The Mayor of Lexington Avenue

by James Sheehan

  “That’s pretty unusual—no skid marks?”

  “Not necessarily. Not if she lost control of the car. I just can’t find any reason why she would lose control—no slippery ground, no sharp turns. It might be mechanical, but I’m not likely to find out much from what’s left of that car. Besides, according to her dad, she kept it really well maintained.”

  Jack had worked with enough accident reconstruction specialists over the years to be able to tell instinctively that Officer Redford was well suited to his job. He was ticking off the possibilities one by one. Jack could work with this guy.

  “What about another car?”

  “Yeah, I’ve thought about that,” Redford said. “Another car could have bumped her off the road. I saw some tracks in the dirt a little farther back that were a little deeper than others. Two cars, side by side—if she went off the road there, at the speed she was going, she would have headed straight for the telephone pole. The thing is, I can’t tell if they were made at the same time. Other cars have been over this road since then, so I don’t think I can get a clear print of the other car’s tire.”

  “So what you’re telling me is that you think she was run off the road?”

  “That’s my best guess, but you’ll never be able to prove it. Not unless there was an eyewitness. I’ve given this scenario to Detective Applegate from homicide. He’s canvassing the neighborhood as we speak, but the only houses around here are pretty far away.”

  “I see,” Jack said. “You will try and get a print of that second car, won’t you?”

  “We certainly will. Forensics is on their way. But like I said, I don’t hold out much hope.”

  “What about the fire? Isn’t it unusual for a car to burst into flames like that?”

  “Absolutely. But I talked to the father and he says he put his boat’s gas can full of gas in the car earlier in the day because he was going to go fishing in the morning. I still wouldn’t expect the car to burst into flames like that, but it did—and the gas can explains why it did. It’s unusual but explainable.”

  Jack liked the thoroughness of Redford’s thought process—no detail left out. “If the person who drove her off the road saw the gas can, he could have easily dropped a match in the car and watched it light up,” Jack offered.

  “That’s a level of speculation I can’t get to, Mr. Tobin.”

  “I hear ya. Listen, are you in the office tomorrow?”

  “Yup. No rest for the weary.”

  “You may get a call from the governor. Tell him what you told me, will you?”

  “Sure thing,” he said, looking a little quizzical. As Jack walked away, Redford wondered what the hell the governor would be doing calling him about a traffic homicide in Cobb County.

  Jack and Pat drove Jim Shea home. The man was inconsolable, convinced that he had caused his daughter’s death. Pat kept telling him it was an accident. Jack didn’t say anything. He was sure that telling him he thought his daughter was murdered was not going to make the man feel any better. Pat made sure he took a sleeping pill when they arrived at his house, and they hung around until he started to nod off.

  They left for Starke the next morning at six o’clock. Both of them were now in a stupor, and it wasn’t just from lack of sleep. Events were propelling them along and they couldn’t stop to think about anything for fear that the reality would immobilize them. They barely spoke on the trip. As they got closer to their destination, Jack told Pat he wanted her to come with him into the prison to meet Rudy.

  “You worked so hard on his case with me and he is Mikey’s son. Besides, Rudy is so special.” She started to shake her head, but Jack kept going, making every argument he could think of. The truth was that he was overwhelmed, as was Pat. They had been leaning on each other for the last twenty-four hours. Jack was afraid that without Pat next to him he might fall flat on his face. It was a disconcerting feeling to a man who had spent his whole life in the center of a courtroom.

  Pat kept looking straight ahead through the windshield. “I can’t, Jack,” she said a long silent minute after he stopped talking. “It’s not about me or you, it’s about Rudy. He’s going to need you today to talk about the options you have left and to help him deal with what may be coming. But he doesn’t need to be meeting people for the first time and making small talk.”

  Jack knew she was right. And he knew he’d been thinking about his own needs more than Rudy’s. He didn’t say another word about it.

  “Let’s find a hotel and I’ll register us,” she said. “You go stay with Rudy.”

  Jack met Rudy in their usual spot. Rudy still gave him that smile, but his hands were shaking somewhat and Jack could see a glimmer of fear in his usual jovial eyes. He is human, after all, Jack thought.

  “They told me about the appeal,” he said when he was finally seated. This time all but one of his army of bodyguards left. “I know you feel bad but you did the best job you could, Jack.”

  “It’s not over, Rudy.” Jack didn’t want to give him false hope, but he wanted him to know there was still some hope, however tenuous. “There’s still the United States Supreme Court. One justice will read my brief, and if he or she thinks there is something there, they will issue a stay of the execution until the full court can review the case. I’m also going to call the governor again this morning. There’s some new information I need to give him. He can order a stay.”

  Jack had already made the decision that he was not going to tell Rudy about Nancy. Rudy had enough on his plate already. If he asked what the new information for the governor was, Jack would make something up. But Rudy didn’t ask.

  “I now know how Jesus felt,” he said after they’d sat silently for a moment or two. “He knew he was going to see his father but he didn’t want to have to go through death to get there. That’s kind of the way I feel right now. I want to get to the other side, to be with my mom and dad, but I don’t want to have to die in the electric chair to get there.”

  Jack just nodded. This was a conversation he’d never had before, and he never wanted to have it again. He had no answers, no comforting words, but if Rudy wanted to talk, he was there to listen.

  He stayed with him most of the morning and would have come back for the afternoon—he only had one call to make, to Governor Richards—but Rudy sent him on his way.

  “Jack, I want you to go. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I appreciate your friendship, but I kinda just want to be alone now. It would make it too tough for me to see you out there when they’re strapping me in. I just want to close my eyes and think about where I’m going.”

  Jack wanted to argue but he knew Rudy was right—about everything. Both he and Rudy stood up and Jack came around the table and hugged him. The guard let them alone. There were tears in Jack’s eyes as he looked at Rudy for what might be the last time.

  “If I had a son,” he whispered in Rudy’s ear, “I’d want him to be just like you.”

  “I’m lucky enough to have had a dad who was just like you, Jack.”

  “I love you, Rudy.”

  “I love you too, Jack.”

  Jack started for the door but Rudy stopped him one last time. “Jack,” he said, awkwardly reaching for his pocket with his manacled hands and pulling out an envelope. “Take this.”

  Jack took the envelope and read the words written on the outside: “To be opened on my death.” He looked at Rudy and nodded. Then he was gone.

  He called the governor as soon as he reached the hotel. As usual, Bob Richards was busy. Jack left the number of the hotel and made his secretary promise to have him call as soon as possible. “This is literally life and death,” he told her. He lay down on the bed next to Pat to wait for the governor’s call and instantly fell asleep. Three hours later, Pat nudged him. “The governor’s on the line.” He was immediately awake and took the phone.

  “Bob, thanks for calling back.” He wanted to shoot the son-of-a-bitch, but not yet. While there was still an ounce of h
ope, he was going to play nice.

  “What’s up?” Bob asked curtly.

  “Last night about ten minutes after I talked to you, my secretary called me and said she had something big. I told her to come to the house. Two hours later there’s a knock on the door and a sheriff’s deputy is telling us she’s dead.”

  “Geez, I’m sorry, Jack. You don’t need this on top of everything else.”

  “I’m not finished, Bob. The accident reconstruction specialist from the Cobb County sheriff’s department, a fellow named Blaine Redford—you need to write that name down—told me he thought it was murder.”

  “What do you want me to do, Jack?”

  “I want you to call Blaine Redford and talk to him. And if he tells you that he thinks Nancy was murdered, I want you to call off this execution. Nancy was killed because she knew something, which means we’re getting close.”

  “Close to what, Jack? Do you think somebody was waiting in the woods for your secretary and killed her?”

  “Yes. Just like they killed Tracey James.”

  “Who? Look, Jack, I consider you a friend. That’s why I call you back every time you call. But I’ve got a state to run. I can’t run down every lead you come up with. Frankly, I think you’re out there on this one. You need some rest.”

  “Just call him, will you? Maybe I appear to be way out there, but a man’s life is at stake and you’re the only chance I—we—have.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll call him. But if he doesn’t have any proof, I’m not going to stop this execution. And I’m not calling you back.” Bob Richards hung up the phone.

  At 4:30 that afternoon, the office temp Jack had hired to babysit the office while he and Pat were away called. She told him that he had just received a fax from the United States Supreme Court. The Petition for Stay of Execution had been denied.

  That evening, Jack and Pat joined the all-night vigil at the gates of Raiford, singing and praying with anti–death penalty advocates, none of whom had ever met Rudy.

  Thirty–Six

  “Old Sparky” was the affectionate name given to the electric chair at Raiford. The three-legged oak chair was constructed by inmates in 1923 when the State of Florida decided that hanging was too brutal a procedure for executions.

  At 6:00 on the morning of October 22, 1996, while Jack and Pat were singing “Amazing Grace” outside the prison gates, the prison barber started shaving Rudy’s head, his right calf and a small patch on his chest where a stethoscope would eventually be placed to determine if he was dead. When the barber’s work was done, Rudy showered and returned to an empty holding cell, where he was met by the warden, the chaplain and several of the guards. The warden read the death warrant to Rudy. One of the prison guards then applied an electrolytic gel to his bald head and right calf.

  Outside, the protesters were singing “Come By Here, Lord.”

  Rudy was led into the death chamber. The curtain was pulled open and two reporters and two government officials, one from the legislative and one from the executive branch, watched the proceedings from the small viewing room. The rules allowed for the victim’s family members to attend, as well as representatives for the inmate, but nobody showed up for either Lucy or Rudy.

  Rudy looked out at those behind the glass and smiled shyly, as if he was embarrassed at what was about to happen.

  Rudy’s chin, chest, arms, wrists, waist and legs were strapped to the chair. A black hood was placed over his head and pulled down over his face. A metal cap attached to an electric cable was then placed on his head and an electrode was attached to his right calf.

  Outside, the protesters were reciting the Lord’s Prayer and had come to the line “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us . . .”

  At 6:59, the executioner was fixated on the phone outside the death chamber where the warden stood. That phone was going to have to ring if a reprieve was going to come. It never made a sound. At 7:00, the executioner pulled the lever and 2,000 volts of electricity surged into Rudy. His entire body lurched, straining against Old Sparky’s numerous straps. Then he was still. Two minutes later the prison physician entered the death chamber, stethoscope in hand.

  Outside, somebody with a radio shouted, “It’s over!” People started crying. Jack held Pat and the two of them cried in each other’s arms.

  PART THREE

  Thirty–seven

  It took Jack several weeks to open the letter Rudy had given him at their last meeting. It was a short letter, and Jack could tell it had been written slowly, maybe over a period of days. The penmanship was very good.

  Dear Jack,

  If you are reading this letter then I am with my special people—happy and content. Thank you again for all you did for me. Jack, you know I’m a simple person, but I think about things. I think God put us here for a purpose and the purpose wasn’t saving me. I think it’s bigger than that. I think we are here to change how things work for people like me. It’s not right, Jack. I think my mother and father, you, me and Nancy—this was our reason for being here—or maybe just one of the reasons. I’ve thought about this a lot. It gives somebody like me a headache to try and write it down. You’re the only one left, Jack. Don’t let this go. Don’t give up because I’m gone, Jack. Remember.

  Love,

  Rudy

  After the new flood of emotions had subsided, Jack started to deconstruct the letter in his own mind. He’d had similar thoughts, but none so clear and focused. And they say he was slow! He was slow enough to see things that the rest of us miss. How did he know Nancy was dead? Why did he tell me to remember? That’s exactly what his father told me so many years ago.

  He made the decision right then that he was going to heed Rudy’s advice no matter where it took him.

  His first step was to call Blaine Redford, the accident reconstruction deputy, to see if he’d found out anything more. He hadn’t. Jack asked him what he’d said to the governor, and Redford told him the governor had never called. Then Jack phoned the homicide detective, Lawrence Applegate, to see if he’d been able to determine where Nancy had been just before she was killed. Detective Applegate said she’d been at Maria Lopez’s house. He’d questioned Maria, and she’d said it had just been a social call, that they were friends from aerobics class.

  Jack knew different. He knew that Maria had given Nancy a piece of evidence that Nancy had believed would free Rudy. So, a few days later, on a Saturday, Jack paid a visit to Maria Lopez. He brought Pat along with him. He knew he needed her, but he wasn’t sure why.

  Maria lived alone in a subdivision just outside Bass Creek called “Foxtrot.” It was a nice place, and Jack knew it had probably taken just about every penny she’d saved as administrative assistant to the chief of police. But he also couldn’t help remembering that this was the home Nancy had visited the night she was murdered.

  They exchanged a few pleasantries, although Maria was clearly uncomfortable. Pat commented on the pictures of a boy and a girl hanging on the living room wall, and Maria told her the kids were grown now and living in Miami. She must be older than she looks, Jack thought. She also told Pat—she was pretty much ignoring Jack—that her ex-husband had run out on her not long after the children were born, and she’d raised them alone.

  Then Jack started to explain exactly why they were there. For the first few minutes Maria gave him the same polite, deferential “I don’t know anything” routine she’d given the police, but Jack was not going to be turned away. He’d lost too many people for that.

  “Maria, I know you’re afraid.” They were sitting in the living room, Maria and Pat on the couch and Jack in a chair facing Maria. “I know that you’re thinking: If they killed Tracey James and Nancy, they can kill me.” Maria’s eyes shot a darting glance at him. Jack read her look.

  “Yes, Maria—I know. I know Nancy was murdered and I know Tracey James was murdered. And I know they were murdered because of the information you gave them.” Maria wanted to disagre
e with him—at least as far as Tracey James was concerned. But she didn’t dare. She was playing the silent game for as long as she could. Jack continued. “And I know you’re thinking that you’re next. After all, you work for one of the murderers.”

  Maria couldn’t believe her ears. Jack Tobin had just accused her boss, Chief Wesley Brume, of murder—a fact that she knew to be absolutely true.

  “And you probably are next,” Jack said quietly, leaning forward. “You can’t just stay silent, Maria, and hope this will go away. The cat is out of the bag and these guys will not rest until all evidence against them has been eliminated. And that means you, Maria. You need help because they’re going to kill you. Not right away—maybe a few months from now when all this has died down. They’ll arrange for an accident and you’ll be killed—just like Tracey and Nancy. There is no way around that fact.”

  Jack watched her intently as he spoke, looking for some sign that she understood the gravity of his message. Hell, he couldn’t make it any clearer. But Maria never changed her expression. She either looked straight ahead or at the floor. He had tried to create in her all the fear that he could. Now it was time to make his pitch.

  “If you tell me what you know, I’ll protect you, Maria. I won’t breathe a word of it until I have a plan to put these people away. One way or the other, I’m going to do something—I don’t know what it is yet. But when I start, you will be protected, I assure you. And I have the resources to do it. Maria, I’m your only hope. Help me to help you.”

  Maria still sat on her living room couch expressionless. Jack stood up and started rubbing his temples and pacing. When he reached the far end of the room and was out of earshot, Pat put her right hand on Maria’s shoulder and spoke softly.

  “Maria, you have to trust somebody. Trust him. He needs to help you as much as you need him. He feels that he failed Nancy and Rudy.”

  Maria looked straight into Pat’s eyes. Pat held her gaze. She knew what the woman was looking for. She nodded encouragingly to her. “Speak to him. Tell him what he needs to know.”