The Law of Second Chances

3

Florida, 1998

Clang! The gates of the maximum-security state prison in Starke, Florida, slammed shut behind Jack Tobin as he entered. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sound. This had been his work for the last two years-representing people on death row. There were aspects of the endeavor that he loved and aspects that he hated. One of the things he hated most was entering the prison, with its dank odors and its chaotic sounds bouncing off the bare walls and steel bars and ricocheting up and down the corridors. The racket reminded him of the Central Park Zoo when he was a kid, when it was the sounds of animals that rang in his ears and the smells of their excrement that filled his nostrils. Zoos had changed since then. Apparently, some experts decided that animals thrived in a more open, natural environment. Maybe someday a lightbulb will go off somewhere and they’ll realize that a better environment might work for human beings as well, Jack thought as he walked down the corridor and into the visiting room accompanied by a uniformed guard.

He was visiting an inmate named Henry Wilson. Jack did not know the complete details of the case. He knew that Wilson, who was black, had a rap sheet about six miles long, that he had been a criminal and a drug addict his entire adult life, and that he’d been convicted seventeen years ago of murdering a drug dealer named Clarence Waterman.

Jack had been a very successful civil trial lawyer in Miami for twenty years. He had started his own firm, and when it grew to one hundred lawyers and he could no longer stand it, he had negotiated a twenty-million-dollar buyout of his interest. He had planned on retiring to the little town of Bass Creek near Lake Okeechobee and becoming a part-time country lawyer and a full-time fisherman. Other matters intervened, however. First, the governor offered him the position of state’s attorney for that county. Even though he didn’t want the job, he couldn’t say no. And then he learned that his best friend from his childhood years in New York, Mike Kelly, had died, and that Mike’s son, Rudy, was on death row in Florida. Thus began a quest to save Rudy from the electric chair. It was through the process of representing Rudy that Jack realized he had a calling and that his particular calling was to represent death-row inmates.

The visiting room was as stark and uninviting as the rest of the facility, with nothing in it but a steel table and steel chairs bolted to the ground. Jack took his seat and waited for the sound of Henry Wilson coming down the hall. It was always the same. You heard them long before you saw them: chains clanging, feet shuffling. Still, Jack was shocked when Henry Wilson walked in the room. He was an imposing figure, standing at least six feet, five inches tall with a wide, thick, muscular frame. His brown eyes were dark and inset, and the corners of his lips turned downward in a perpetual scowl. He looked like he could break his shackles, overpower the guards, and walk through the walls to freedom anytime he wanted.

Jack also noticed that there were three guards with Henry Wilson instead of the usual two and they were watching Wilson’s every move. Jack took his cue from them.

Henry shuffled in and stood in front of the bolted chair on the opposite side of the table. “Hello, Mr. Wilson, I’m Jack Tobin,” he said rising from his seat. He did not offer his hand because he noticed that Henry’s cuffs were shackled to a waist belt. “I’m a lawyer.”

Henry Wilson looked across at the man standing on the opposite side of the table. He appeared to be in his late forties, early fifties, and he had a tough, weathered look about him-kind of like an old marine. At six-two, Jack was not quite as tall as Henry; his thinning gray hair was short and he looked fit, even muscular. Henry Wilson said nothing in reply to Jack’s introduction. He simply gave the lawyer a bored look.

They both sat down, Henry filling his chair and then some. Jack could feel his disdain.

“I’m with Exoneration. It’s a death penalty advocacy group located here in the state of Florida,” Jack continued. The mention of Exoneration seemed to strike a chord with Henry. He finally spoke.

“I’ve dealt with your organization before, Mr. Tobin. They handled my second appeal approximately six years ago. I guess my name has come up because my execution date is two months away, am I right?”

“I expect so,” Jack replied, somewhat surprised. The man was articulate. “No matter what the reason, they’ve asked me to look at your case again. I haven’t really reviewed your file. I wanted to meet you first.”

“I see,” Henry said. “You’re trying to get your own read on me.”

“Something like that,” Jack replied. That was certainly part of it. He wanted to see and feel the man’s own commitment to his innocence. It wouldn’t affect whether he took the case or not. The evidence, or lack of it, would make that decision.

“Well, you do what you gotta do.”

“You don’t sound too enthused,” Jack said.

Henry smiled at Jack like he was a schoolboy about to learn a valuable new lesson.

“It’s like this, Counselor. I’ve been here for seventeen years. I’ve talked to more lawyers than I care to remember. I’ve heard more promises than a priest in the confessional. And only one thing remains constant: I’m still here.”

Jack had heard a version of that line a time or two in the recent past. Anybody who had been in prison that many years had long ago lost any realistic hope of release. “Let me tell you this, Mr. Wilson: I will make no promises to you-ever. I will review your file thoroughly after this conversation and I will conduct my own investigation. If I believe there is a basis for requesting a new trial, I will discuss that with you, and we’ll decide together whether to move forward or not. If I don’t think there is a basis, I will tell you that as well. Fair enough?”

Henry didn’t respond. He just stared at Jack as if he was trying to see inside him.

“Have you read my rap sheet? Did you get a feel for who I was before I landed in here?”

Jack stared back into Henry Wilson’s cold eyes. “Yes, I read it.”

“That usually stops most of them. They go through the motions, but they’re pretty sure I’m guilty by the time they’re done reading my history. Why should it be any different for you?”

Their eyes were still locked on each other. “It’s not,” Jack replied. “My first inclination is that you’re probably guilty. But the law isn’t about inclinations-it’s about evidence. And I’m going to make my decisions based on the evidence. Do you want to tell me why you’re innocent?”

Henry continued to stare for almost a minute before answering.

“I’m going to make this short and sweet. I was convicted based on the testimony of one man, a snitch named David Hawke. I was supposed to have killed this drug dealer who I didn’t know. I bought drugs from him a few times and that was the extent of it. Hawke testified that he drove me and his cousin to the guy’s house and that I slit his throat and watched him bleed to death.

“Hawke was a convicted felon on probation. I guess I don’t need to tell you that cops can pull one of those guys off the shelf anytime they want, to say anything they want, because they own them.”

“Maybe so, but why would a guy testify that he drove you there if he didn’t actually do it?” Jack asked. “That would make him an accomplice and as guilty as you under the felony murder rule.”

“And why would someone implicate his own cousin in a murder if he wasn’t involved?” Wilson added. “It doesn’t make sense. I think the jury asked those same two questions and that’s why they convicted me of first-degree murder and sentenced me to death. There was no other evidence linking me to the murder. And here’s the kicker, Counselor: neither David Hawke nor his cousin was ever charged with the crime.”

Wilson had certainly gotten his point across. Jack had not heard of a case where known accomplices were never even arrested. Still, he also knew that this was not a basis for a new trial, especially seventeen years later. Something else was bothering him, though. It didn’t become clear until he was in the car on the way back to his home in Bass Creek. A picture kept forming in his mind-Henry Wilson was holding a normal-size man by the hair of his head like a rag doll. The man’s throat was cut from ear to ear and the blood was roaring down the front of his torso.

The three-hour drive back to Bass Creek wore Jack out. When he arrived home, Pat, his wife, was cooking in the kitchen in her jogging clothes.

“Hi, honey. How was your day?” she asked while standing over the stove. She had only to look at him and smile, and Jack felt good. That smile was all that he needed.

“It was a long day. Have you gone running yet?” he asked as he came over and kissed her on the cheek.

“No, I thought I’d wait for you. If you’re too tired, I’ll go by myself.”

“I’ll go with you,” he called back as he bounded up the stairs to get changed. “I could use a good run.”

Pat knew he would say that. Jack’s first meeting with a client on death row was always stressful, and he needed a little commune with nature and his wife to get his balance back.

Bass Creek was a backwater little town located on the northwest tip of Lake Okeechobee. It was bordered on the south by the Okalatchee River. Pat and Jack’s house was right on the river, and they headed out on their run along the north bank between two lines of weeping willows. It was a cool autumn night and a gentle breeze was blowing-perfect running weather. The river was calm, the fishing boats asleep for the night. Pelicans were floating lazily atop the glasslike surface, spent after a day of flying and fishing. Two squirrels were chasing each other in the thicket up ahead; the crickets and cicadas were in full chorus-all was right in Bass Creek.

They didn’t speak for the first few minutes as their bodies warmed to the task and settled into a rhythm. Finally Jack broke the silence.

“Henry Wilson is a very angry man.”

Pat had been through enough of these conversations that she could usually tell before he said a word whether he was optimistic about the case or not. Henry Wilson did not seem like a man Jack wanted to defend.

Jack was a passionate opponent of the death penalty for many reasons but primarily because he felt that the criminal justice system was flawed. DNA testing had unmasked some of those flaws by revealing that a vast number of people had been wrongfully convicted in all types of criminal cases, especially rape. Unfortunately, however, the general public now believed that DNA had solved all the problems. In fact, it had just scraped the surface. Eyewitness identification, the worst type of evidence, was still sending many people to death row, and the use of prison “snitches” and convicted felons made that process even more troubling. Add to the mix incompetent counsel, aggressive prosecutors, and cops willing to hide evidence or worse, and the true picture started to emerge.

In Jack’s mind, the defeat of the death penalty would only come by proving, one case at a time, that innocent people were still on death row. That was why he had to make sure he was spending his time representing innocent people.

Pat pressed the issue. “Is that all you can say about him?”

“Well, he’s a giant of a man-very, very intimidating. And he’s got a rap sheet a mile long. The guy exudes danger. He looks like a killer.”

“Well, then I guess he must be guilty,” Pat replied somewhat sarcastically.

“I’m not saying that. However, if I was going to put money on it, I’d wager that Henry Wilson could kill somebody in a heartbeat with his bare hands.”

“Did he kill the man he’s accused of killing?”

“I don’t know, Pat. My gut feeling is yes. However, he did raise a few points today that, if they are true, might mean he is innocent of this murder. Even so, I don’t know if I want to put a guy like that back on the street.”

“I see.” Pat winced slightly as she spoke and put her hand to her right side like she was getting a runner’s stitch.

“That gallbladder pain still bothering you?” Jack asked. She’d been having a dull ache in her abdomen for some time. Her doctor had said it was just a natural aftermath of the gallbladder surgery she’d had the year before.

“Yeah, just a little. But I’m fine.”

“Good,” Jack said, taking a deep gulp of the night air. “God, it’s great out here, isn’t it?”

“It sure is,” Pat replied. “It’s perfect.”

Henry Wilson’s case faded into the background as they took in the night air and simply enjoyed the moment together.

Patty Morgan had met Johnny Tobin, as he was called in his younger days, in a playground in Central Park when she was three years old. He was a few years older, but his mother and Patty’s were good friends, and they took their kids to the park together to play. The families lived in the same apartment building just off Third Avenue. Over the years, Patty and Johnny and Mikey Kelly, who also lived in the building, became great friends. They played stickball and punchball and all kinds of sports together. Patty was just one of the gang until she started wearing dresses and putting on makeup and dating other boys. After that, things changed. Johnny and Mikey liked girls as much as the next guy. They just didn’t see Patty that way.

Jack and Mike lost touch when they were seventeen and eighteen, respectively. They had stolen a car, and only Mike had been caught: he eventually went to prison. They had never spoken after that. Jack went on to college upstate, then law school in Florida, where he decided to settle. Jack and Pat kept up sporadic contact, but they only saw each other a few times, at weddings and funerals and such. The last funeral had been Mike Kelly’s. Pat was the one who told Jack about Mike’s son, Rudy, being on death row in Florida.

Jack remembered that day, walking into John Mahoney’s funeral home and seeing her across the room. After all those years she still looked spectacular. It was almost as if the aging process had missed her altogether. She was still tall and slim and beautiful. He was smitten right away but didn’t acknowledge it at the time, even to himself. Pat was a CPA and about to retire from her firm. When Jack decided that he had to represent Rudy, that he owed it to Mike to do so, Pat moved to Florida to help. She didn’t foresee it as a permanent move although she, more than Jack, understood that something had clicked for them at the funeral home that day.

They fell in love and eventually made their partnership permanent. Pat came out of retirement to pursue a passion of her own-teaching. Now she was the new fourth-grade teacher at Bass Creek Elementary School.

When their run was over, Jack headed for the lap pool in the backyard and a quick half-mile swim while Pat finished cooking the chicken parmesan she’d started earlier that evening.

After his swim, Jack lingered in the backyard, plucking a tangerine from a nearby tree and eating it under the stars in the fresh night air. It doesn’t get any better than this, he said to himself.

He was right about that.