“Thanks, Jack. I want you to know I agreed to take the case before I reviewed the entire file,” Scott said. “After I reviewed it, I told the state’s attorney that I would argue the legal points but if the judge ruled against us, I wanted to be able to tell her that there would be no appeal and no retrial. Otherwise, I was off the case.”
“That answers a bunch of questions, Scott, thanks. I wish there were more prosecutors around like you.”
Wofford had done a good job picking out Henry’s new wardrobe, at least in one respect: everything fit. Henry felt a little awkward, but he looked good. Wofford had bought him a blue oxford shirt, a pair of gray slacks, black socks, and black loafers—size fourteen.
“You look like an Ivy Leaguer,” Jack told him when he emerged from the courthouse bathroom in his new ensemble. Henry gave him an embarrassed smile. He was a little nervous about everything.
The three of them went across the street to have a cup of coffee. “Where are you going to go?” Wofford asked when they were seated.
“He’s coming home with me,” Jack jumped in.
“No, Jack,” Henry objected. “You’ve got too much going on with Pat being sick and all.”
“Exactly, Henry. I’m going to be needing some help. We’ve got plenty of room, and Pat’s been looking forward to meeting you for quite some time.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything, Henry,” Wofford suggested. “Just go with it.”
36
Pat was doing even better when Jack arrived at the hospital that afternoon.
“Hi, honey,” she said as he walked in the door. “You’re here early. How’d it go in court today?”
“It went very well,” Jack told her and Charlie.
A smile cut across Pat’s face. Charlie’s too. “Really? You got Henry a new trial?”
“Better than that,” Jack offered teasingly.
“Better?”
“Yup.” He turned to look at the doorway where he had just entered. “Come on in.” He gestured to someone in the hallway as he spoke. “I want you to meet some people.”
Henry walked into Pat’s private room, which immediately got a lot smaller.
“Wow!” Pat exclaimed when she saw Henry. “This is unbelievable. You have to be Henry. I’m Pat, and this is my best friend, Charlie. You’re actually free! I’m sorry, Henry, I feel like I know you already.” Her words came rapid-fire, a combination of the medication and her true happiness for Henry. She extended her hand, and Henry took it in his.
“I feel like I know you too,” he said. “And I’m so glad you’re feeling better.”
“Yeah, the doctor is coming in soon. I feel great. Jack, come over here and give me a kiss, and then the two of you can tell us all about this absolutely remarkable day. Henry, I still can’t believe you’re here.”
“I can’t either,” Henry said, his smile widening.
Jack sat on the edge of Pat’s bed and, holding her hand, proceeded to fill her and Charlie in on the events in the courtroom. “I wasn’t surprised when the judge granted Henry a new trial. I can’t say I expected it, but I wasn’t surprised by it. I was absolutely floored, though, when the state dropped the case.”
“So it’s completely over?” Charlie asked.
“Yeah,” Jack replied. “It’s completely over.”
“Where do you go from here, Henry?” Pat asked. “Do you have any family or anything?”
Jack answered before Henry could say anything. “I’ve invited Henry to come home and stay with us for a while until we figure things out.”
“Absolutely!” Pat replied. “We’ve got plenty of room.”
“I don’t want to be a bother,” Henry told her. “With your illness and all.”
“Nonsense, Henry,” she scolded. “The world isn’t going to stop because I’m sick. Besides, Jack and I could use the company. We’ve worn poor Charlie out.”
“Yeah, I’ve got to go home soon,” said Charlie. “And somebody has to look after these two.”
While they were talking, Dr. Wright came into the room.
“It looks like there’s a party going on in here,” she said.
“Of sorts,” Jack replied. “Do you have anything to tell us?”
“I do. Do you and Pat want to talk to me in private?”
“No,” Pat said firmly. “Charlie here is my best friend, and Jack and Henry have just been through a life-and-death struggle together. They can hear whatever you’ve got to say.”
Dr. Wright looked at Jack, who nodded his head in agreement. “Okay,” she said. “The news isn’t good. The tumors have not shrunk. In fact, they’ve grown a little. That explains why your pain has increased. We can try a different chemotherapy regimen. At this point, that is all I can offer.”
“Will a different regimen shrink the tumors?” Jack asked. He was trying to concentrate on the facts rather than his emotions. Once his heart processed what his brain had heard, he wouldn’t be able to talk. He tightened his fingers around Pat’s hand.
“It’s possible.”
“What’s the percentage?” Pat asked.
“Less than ten percent, I’m afraid,” Dr. Wright replied.
“What are the other options?” Pat wanted to know.
“There aren’t any.”
“When can we start this new regimen?” Jack asked, clinging to that last bit of hope.
“Today, if you’d like. It would only take an hour, and Pat has rebounded very well from her last treatment.”
“No,” Pat said. She said it in a low tone but it was a firm no. The firmest no Jack had ever heard. He could feel her words as well as hear them.
Dr. Wright didn’t quite grasp Pat’s statement so clearly. “I’m not sure I understand,” she said.
“It’s very simple, Doctor,” Pat told her. “I want to stop treatment. I want to go home. And I want to enjoy every minute that I have left. I don’t want to spend my last days being poked and prodded and ravaged by chemotherapy.”
Nobody said a word. Jack could hear himself breathing. And he could feel his heart breaking.
37
Pat lived for another three months. Most days, after she took her pain medication, she was alert and pain free. She took short walks with Jack in the morning after breakfast and spent her afternoons on the front porch watching the traffic on the Okalatchee.
Jack’s Uncle Bill started showing up every morning around breakfast time. Pat got a kick out of him. Even though he was eighty-seven, Uncle Bill had a strong, thick, rich voice and perfect diction.
“Good morning, young man,” he’d say to Henry, as though he had stepped to center stage. “And how is the young lady of the house?” he’d ask Pat. The way he said it forced her to smile whether she felt like it or not. It was like having Shakespeare come to the house for coffee.
Jack was always the afterthought. He would simply get a “Hello, nephew.” Jack didn’t mind one bit. He enjoyed Bill’s presence as much as everybody else. It made them feel like a family.
Pat and Jack didn’t say much on their morning walks. They just held hands. Pat brought peanuts for the squirrels. They’d stop on the way and sit and drink some water and smile at each other and enjoy each moment, squeezing it for everything it was worth.
In the afternoon, Henry would join Pat on the porch for a while. Her eyes were going bad, and Henry had taken to reading books to her. They were halfway through Cross Creek, by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, but it was going slowly. Pat kept having him go back and read her the final paragraph at the end of the first chapter before he could pick up where they had left off the day before.
“Read it to me, Henry,” she’d say. “Just one more time.” And Henry would open the book to page fourteen and read:
Folk call the road lonely, because there is not human traffic and human stirring. Because I have walked it so many times and seen such a tumult of life there, it seems to me one of the most populous highways of my acquaintance. I
have walked it in ecstasy, and in joy it is beloved. Every pine tree, every gallberry bush, every passion vine, every joree rustling in the underbrush, is vibrant. I have walked it in trouble, and the wind in the trees beside me is easing. I have walked it in despair, and the red of the sunset is my own blood dissolving into the night’s darkness. For all such things were on the earth before us, and will survive after us, and it is given to us to join ourselves with them and be comforted.
“That is so beautiful,” she would say when he was done, and then he would find their place from the previous time and continue reading.
One day she stopped him before he finished the chapter he was reading. “That’s enough for today, Henry. I’m tired.” Henry closed the book and started to get up to help her into her bedroom. “Sit down here next to me, Henry,” she said.
“Yes ma’am.” He had cared about her before he met her, so it was no surprise to him that his feelings for her had only grown deeper.
“You don’t have to feel guilty, Henry.”
“Ma’am?”
“About living.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“C’mon, Henry, we haven’t known each other long, but we know each other well. You feel guilty because you were spared, and I’m not going to be.”
Henry didn’t answer. He rubbed those huge hands of his, and his broad, muscular shoulders tightened as he tried to fight back the tears.
“That’s just the way it is, Henry. God has plans for me elsewhere and for you here. So promise me you won’t feel guilty anymore.”
Henry hesitated, collected himself. “I promise,” he finally said.
“Even when I’m gone.”
“I promise,” he said again, his entire body shaking.
Charlie came down from New York every other week like clockwork. She and Pat would sit on the porch and drink tea and chat. Every once in a while the conversation turned serious.
“Would you do something for me, Charlie?”
“Sure, Pat. Anything.”
“Sometime down the road when you think it’s appropriate, I want you to tell Jack you and I had this conversation. Tell him I want him to go on with his life and live it to the fullest. And tell him . . .” Pat hesitated for a minute. This was not something she had planned to say, but she knew, sitting here with her old friend, that Charlie would deliver the message. “Tell him that if somebody had told me that I could live to a ripe old age if I gave up the last few years I’ve had here in Bass Creek with him, I would choose to die tomorrow rather than do that.”
Pat almost couldn’t get the last words out. Both she and Charlie started crying. They held each other for several minutes.
“That is so beautiful, Pat. Why don’t you tell Jack yourself?”
“I can’t, Charlie. There are certain things we can’t talk about even at this point. It’s too hard.”
Pat had a different conversation with Jack. It was toward the end, when she was bedridden. He was sitting beside her, trying to put on a game face.
“It’s going to be fine, Jack,” she told him. “I know it now. I can feel it. My people are going to come to get me. When that happens, when they finally come, I’ll let you know. I’ll give you a signal.” Jack didn’t know what she was talking about. He just held her hand and kept his eyes from her view.
“You’re the one who first told me it was going to be all right,” she said with a weak smile.
He gave her a surprised look, forgetting for the moment to hide his tears.
“That’s right. It was you. That day out on the river when I was worried about the cormorant. You said, ‘Things that happen in nature are meant to be.’ You remember that?”
He nodded.
“That’s when I knew. Coming here to Bass Creek—finding our special place. It was all about learning that I was a part of it—nature. And this is simply meant to be. I’m going somewhere, Jack, but I won’t be gone.”
She took his head to her breast and held him.
They were all there the day Pat slipped quietly away. Uncle Bill usually went home after breakfast. Henry always left Pat’s bedroom when Jack entered, not wanting to interfere with their time together. This day, however, Uncle Bill stayed all day, and he and Henry and Jack and Charlie never left the room. They said the rosary—something Bill hadn’t done in forty years—several times. And they sang Pat’s favorite songs and hymns. They were standing around the bed singing the Beatles’ tune “All You Need Is Love” when Pat opened her eyes and caught Jack’s—and winked. Then she closed them for the last time.
It took Jack several minutes to realize that was the signal.
PART TWO
38
New York City, June 14, 1999
Sal Paglia selected his lucky yellow tie with the red stars for the first day of Benny Avrile’s murder trial. It looked great with his dark blue shirt and tan summer suit. Sal was sure that Spencer Taylor, the chief assistant district attorney, and his deputy, Norma Grier, would both be decked out in dark suits and that Spencer would wear a red tie. It was the courtroom uniform—stilted and predictable. That just wasn’t Sal’s style. He was flamboyant, spontaneous, and totally unpredictable. At least, that’s the way he saw himself.
The past six months had gone far beyond even Sal’s expectations. He’d had six hearings, one a month, and he had invited the press to each one, just to keep the case in the public eye. After each hearing he would perform his usual court-jester routine on the courthouse steps, saying the most provocative things he could think of. He inadvertently struck pay dirt at the very last hearing when he declared that the state of New York should not have a death penalty because it was barbaric. Sal, of course, didn’t believe a word of what he was saying. He had always been a firm believer in the death penalty.
The Republican governor, Matthew Palmer, who never missed a chance to make some political hay, took issue with Sal’s statements about capital punishment. He knew that many New Yorkers’ attitudes about the death penalty had changed, and he had been looking for the opportunity to exploit the issue. Sal had given it to him.
“If this man is convicted, I promise you,” Governor Palmer told the people of New York in response to Sal’s diatribe, “that he will be promptly executed.”
Suddenly Benny Avrile’s murder trial was front-page news again.
Uh oh! thought Sal. Maybe I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. He soon dispensed with that negativity, however, when he realized how much publicity his fight with the governor was engendering. Business immediately started to boom at his law office. Poor Hazel didn’t have time to play even one game of solitaire. She had to answer phones and do real work. There were many days when Sal watched Hazel curse Luis Melendez under her breath for walking through the front door of Sal’s office and ruining her life.
The pressure’s on, Sal thought. But what’s the downside? I’m not the one who might be executed.
All the preliminary skirmishing was over. It was finally trial time. The press was in a dither over it. Was Benny going to be the first person executed in New York in fifty years? Governor Palmer didn’t let up either. He scheduled a press conference the very first morning of the trial, to renew his pledge to execute Benny immediately when he was convicted. It didn’t matter that the execution might not take place for another ten years. Hype was hype.
Despite the gauntlet laid down by the governor, Sal was confident as he stepped into the elevator on the fifth floor of his apartment building to head for the courthouse and his rendezvous with destiny. Maybe after this I’ll buy another house—bigger and better than the last one. I’m never getting married again, though. I ain’t gonna give this one up.
Sal’s confidence stemmed from tempered expectations. He wasn’t looking for victory. He knew Benny wasn’t going to get off—that was a little too much to hope for. But he did have a shot at saving him from the death penalty, which would be considered a victory by most observers in the know and would enhance his reputation. He
had Dr. Donald Wong all set to testify as an expert on Benny’s behalf, and he had some new evidence that would definitely surprise the state.
All this was going to turn his life around eventually. He only owed Beano Moffit about thirty thousand, which would be chicken feed once he got rolling again.
Sal leaned back against the rear wall of the elevator and started reading his notes for the opening statement. It was his routine to write out the opening statement in longhand and practice it several times in his skivvies in front of the full-length bathroom mirror. When he felt confident he had it down, he reduced it to an outline. He was reading his outline when the elevator door opened on the third floor and someone stepped in. Sal didn’t even look up. When the door again opened at the lobby, Sal started to walk out, his head still buried in his notes. He felt something cold pressed to the base of his skull. Before he could react, he heard a noise, like a pop. His whole head was burning and his legs went limp. He tried to stay up but couldn’t. Then everything suddenly turned calm and peaceful. He was unconscious before he hit the floor.
The shooter stepped over the body, which was lying half inside the elevator and half out, turned, and fired two more shots for certainty.
39
Miami, October 1999
It had been a long day, and Jack Tobin was tired. He’d been on his feet for hours presenting evidence to the Florida Board of Professional Responsibility, and he still wasn’t done. It wasn’t unusual for him to be on his feet all day. Hell, he’d had trials that lasted months. But this fatigue was different. This was emotional fatigue. This was ripping open a wound that had not yet healed, a wound that was festering with infections and pus and all sorts of bad things. This was, in every sense of the word, gut-wrenching.
Now Jack was making his summation to the board.
“As you know, I have been before you many times in the past on the other side of this issue—representing physicians—so I have literally seen both sides. The evidence I have put before you today shows, I believe, that Dr. Hawthorne is unfit to continue practicing medicine. I have presented to you four other instances where Dr. Hawthorne missed the diagnosis of ovarian cancer even though the patient exhibited classic symptoms of the disease. Many individuals never have symptoms. That is why it is often referred to as the ‘silent killer.’ These five women, however, all had multiple symptoms—abdominal pain, fatigue, bloating, and weight loss—over an extended period of time. Only one of these women, Ms. Eliot, survived, and in that case, where the diagnosis was missed for a precious eight months, the positive outcome was considered a miracle. She told you that herself earlier today. In the case here before you, the diagnosis was missed for more than nine months, and when the proper diagnosis was finally made, it was too late. The cancer had metastasized into multiple organs.
The Law of Second Chances Page 20