and me, will you?”
“Sure thing,” Melvin said as he took a pen and pad from his uniform pocket. “What’s your names again?”
Nick noticed that Tony Severino had turned his back to them. His partner couldn’t keep from laughing at Melvin’s gullibility. Nick handed the doorman a card with both his and Tony’s name on it.
“That’s me, Detective Nicholas Walsh. You can call me Nick.”
“And you can call me Philly,” Melvin told Nick. “That’s what everybody calls me.”
“How come?” Nick asked.
“Well, when I was a kid, I loved Philly cheesesteaks. Everybody in the neighborhood started calling me Philly and the name stuck. And I kinda like it too. I never liked Melvin—never forgave my mother for that one.”
The Law of Second Chances Page 5
