Having said his piece, Jacobs got up and walked out before Langford had a chance to say anything else.
Judge Middleton took Warren Jacobs’s threat to heart. There were no delays. At precisely nine a.m. on the anointed date for trial, June 14th, Spencer Taylor, Norma Grier, and the judge were all in court ready to proceed, as were selected members of the press. The rest of the media were outside on the courthouse steps. The courtroom was full of spectators as well. Benny was downstairs in a holding cell. The only one missing was Sal Paglia. At 9:25, the judge called for Spencer and Norma to follow him into his chambers.
“Do you have any idea where he is?”
“No sir,” Spencer replied.
“When was the last time you talked to him?”
“Friday afternoon. He was all set to go.”
The judge called Christine, his secretary, on the intercom. “See if you can get Mr. Paglia’s office on the phone.”
Hazel answered on the second ring. She had just gotten into the office. Knowing Sal was going directly to the courthouse, she hadn’t seen any need to get to work on time. Her game of solitaire could wait, and so could the clients.
“Law office of Sal Paglia,” Hazel sang into the phone while she continued to play the game she had just started.
“This is Judge Middleton’s secretary. Is Mr. Paglia in?”
“No,” Hazel answered. “He was going directly to court this morning.”
“Well, he’s not here.”
“Something must have happened,” Hazel responded. Sal was a lot of things, but he was always on time to court. “I’ll call his apartment and call you back.”
The phone rang only once at Sal’s apartment. “Hello,” answered a voice Hazel didn’t recognize. It was a woman, which could definitely explain things.
“Who is this?” Hazel demanded.
“Detective Sarah Hingis,” the voice answered. “Who is this?”
“Detective as in police detective?” Hazel asked.
“That’s right. Now who is this?”
“Hazel Reece. I’m Mr. Paglia’s legal secretary. He was supposed to be in court this morning but he didn’t show. Is something wrong?”
“Yes, Hazel, something is very wrong. Your boss has been murdered.” Detective Hingis saw no problem in letting Hazel know about Sal’s demise, although she made sure that she didn’t provide her with any details about the murder. At this stage everybody, including Sal’s secretary, was a suspect.
Hazel couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Murdered? Sal? It took all her strength to call the judge’s secretary back and deliver the news.
When Christine told him of Sal Paglia’s untimely death, Judge Middleton could do nothing but cancel the trial and return Benny to prison.
For a fleeting moment, when he learned that the trial had been put off, Warren Jacobs considered the possibility that Langford Middleton had finally gone too far to avoid his obligations as a judge.
41
Henry wasn’t the only one looking after Jack. Charlie had been down to visit a few times since Pat’s death. She was a little more direct with Jack, especially on her last visit, which was just a few days after Jack’s performance at the San Juan Capistrano Hotel. Jack was driving her back to the airport when the conversation started.
“Jack, you have to snap out of this funk you’re in.”
“I know what you’re saying. I just feel so lost and so sad. You were close to Pat. How do you deal with the loss?”
“This may sound strange to you, Jack, but I feel that she’s still with me. I talk to her all the time.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I mean, she doesn’t talk back to me or anything like that. I don’t want you to think I’m crazy. I just feel her presence. I can’t explain it any better than that.”
“I wish I felt it.”
“You will. Have you been to your special place since you spread her ashes there?”
“No.”
“Why don’t you go? See if it helps you.”
“Maybe I will,” he replied.
The next morning, Jack put on a T-shirt and his jogging shorts and went out for a run. It was his first time out since Pat’s death. He headed along the river trail that he and Pat had often taken. It was still dark, and the moon was full in the east. The cool October air gave him a little chill at first. But he soon warmed to his task. He felt remarkably good, although his pace was slow. It was rush hour on the river as the fishing boats headed out to the big lake. After only a few minutes, Jack took a deep breath and exhaled. I’ve missed this, he thought.
He remembered his first visit to Bass Creek on a fishing trip. He had instantly fallen in love with this podunk little town in the middle of nowhere. It was the combination of the river and the slow pace of life and the untouched beauty of the surrounding countryside. He had resolved that very day to retire in Bass Creek. Pat had loved it too. When she came there to live, all the planets seemed to have aligned. It just didn’t last very long.
Three miles later he was back at the house, where he kicked off his sneakers, took off his shirt, and jumped into the pool. His stroke was as smooth as ever as he ticked off thirty laps. He could have swum longer, but he stopped. No sense overdoing it, he told himself. You’ll feel it tomorrow morning.
After his swim, he took stock of himself in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom. He hadn’t gained much weight during the layoff, mainly because he’d stopped eating at the same time he stopped working out. I just need to tone up: three miles for two weeks, and then I’ll up it to five. Half a mile every day in the pool. I’ll be in shape in no time. Just then he thought of Charlie and the conversation they’d had the day before. Tomorrow I’m going out on the river.
He showered and dressed and headed to the Pelican for breakfast. It was a walk of a mile or so—nothing in Bass Creek was too far—and was one of the few pleasures he had these days. Bass Creek was an old town and many of the homes were run-down, but there was a depth to it, a sense of history. Its essential character hadn’t changed in over a hundred years.
The Pelican was a classic diner, an old railroad car complete with aluminum façade and neon sign. Tony and Han nah, a Polish couple from Chicago, had bought the place a couple of years before. Time had eroded the shine on the outside, but Tony polished the façade regularly and made the old place as appealing as possible to the casual passerby. There was a long counter facing the front door as you walked in and booths to either side. Hannah kept the interior spotless, although the plastic covering the cushioned booths was held together here and there with duct tape.
Throughout the downtime of the past year, the diner had always been a wonderful little respite for Jack. It was where his Uncle Bill hung out.
It hadn’t taken Uncle Bill long to find a friend after he moved from St. Petersburg. He met Eddie the same day he moved to town. Eddie was seventy-eight, a retired Army supply sergeant who never forgot his calling. His pockets were always full of watches and pens, assorted jewelry, old coins—you name it—that he had traded for or secured in some other way unknown to the average man.
Eddie and Bill were like the odd couple: always together and always arguing about something or other. Jack got a kick out of listening to them. Jack would usually sit at the counter and talk with Hannah. On this particular morning, Eddie and Uncle Bill were sitting at the booth behind him, carping at each other.
“I had three wives,” Eddie was telling Bill, “and none of them could cook.”
“I had five,” Bill countered, his deep voice sounding like Moses addressing the Israelites.
Eddie ignored him. “I did all the cooking,”
“I had a wife in San Diego,” Bill mused. “One day I told her I was going out to get a paper. Never did go back.”
“People pay good money for this type of entertainment,” Jack told Hannah at the counter.
“Yeah, well, if somebody pays us good money, they can have the place and the entertainment,”
Hannah replied.
“I was good to my wives,” Eddie went on back at the booth.
“Didn’t do you any good,” Bill offered. “They still left you.”
The two old men were certainly amusing, especially for Hannah, who was obliged to be there. Jack was a different story. Why, Hannah wondered, is a vibrant, talented man like Jack spending so much time at our place?
Jack rose before dawn and threw on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. For some reason he grabbed the Yankees baseball cap hanging on the bedpost and put it on. He always wore a hat when he was out on the water, but not this hat. This hat was Pat’s. She had been a Yankee fan her whole life, back to the Mickey Mantle days. She and Jack had often kidded each other as to who was the bigger Yankee fan. Jack, like so many boys his age, idolized the Mick. He just couldn’t believe that Pat, a girl, could possibly have the same affinity.
He set out on the river in the dinghy, maneuvering through the already brisk traffic heading to the lake until he came to his turn. He hesitated for a moment before steering the little boat under the brush and into the cove where he and Pat had spent so much time. He hadn’t been there since he’d spread her ashes over the water almost a year before. He didn’t know why exactly. They had always gone together. Maybe he wanted to keep it that way. He wasn’t sure.
Nor did he know what he was doing there that morning. He parked the boat in the middle of the inlet and waited for the sunrise.
As the crickets ceased their symphony and the silence set in, a brisk wind began to pick up. Jack could tell a storm was coming fast. In an instant, the normally placid lagoon was ruffled by the rush of heavy winds as thick black clouds raced across the sky. This was not the place to be in a small boat. Jack moved to start the engine. As he did, a gust of wind blew his cap off—Pat’s cap. He saw it drifting in the distance. Going after it at this point would be dangerous; visibility was starting to fade, and the wind was whipping the water. Still, he had no choice. Just then an osprey swept down and scooped it up in its talons. Jack’s heart sank, but as the osprey flew over the small boat it let go of the cap. It floated down and landed in the water right next to the boat. Jack simply leaned over and picked it up. When he had it in his grasp, he looked up and saw the osprey hovering high above. Then it disappeared into the darkness.
42
“I don’t need you to babysit me anymore,” Jack told Henry that Friday night when Henry showed up for the weekend. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can,” Henry replied, surprised by Jack’s feistiness but reassured by it as well. “That’s not the reason I’m here. You know, Pat was right. This place gets in your bones. Besides, I like to fish.”
They spent most of their weekends fishing out on the lake in the Sea Ray. Henry usually piloted the boat on the trip out while Jack prepared the fishing gear.
“Not too many black folks driving a boat like this,” Henry had remarked one morning when he was getting looks from some of the other boat pilots on the river.
“They would really be envious if they knew you could buy a whole fleet of these boats.” Jack laughed.
“Yeah. They’d probably vote all those legislators out of office if they found out where I got the money.”
“I don’t think so, Henry. I think most people would think you deserved the money.”
“That’s where you and I differ, Jack.”
The following Saturday the weather was bad and they decided not to go out on the water. Jack was in the kitchen eating and Henry was reading a book in the living room when the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” Henry yelled as he headed for the door.
A short, stocky, middle-aged man was standing there. He was dressed a little too warmly for the weather.
“Can I help you?” Henry asked.
“Yes, I’m looking for Jack Tobin. Am I at the right address?”
“Yeah, you are,” Henry told him. “Why don’t you come in?”
The man followed Henry from the foyer to the living room. “Have a seat,” Henry said, motioning to the couch. The man had no sooner sat down than Jack walked in. He stood up to introduce himself.
“Jack Tobin?”
“Yes.”
The man stuck out his hand, a smile on his face. “I’m Luis Melendez.”
Jack didn’t recognize the name. “What can I do for you, Mr. Melendez?”
“A long time ago you offered to help me, and I didn’t take your offer. In a way, I think I’m still paying for that decision. So I decided to come and ask for your help.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Melendez, I don’t remember you. I try to remember all my former clients, but your name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Oh, I’m not a former client,” the man replied.
Jack was totally confused. “Then how do we know each other?”
“Do you remember the Lexingtons football team when you were a teenager?”
“Yes, of course,” Jack replied, still puzzled. “I played for them.”
“So did I,” the man said. “I went by the nickname Rico back then.”
Jack studied the man’s face. It took his brain a few seconds to race back thirty years. He remembered Rico, the tough, skinny Puerto Rican who had taken him under his wing. He looked at the man in front of him. Time had not been gracious to Rico.
He extended his right hand and touched the man’s shoulder with his left. “Rico, is it really you? God, it’s been so long. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize your name right away. I’ve been in a little bit of a funk lately. Sit. Sit. Can I get you some coffee?”
“Sure. Just a little milk, no sugar. Thanks.”
“I’ll get it,” Henry told Jack. “You guys obviously have some catching up to do.”
They were already back in the sixties when Henry brought Rico’s coffee to him. Jack was sitting next to Rico on the couch.
“I remember that championship game like it was yesterday,” Jack was telling Rico. “That kick!”
“Yeah. Jimmy Walsh came through for us, didn’t he?” Rico replied.
“You came through for us, Rico. You created the new kicking team. You taught me to be a holder in, what, two weeks?” Rico didn’t say anything.
“You know, Rico,” Jack continued, “I took a lot of stuff I learned in that season with me in my life—stuff you taught me. Things like hard work, never giving up, always staying focused. I wanted to thank you a million times, but I never knew where you were.”
“I was a lot of places, Jack, some of them not such good places.”
“Well, you’re here now, so I can finally say thanks.”
“You’re welcome, Jack. But I didn’t come here for that.”
“I know,” Jack replied. “It sounds like you’ve got a problem, Rico—I mean Luis. Why don’t you tell me about it.”
Luis looked over at Henry, who was sitting across from him, and then back at Jack.
“It’s okay,” Jack said. “Henry is my investigator. You can say anything in front of him that you say to me. We’re a team.”
“Are you the guy Jack saved from death row here in Florida?” Luis asked.
“Yes, I am,” Henry replied. “How did you know about that?”
“I read an article in the New York Times about Jack and your case. That’s kinda how I eventually came to look for Jack.”
Henry nodded. He’d brought the article to Jack’s attention soon after his release. It was in the New York Times Magazine, and Jack’s picture was on the cover. Under it was the caption, “The Lone Ranger—the lawyer who fights for the condemned.” The story was all about Jack and his career, but a significant part of it covered Henry’s case. There was even a picture of Henry and Jack sitting at counsel table when they appeared before Judge Fletcher. Henry remembered Jack’s remark at the time: “Great. Now I’m going to have all kinds of people knocking on my door.”
Luis Melendez had been the first one to knock.
“It’s my son,” Luis continued. “He’s in a New
York jail, charged with murder.”
“Your son? Murder? Knowing you, Luis, that’s hard to believe.”
“Well, unfortunately, I wasn’t the person you knew for many years of my life, Jack.”
Luis told Jack and Henry all about his life after football. “When Floyd was killed, I fell apart. I was angry. I felt guilty. If I had kept my mouth shut and if I’d let you help us, maybe we could have gotten out of going to Vietnam. Anyway, I was still in ’Nam, so I was scared too. I started smoking dope and eventually shooting heroin.”
Luis told them he had met a girl when he came back to the States, also a heroin addict, and how they’d hooked up and eventually had a kid—Benny.
“I don’t know how we did it, but we were together for two years after Benny was born. Then it fell apart completely. She just disappeared. It took me another ten years to get clean. Then I tried to find her and Benny. Her mother finally told me that Benny had been taken from her by the state and she eventually died of an overdose. Still, I couldn’t find Benny—until I saw his picture in the paper.”
“Didn’t you look in the foster care program?” Jack asked. It was the same question Benny had asked.
“Not at first. It’s hard to explain. Once you’ve been in the system—and I spent a few years in prison—you don’t even think about asking questions of the state for fear they’ll start looking at you again. When I got my feet under me and had enough confidence to go look, it was too late. Benny was gone.”
“Have you talked to Benny—explained these things to him?”
“I’ve tried, Jack. But Benny apparently had a horrible experience in foster care and he blames me for it.”
“I know about that experience,” Henry added.
“So what can I do for you, Luis?” Jack had an idea, but he wanted to hear it from Luis.
“My son’s attorney was murdered about six months ago, on the day of trial. The trial was held up while the state tried to determine if the murder had anything to do with his representation of Benny. They finally decided that he was probably killed by a loan shark named Beano Moffit. Although they haven’t arrested Moffit or even charged him, they’ve reset my son’s trial. And a public defender is representing him. Jack, I came to ask if you would consider being my son’s lawyer.”
The Law of Second Chances Page 22