The Law of Second Chances

by James Sheehan

  “None that have passed the initial sniff test. I guess I’m getting jaded. I just can’t stand to go out with a man who wants to do nothing all night but talk about himself. Ninety percent of them are like that, you know. The other ten percent are whiners like Ted.”

  Charlie had succeeded in one of her goals: Pat was laughing. It was time to get serious for a moment.

  “What are they telling you, by the way?”

  “It’s not good. They say I have stage four cancer, which is usually terminal, but then they tell me I’m young and strong and don’t give up hope.”

  “I didn’t know it was that advanced, Pat.”

  “Yeah, it is. We haven’t given up, though. I can’t give up. I couldn’t do that to Jack.”

  “I’m sure he’s a mess, the way he adores you. I’ve never had a man feel that way about me.”

  “Yeah, I’m very lucky, Charlie. Jack is special.”

  Charlie leaned across the table and took her best friend’s hands in hers.

  “So is his partner.”

  23

  A few days after he had cut short his interview with Benny Avrile, Nick Walsh was called downtown to the office of Assistant Chief Ralph Hitchens. Tony Severino was with him when he got the call.

  “I wonder what the fuck that asshole wants,” Nick said out loud.

  “It’s probably nothing,” Tony replied, although Nick could tell from his tone of voice that Tony knew something.

  “They could at least wait until the investigation is over,” Nick continued, now trying to feel out his partner.

  “Well, you know the brass on the big ones—the ones where their ass is hanging out there on the line with the rest of us,” Tony quipped. “They want to declare victory at the earliest possible moment.”

  There were more surprises awaiting Nick when he arrived downtown. He was ushered right into the assistant chief’s office, something that had never happened before in all his years on the force.

  Ralph Hitchens was sitting behind his massive mahogany desk looking like an overnourished, stuffed turkey. He wasn’t alone. Another gentleman, dressed in a dark blue suit, was with him. As Nick walked in, Hitchens accomplished the very arduous task of getting out of his chair and shaking hands with him as if they were old friends. Nick instinctively tightened up. He knew something bad was coming.

  “Nick, I want you to meet Spencer Taylor from the district attorney’s office. He’s going to be trying this case.” Taylor extended his hand and Nick shook it. He and Taylor had never met, but he had seen Taylor on television. Taylor was the chief assistant district attorney. He was not only their premier trial attorney, he was often the spokesman for the DA’s office when Warren Jacobs, the district attorney, didn’t deem the issue important enough to merit his personal appearance. To Nick Walsh, Taylor was a peacock—impeccably dressed, with a silky smooth voice that instantly made you want to check your pockets and tighten the belt holding your pants up. Well, they obviously think this is an important case, Nick thought to himself. They’re bringing out the big gun. But why am I meeting him now? The investigation isn’t over. Nick’s question would be answered momentarily.

  Hitchens started on a congratulatory note. “Nick, you and Tony did a real good job on this Benny Avrile case.”

  But . . . Nick was thinking.

  “But,” Hitchens continued, “we want you to shut it down. In fact, I’m taking you off the case. It’s got nothing to do with the work you did—the detective work was great. I just want to shut it down.”

  “Can I at least ask why?”

  Spencer Taylor cut in at that point. “You see, Nick—and don’t take this as a criticism because it’s not—you think like a cop. You want to run every thread down until every aspect of the case makes sense. Me, I think like a lawyer. I’ve got a suspect and I’ve got two eyewitnesses that put him at the scene at the time of the murder. And I’ve got a motive—robbery. It doesn’t get any better than that. If you keep snooping around you may dig up enough dirt to give a good attorney a defense that at present doesn’t exist.”

  “I don’t understand,” Nick said.

  “Let’s take this Lois woman, for instance,” Taylor continued. Nick could tell from that remark alone that Taylor had studied his investigative file in great detail. “Right now there is just a vague reference to her as being a friend of Angie’s. There’s no concrete tie between her and Benny. There’s no evidence that they even knew each other. She wasn’t at the scene, as far as we know, and we don’t even know what she looks like, other than she has long black hair like a million other people.”

  “And your point is, Counselor?” Nick knew where Taylor was going; he just wanted to hear him say it.

  “My point is, I can live with that evidence. You start filling in some of those blanks, however, and my case starts getting weaker. You see what I mean?”

  “Yeah, I see what you mean. Benny might have had a female accomplice, but you don’t want me to continue to look for her because it might weaken your case, is that right?”

  “Exactly,” Taylor responded.

  “So we just let a murder suspect go because we caught somebody else?”

  Nick could instantly tell he’d struck a nerve. Taylor’s warm smile turned to a sneer.

  “Look, Walsh, I’ve tried to be nice about this. I heard about your interrogation of Avrile the other day. You treated him with kid gloves. Worse, you raised the issue of the woman and you didn’t follow up. It’s that kind of police work that fucks up a prosecution’s case, so don’t start talking to me about letting a suspect go. If I leave it up to you, both of them will walk.”

  Nick made a move toward Taylor who took a step back. “I ought to smack you in the fuckin’ head, asshole,” Nick said. “I was solving murder cases when you were still sucking on your mother’s tit.”

  Hitchens butted in at that point and stood between the two men. “All right, that’s it—end of discussion. Nick, the investigation is officially over at this point. We may reopen it down the road when Benny is convicted. For now it’s over—got it?”

  “Sure thing, Chief. You’re the boss,” Nick replied, still looking directly at Taylor who wasn’t saying a word.

  Nick was still seething as he walked out of the building. It never ceased to amaze him: somebody with money and a little fame gets killed and shitheads like Taylor start coming out of the woodwork and throwing their weight around. He was also sure that Tony Severino had broken the sacred code between partners and talked to the state attorney’s office behind his back. He didn’t have any hard evidence to support that suspicion but somebody had filled Taylor in on the particulars of Benny’s interview and Nick remembered the guilt in Severino’s voice earlier in the day.

  What else did he tell them and why? Nick asked himself.

  Maybe it is time to retire.

  24

  Rico called Johnny at home on Sunday, the day after the Vikings game.

  “What happened?” Johnny asked.

  “Piece of cake,” Rico told him. “Floyd clammed up and I started ranting and raving about the ambulance drivers—how it took them forever to show up. Well, city cops don’t wanna hear that, so after about an hour they let us go. It ain’t over yet, but they ain’t got shit on us.”

  “Rico, I don’t think that’s going to work. You get the wrong people mad at you and it usually backfires. Listen. Let me come down with you the next time they call you. I’ve got an uncle who’s a cop. Maybe he’ll help us.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Johnny. Floyd and I can handle it. I appreciate the offer, though. I really do.”

  The team didn’t find out until the following Tuesday that because of the common opponents they had beaten and the margins of victory, they had won a tiebreaker with the Vikings. They were going to the championship game after all. Joe Sheffield called every player personally to let him know. Practice was as usual on Thursday night, and there would be a full practice on Saturday. The championship would be the f
ollowing Saturday.

  On Thursday night, the coach opened auditions for a long snapper and a holder. It was a little late in the season, but Joe figured he had nothing to lose. Rico grabbed Johnny.

  “C’mon, we’re gonna volunteer.”

  “I don’t know anything about that stuff!”

  “There’s nothing to know. You’ve got good hands. I’ll be the long snapper and I’ll teach you what to do.”

  Nobody else volunteered, so Joe Sheffield let Rico and Johnny go off with Jimmy Walsh and practice kicking. He figured they knew their regular jobs pretty well.

  For the next hour and a half they practiced extra points.

  “It’s all about timing,” Rico told them. “Jimmy, when the ball hits Johnny’s hands, you gotta start moving toward it. You gotta trust that Johnny is gonna get it down in time. Mayor, you just concentrate on catching the ball and getting it set. You don’t even look at Jimmy.” Johnny wondered how Rico knew so much.

  Rico had taken three balls from the equipment bag, so they got plenty of repetitions in. It wasn’t working too well at the start. Gradually, however, Jimmy Walsh got Johnny’s rhythm down and adjusted his approach to the ball. Rico was remarkably good at the long snap. By the end of the hour and a half, Jimmy was kicking four out of five balls through the uprights. He was stoked.

  “I knew I was a good kicker,” he told them. “We just had no timing.”

  “Yeah, well, you don’t get timing in one practice,” Rico said. “Timing comes from repetition. The timing you have now will be gone by next week.”

  “So what are we gonna do?” Jimmy Walsh asked.

  “Can you get to the park at four o’clock every day next week?” Rico asked him.

  “Yeah,” Jimmy replied.

  “How about you, Johnny?”

  “I think I can, yeah.”

  “All right, it’s settled. We’ll meet at the Hamilton statue every day next week at four o’clock and then go to the big field and practice extra points.”

  They shook hands on it.

  By the last practice on the Thursday before the championship game, the new kicking team was very consistent. Jimmy Walsh was getting almost every ball through the uprights. Joe Sheffield was impressed. He announced to the rest of the team at the end of practice that Rico, Johnny, and Jimmy were the official new extra-point team. He had another announcement for them as well.

  “We’re going to meet at 8:30 in the morning on Saturday in front of the Carlow East. The regulars at the Carlow chipped in and rented a bus so we can travel together to the game.”

  Everybody cheered. They wouldn’t have to lug their equipment on the subway to the Bronx. They’d be traveling in style.

  Joe Sheffield saved the final surprise for Saturday morning when they were all assembled in front of the big yellow school bus. Mary McKenna was there. She opened the bar up and Joe ushered everybody into the back of the room. He stood next to Mary, who was smiling from ear to ear. They were standing behind a table with two cardboard boxes in front of them.

  “Mary called me the other night,” Joe said, scanning their faces. “She didn’t want you guys going up to the Bronx to represent this neighborhood looking like a bunch of ragamuffins. So we had some jerseys made.” Joe pulled a jersey out of one of the boxes. It was white with short sleeves, kelly-green trim around the shoulders, and a shamrock on each sleeve. It had a big number ten in kelly green on the front and back. Everybody cheered when they saw it.

  “Everybody has to have a number for the championship game,” Joe went on. “I have already handed in a roster with your name and number on it. There’s a program they’ll hand out today, and each of you will be in it.” More cheers. “So come up here when I call your name, pick up your jersey, and get on the bus. We’ve got to get moving.”

  Johnny watched Floyd as he took his jersey and walked over to Mary McKenna and gave her a big hug. Ever since the night Mary kicked Joe Meeley out of the bar they had developed a special relationship.

  Joe Sheffield called Johnny’s name. He got his jersey, number thirty-three, put it on over his T-shirt and headed for the bus. After a send-off like this, he was sure they were going to bring the championship trophy back to the Carlow.

  Johnny sat next to Floyd on the bus ride to Mount Vernon.

  “What happened with that police thing?” he asked. “Rico keeps saying nothing happened.”

  “It’s over,” Floyd told him.

  “That’s it? They just dropped it?”

  “They didn’t just drop it. They didn’t have anything on us, really. I mean, it was just a tackle. Rico kept talking about the ambulance guys not showing up and I think it made them mad—you know, like he was trying to use it as an excuse even though it was absolutely true. If they had showed up in five minutes instead of twenty-five, that guy would still be alive. Anyway, the last time they called us down to the station they had an Army recruiter there. They told us they would drop all the charges if we agreed to sign up for four years. If we didn’t, they were going to charge us with manslaughter.”

  “So you signed up?”

  “Yeah. We had no choice.”

  “You could have fought it and won.”

  “Johnny, where we come from, getting rousted by the cops is a daily occurrence. Fighting with them only makes it worse. Part of me thinks that if they’d nabbed you instead of Rico, this wouldn’t have happened. They don’t have the balls to railroad a white kid from a nice neighborhood.”

  “I can change that. I can still say it was me.”

  “It’s too late now. It’s done.”

  Johnny was silent. Floyd was right. There was nothing either of them could do about it.

  25

  Charlie decided to stay an extra week when she heard about Henry. Jack and Pat initially protested, but Charlie dismissed their objections.

  “I’m staying. You’ve got things to do, Jack, and so do Pat and I. We’re going to spend all your hard-earned money.”

  That was the end of it. Charlie’s presence freed Jack up to concentrate on Henry’s situation. Pat was always on his mind—but he could see that Pat was having a lot more fun with Charlie than she would have with him.

  He called Susan Fletcher’s office every day that week about the motion for rehearing, but he never managed to speak to her.

  “She knows about your motion, Mr. Tobin,” her secretary told him. “I give her your message every day. She’s very busy. She’s in court right now.”

  With just three days to go before the execution, Jack called Wofford.

  “I can’t get through to Judge Fletcher. I don’t think she wants to overturn a decision of one of her colleagues, so she’s just ignoring it and letting the time run out.”

  “You’re probably right,” Wofford told him. “Have you talked to Henry?”

  “Every day for about two minutes. I’ve kept him informed, but I need to see him in person. I’ve got a federal habeas corpus action prepared, but I need his permission to file it.”

  “You have to talk him into it?” Wofford asked.

  “He’s a stubborn man. It was a chore to get him to agree to the original motion. He’s just sick of the system.”

  “I’ll tell you what, Jack. You go see Henry, and I’ll take care of the Susan Fletcher problem. Trust me. One way or another, you are going to have an order.”

  “Okay, Wofford, I’ll leave Susan Fletcher in your hands.”

  The next morning, Jack left for Starke, where he planned to stay until Henry either got a stay or was executed. The last time he’d taken such a trip, Pat went with him. She knew the ordeal he was in for. She held his face in her hands as she kissed him good-bye.

  “Remember that I’m with you in this, right next to you. I know that you will do everything for Henry that is humanly possible because that is who you are. I’ll be praying for both of you.”

  Henry doesn’t know how lucky he is, Jack thought as he set out on his long journey to North Florida. Having Pat as an
advocate before the Almighty is as good as you can get. He was hopeful suddenly that the Almighty, seeing the sorry shape that he was in, would give Pat a little more time before He called her home.

  On the eve of his execution, Henry’s handlers were giving him all kinds of special treatment. He was allowed to be with Jack in their special meeting room unfettered by handcuffs and shackles. The two men shook hands for the first time.

  “You did a good job, Counselor. You did everything you possibly could for me. Remember that.”

  “We’re not done yet, Henry. Not by a long shot. I’ve got a habeas corpus petition to file in federal court. There’s a study that says the lethal injection method is cruel and unusual. I just need your permission to file it.”

  “The answer is no, Jack. You may not be done, but I am. I’m not going to let them strap me on that gurney tomorrow night just to release me at the last minute so they can do it again a month from now.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Do you honestly think they’re going to stop executing people because there might be a flaw in the lethal injection process? They’ve gone from the noose to the electric chair to lethal injection—which, by the way, is optional. They still have Old Sparky. What I’m saying, Jack, is if I don’t get a new trial and I’m not found innocent, I don’t want to play their game. Let’s get it over with.”

  Jack didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. Henry had a right to decide when enough was enough. It was now up to Judge Susan Fletcher whether Henry would live or die.

  Wofford Benton had thought that because he was a judge Susan Fletcher would take his calls. After trying every hour on the hour for a day and a half, he realized he was sorely mistaken.

  On Thursday, October 29, 1998, the day Henry Wilson was scheduled to die, Judge Susan Fletcher was in her courtroom in downtown Miami presiding over preliminary hearings when an overweight, balding man in his mid-sixties walked in and came straight down the middle aisle. He strode deliberately past the bar that separated the people from the judge, her staff, and the attorneys. The courtroom was full with those who were being brought before the court, their attorneys, the state’s attorneys, sheriff’s deputies, and numerous other spectators and court personnel.