The Law of Second Chances

by James Sheehan

  “Good morning, Counselor.”

  “Good morning,” Jack said blankly.

  Spencer’s table was all set up. He had a yellow pad directly in front of him and his exhibits stacked neatly on the table. Norma Grier, the deputy district attorney who had assisted Spencer earlier, wasn’t there. Spencer wanted the battle to be mano a mano, solely between him and Jack Tobin. He was still bristling from the stunt Jack had pulled at the hearing, not to mention the files he’d stolen from the warehouse. Spencer wanted to gut Jack in the middle of that courtroom, and he didn’t want any help when he did it.

  Promptly at nine o’clock Judge Langford Middleton walked into the courtroom, and the bailiff announced the beginning of the proceedings. “All rise!” he bellowed.

  Everybody stood up. Jack stole a glance at his client. Benny was standing at attention looking straight ahead. If only he can stay that way for the rest of the trial, Jack thought.

  “You may be seated,” the judge announced. He waited for everyone to settle before delivering his opening remarks.

  This was Langford Middleton’s moment. The years were starting to show on him. His once-thick brown wavy hair was now gray in spots and almost completely white at the temples, and age lines creased the corners of his eyes. He was still an imposing figure, though, and in his black robes, on this stage, he certainly looked like a judge. Nobody could see that underneath those robes his knees were shaking.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a great booming voice addressing the spectators, “your presence here is a privilege—a privilege that may be revoked at any time. This is a courtroom. It is not a movie theater. It is not a television studio. A man is on trial for his life. You will not root for one side or the other. You will not comment in any way on the testimony. You will sit and observe in silence and, if you cannot do that, you will be removed by court personnel, forcibly if necessary. Do you understand?”

  Everybody seemed to nod as one. It was an auspicious start for the judge.

  “Counselors, is there anything we need to take up before we bring the jury in?”

  “No, your honor,” Spencer and Jack answered almost in unison.

  “Bring in the jury,” he instructed the bailiff.

  When the jury was seated, the judge turned to the prosecutor. “Mr. Taylor, you may proceed.”

  “Thank you, your honor,” Spencer replied as he walked to the podium, which was now situated directly in front of the jurors. He was wearing a tailor-made charcoal gray suit, a crisp white shirt, and a lavender tie. His hair was once again coiffed to perfection and his clear, smooth skin was lightly bronzed, probably from a tanning booth. In short, he looked beautiful.

  Spencer stood at the podium and made eye contact with each juror. When he started to speak, his words were warm and generous, his smile captivating.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. As you know from jury selection, my name is Spencer Taylor, and I represent the people of the State of New York.” He didn’t say “you the people,” but they got the message. “And I am proud to stand before you today in that capacity.” The words were a little overdone, but he seemed to pull it off. His blue eyes spoke of nothing but sincerity and conviction.

  Jack watched the jurors, especially the women, fall for Spencer and his schmaltz.

  When Spencer finally got to Benny’s case, he began by describing the victim, Carl Robertson, and his stellar and lucrative career in the oil business. Then almost reluctantly he told them about Carl’s “imperfections,” that he’d had a mistress whose name was Angie and that he’d brought her money every month and paid for her apartment.

  He briefly described what Angie’s testimony would be and told them he would also be calling two eyewitnesses, Paul Frazier and David Cook, who lived in Angie’s building. They had heard the shot and immediately gone to the window and seen a man leaning over the body of Carl Robertson. They’d later identified that man as Benny Avrile, the defendant.

  It was a simple story of motive and opportunity: Benny was there, the motive was robbery, and he’d shot Carl Robertson in cold blood.

  “The only question you have to answer, ladies and gentlemen, is this: Does the evidence prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the accused, Benny Avrile, killed Carl Robertson in cold blood? The answer is a resounding yes.”

  Spencer was driving an express train. His opening had taken only twenty minutes. He hadn’t talked about any of the forensic evidence. He didn’t need to. It would come up during the testimony itself, clearly supporting the simple, straightforward story he had told the jury.

  It was now Jack’s turn. Jack had considered waiving his opening and giving it at the start of his defense. But this was a fight, like a boxing match or a gladiator’s duel. The jury had seen and heard from Spencer; now they wanted to hear from him. He had a problem, though, and it was a big problem. He still didn’t know what his defense was. All he could do was give them what he had at the moment.

  In his preparations, two major issues had concerned Jack, the first obviously being the charge of first-degree murder. The second problem was almost of equal importance: the felony murder count. The felony murder rule basically provided that if someone was killed during the commission of a felony, everyone involved in the felony was guilty of murder. Thus, if Benny was attempting to rob Carl Robertson, that was enough for a conviction under the felony murder rule. Felony murder was second-degree murder and not punishable by death.

  The governor wanted death. Spencer Taylor wanted death so badly Jack was sure that the man could taste it; anything less than a first-degree murder conviction would be considered a blot on his résumé. Jack hoped to take advantage of that relentless focus to at least dispose of the felony murder count. Then the jury would only have one issue to decide.

  He had a plan, but like everything else at this point, it was pretty much a crapshoot.

  He stood up and walked to the podium. Jack was wearing an olive green suit, a blue shirt, and a maroon tie. At six two, he was taller than Spencer and appeared stronger and fitter than the younger man. His hair was short and gray and sparse in places, and his face was weathered by age and experience—a good-looking man, but even on his best day nobody would ever have described Jack Tobin as beautiful.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he began. His tone was pleasant but businesslike enough to let them know he wasn’t going to ingratiate himself to them. That wasn’t his style.

  “You know what I’m going to say to you first off because we discussed it during jury selection. The state has the burden of proof: it has to prove its case beyond a reasonable doubt. That is our system of justice. You all assured me that you would hold the state to its burden. The defendant has a constitutional right not to testify, and he will not in this case. You all assured me that you would honor that right. The defense does not have an obligation to put on any witnesses. You all assured me that you understood that concept. I’m going to hold you to those promises.”

  Jack paused and looked each juror in the eye.

  “Now, what have you heard from the state this morning? I know it’s not evidence, but let’s assume for the moment that Mr. Taylor is accurately stating his case. A man is shot on a city street at ten o’clock at night and two people look out their window sometime soon after the event and see another man kneeling over the victim and they later identify the accused as that man. Is he just a person who happened to be on that street at that precise moment responding to an emergency situation without thinking, or is he the perpetrator? That is the ultimate question you have to answer. In order to do that, you must ask the following questions: Did anyone see this man stealing money? Did they see him with a gun?

  If the answer to those two questions is no and there is no evidence of any other connection between the defendant and the deceased, then the state has simply not met its burden and you must find the defendant not guilty.”

  That was it. Jack’s opening was only a few minutes long—much shorter and sim
pler than Spencer Taylor’s. Both men knew the trial was going to be a lot more complicated.

  59

  Henry had another name for Micanopy—two names, actually. He wanted to call it Oakville or, even better, Eerieville. Micanopy was a small little inland town, a slice of Old Florida—an old Florida that Henry didn’t think he would have liked too much. Somewhere in the recesses of his brain he recalled that a whole community of black folks had been massacred somewhere around here at a place called Rosewood.

  The main street was lined with giant oak trees that formed a canopy over the road. Spanish moss hung from the branches like rotted tinsel. “Eerieville” was just right—and he hadn’t even seen the place at night yet.

  It was about ten o’clock in the morning. He had flown into Tampa late Tuesday night and stayed at a hotel near the airport. He’d rented a car first thing in the morning and headed north on Interstate 75.

  Micanopy was nothing more than two or three blocks of antiques stores, a town hall, and a library. It had that slow feel of the Old South. Henry had no idea where 26 Robin Lane was, so he pulled up next to the only person on the street, an old man who was shuffling along, and asked him for directions.

  The old man rubbed his chin and looked to the sky for guidance. Henry was sure he didn’t have a clue. After a minute or so the man finally spoke, in a slow Southern drawl that only added to the feel of the whole place.

  “Well, you go down this street here a ways,” the old man said, pointing back in the direction Henry had come from, “and you go maybe half a mile or so until you see a turnoff on the right. That’s Robin Lane. Now 26, I believe, is the third place on the left. That’s about a mile down the road.” He took another look at Henry and added, “I’d be mighty careful if I were you,” and then he turned and shuffled off. Old South indeed, Henry thought as he pulled away, shaking his head.

  Surprisingly, the old man’s directions were very good. Henry found Robin Lane right where it was supposed to be. It was a narrow dirt road not wide enough for two cars, and he took it slowly. After about a mile and a half he’d counted only two places on the left so he decided to backtrack, realizing he’d probably missed the third left. Then he spotted it—a driveway so overgrown with old orange trees and bushes and mangroves that there was barely room for a car to fit. He turned in and kept going for what seemed like forever, the overgrowth scratching the finish of the rental car, until he came to a clearing. Beyond was a two-story wooden house with a wide front porch and a tin roof. A dog was lying on the porch; it didn’t move as the car approached. Henry noticed fields behind the house, a barn, and some cattle and horses. He turned to the left and pulled the car up a good distance from the house, mindful both of the dog and of the old man’s words. He got out and started walking slowly and cautiously toward the house. He was just about to shout and ask if anyone was home when a single shot rang out. Henry hit the ground.

  He lay there for a few minutes not moving. Then he inched his head around slightly so he could see the front of the house. Everything was still, including the dog, who had not moved from his spot on the porch. Slowly Henry stood up and walked around toward the back of the house.

  There was an old man in the backyard feeding the chickens. Henry slipped up behind him and put him in a headlock with his left arm, grabbing him around the middle with his right. The old geezer started kicking and flailing his arms.

  “Hold on there, Mr. Woods. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I don’t want to hurt you even though you just tried to kill me. I’m just looking for some information.”

  The old man kept up the barrage of kicks and punches. “I’m not Mr. Woods,” he cackled. “And if I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead. I just fired a warning. Figured you’d go away after that.”

  Henry realized he needed to do something to calm the situation. He spun the old man around and hit him with a right cross to the chin. The poor fellow went down like a sack of potatoes. The chickens squawked, but the dog, who was now lying on the back porch, didn’t move.

  Henry found some rope in the barn, tied the old man’s hands and feet, and carried him into the house, propping him up on a ratty old couch near the window. Henry sat down across from him and waited for him to come round.

  Finally the old man’s eyelids flickered as he started to regain consciousness. He looked around as if lost, then focused on Henry, a flash of anger crossing his face. He struggled briefly against the ropes and then went limp, staring all the time at Henry.

  “We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” Henry said calmly. “First, I’m going to tell you who I am and why I’m here. Then you can decide if you want to answer my questions.”

  “I’ve got no choice, I guess,” the old man grumbled.

  Henry then told him about Carl Robertson’s murder, Benny’s murder charge, and Jack’s representation of Benny. “I work for Jack Tobin. The reason I’m here is because Mr. Robertson called you thirty-eight times in the month before he died. We want to know why and if there’s any connection to Mr. Robertson’s death.”

  “He didn’t call me,” the old man answered. “He called Lenny.”

  “You’re not Leonard Woods?”

  “I already told you that before you slugged me. My name’s Valentine Busby. I farmed the land here for Lenny. He left me the house. Lenny Woods is dead.”

  Henry’s heart sank momentarily. “When did he die?”

  “Over a year ago back in the summer.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was murdered. A hit-and-run at seven o’clock in the morning right out there on Robin Lane.”

  “Why do you think it was murder and not an accident?”

  “Lenny went for a walk at seven every morning after the animals were taken care of and all the morning chores were done. It was broad daylight. Anybody coulda seen him. Do you know how fast you have to go on a road like that to kill a man? No, it was murder.”

  “Did the police think it was murder?”

  “The police around here don’t think, period.”

  Henry frowned. These two murders didn’t appear to be a coincidence.

  “Do you know what Lenny and Carl talked about on the phone?” he asked.

  “No. I know they were working on something together but Lenny didn’t tell me about that kind of stuff. He had a colleague in Wisconsin who I’m sure knew all about it.”

  “A colleague? What kind of business was Lenny in?”

  “He wasn’t in any business. He was a professor of microbiology at the University of Florida.”

  “In Gainesville?”

  “Yeah. Right up the road.”

  “Do you know the name of this colleague in Wisconsin?”

  “I sure do. I’ve got his name and address written down somewhere. If you untie me, I can get it.”

  Henry figured things were safe enough so he started to untie him. “Now don’t try anything funny.”

  “Tangle with a man the size of you again? I’m not that stupid,” Valentine Busby said, rubbing his bruised chin now that his hands were free. “By the way, when was Carl Robertson murdered?”

  “September first of last year,” Henry said, crouching down to undo the knots on the rope around Valentine’s feet.

  “That’s funny.”

  “Why is it funny?”

  “Lenny was murdered on September second.”

  Henry almost had a heart attack. He was still trying to process this new information when Valentine dropped another bombshell.

  “You know, you’re not the first person I talked to about this.”

  “Really?” Henry replied as he straightened up and helped Valentine to his feet.

  “Yeah. I talked to an attorney maybe six months ago. Not the guy you work for. Somebody else. I told him pretty much what I told you, although it was a much shorter conversation. I never heard from him again but after that things got a little creepy. Cars started coming by at strange hours, that kind of stuff. I know it could be my i
magination. I’m an old man and all, but that’s when I cut off the phone and wouldn’t let anybody past that clearing where you parked your car. I’m sorry I fired that warning shot, but now you know why.”

  Henry wasn’t quite ready to accept Valentine’s apology so he ignored it. “Was the guy you talked to named Sal Paglia?”

  “Can’t be certain. I don’t have the greatest memory in the world. But yeah, I think that’s the guy.”

  60

  For a moment at the outset of the trial Jack thought Langford Middleton was in cahoots with Spencer Taylor, because he was moving the case along so fast.

  “Call your first witness,” the judge told Spencer before Jack had arrived back at his seat after finishing his opening statement.

  “The state calls Angela Vincent.”

  The bailiff left the room and came back less than a minute later with a beautiful blond woman dressed appropriately in a modest black dress. The clerk swore her in and she stepped up to the witness chair.

  “Please state your name for the record,” Spencer Taylor began.

  “Angela Vincent,” she replied.

  “Ms. Vincent, did you know the deceased, Carl Robertson?”

  “Yes.”

  “And could you tell the jury the nature of your relationship?”

  “I was Carl’s mistress for five years. He set me up in an apartment on Seventy-eighth Street and East End Avenue and he gave me ten thousand dollars a month. He came to visit every Tuesday and Thursday and sometimes on the weekend.”

  Jack could tell from the detail in Angie’s answer and the directness with which she delivered it that she and Spencer had rehearsed her testimony thoroughly.

  “Do you know where Carl lived?”

  “In Washington, DC.”

  “And he came to your place every Tuesday and Thursday without fail?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did he get there?”

  “Carl had his own jet, so he flew here and then drove to the apartment in a car he kept at the airport.”