James Sheehan - The Law of Second Chances

“James Vernon told you he killed Clarence Waterman?”

“Yeah.” Ted said it nonchalantly, like he was talking about the score of a baseball game or what he’d had for dinner the night before.

Jack wanted to grab the man by the throat and ask him if he understood that another man was on death row for this murder. But he restrained himself. He was going to need Ted Griffin’s help in the not-too-distant future.

“What exactly did Vernon tell you?”

“He said he went to Waterman’s house to buy drugs. He said Waterman started to come on to him in a homosexual way and he took out his knife and cut his throat.”

“Was anybody else with him?”

“Two other guys, I believe. I’m a little fuzzy on that part.”

“Do you know if either one of those two other men was Henry Wilson?”

“Who is Henry Wilson?”

“My client. The man who is on death row for this murder.”

“Oh yeah, I see. That’s why you’re here. You told me that already, didn’t you? That’s the part I’m not sure about. I don’t know if your client was one of the two men with James or not.”

“Why didn’t you go to the authorities with this confession?”

“Counselor, you know I couldn’t do that. That’s privileged information.”

Jack didn’t want to argue the legalities of the attorney-client privilege with the man. He did feel compelled to inquire a little further.

“How long ago did James Vernon die?”

“About five years ago. It was some kind of a drug deal gone bad.”

“Well, if he died five years ago, the privilege died with him. Why didn’t you tell somebody then?”

“Because, first of all, I didn’t know that James was telling me the truth-I mean, he told Anthony Webster somebody else killed Waterman. Second, I didn’t know if your client was one of the other two men. I don’t know much about Henry Wilson’s case. I don’t know why they convicted him.”

“Who is Anthony Webster?”

“He was the investigator for the state. He’s retired now.”

“The prosecutor’s investigator? You mean the prosecutor was aware that James Vernon said he was at the murder scene?”

“I believe so. At least, that’s what James told me.”

“Where’s Anthony Webster now?”

“I think he moved to Lake City. I’m not sure he’s still alive.”

“Would you be willing to put what you told me today in an affidavit?”

“Go ahead and prepare it. If it’s accurate, I’ll sign it.”

Ted Griffin was an affable enough guy, but it was obvious to Jack that he wasn’t going out of his way for anybody.

On the drive back to Bass Creek later that afternoon Jack started adding all this new information to the other evidence he had uncovered. James Vernon had told both Henry’s lawyer, Wofford Benton, and the prosecutor’s investigator, Anthony Webster, that he, Vernon, was at the scene of the murder and Henry wasn’t there; he told his own lawyer, Ted Griffin, and the jailhouse snitch, Willie Smith, that he committed the murder. Unbelievably, only Willie Smith’s testimony was brought out at Henry’s trial and his two subsequent appeals. Could these recent revelations pass the “newly discovered evidence” standard? And if so, would they be enough to get Henry a new trial?

He was getting ahead of himself. He needed to contact Anthony Webster-if the man was still alive-and find out what he remembered. And then Jack needed to talk to Henry.

Philly Gertz, the doorman, was at the Twenty-third Precinct the next morning to “look at a few pictures.” He actually made a better appearance in slacks and a sports shirt than he did in his doorman’s uniform. Nick set him up at a table with a cup of hot coffee and several thick photo books.

Nick made Philly feel like a million bucks. “If there’s anything you need, Philly, you just let me know. If any of these uniforms ask you what you’re doing here, you just tell them you’re working for Manhattan Homicide and give them my name.”

“Sure thing, Nick.”

Philly was a little freaked out by the station. People were coming and going, talking and shouting. He was in a big room with a bunch of desks. Uniforms and plainclothes cops were everywhere. There was a little cell in the middle of the room, and a guy in the cell was yelling at a plainclothes cop.

“I gotta go to the fuckin’ bathroom,” he was saying. Philly noticed there was no toilet in the cell.

“You shut the fuck up or I’ll come in there and shut you up. You understand?” said the cop, pointing his finger. The man did shut up but started holding his groin area and jumping up and down.

Nick seemed to have vanished. He had just walked out among the desks and cops and disappeared. Philly opened his photo book for the first time and started looking at female mug shots.

Half an hour later, Paul and David arrived at the station and were led to separate rooms where Nick and Tony took their sworn statements. There were no new revelations. Everything was totally consistent with what they had said the night before.

As Philly was finishing up his first book and starting to feel a little more comfortable, Nick returned with Paul and David and several more thick photo books.

“I’m going to slide Paul here next to you, Philly, so you’ll have some company. How’s that coffee? You need a refill?”

“No, I’m okay, Nick. Thanks,” said Philly.

“We still have to keep you two apart while you look at these pictures,” Nick told Paul and David, “because you can’t talk to each other about them. David, I’m going to set you up somewhere else and we’ll split the books up. If you see someone who looks familiar, just make a note of it and let me know. Then we’ll switch books. I want your identifications to be totally independent. You understand?” Both men nodded. Nick took David to another table on the other side of the room.

Two hours later, the three men still had not picked out anybody from the photo albums. “This is a little more than looking at a few pictures,” Philly whined to Nick.

“Well, Philly, if you want to be a star you’ve got to work hard,” Nick replied. Paul and David didn’t complain, but Nick could tell they were done looking at the books as well. He decided to change gears and bring the police sketch artist in to see if they could help him come up with a composite of the suspected murderer and the woman.

Later that day, Benny Avrile was hiding in the corner of his favorite bar, Tillie’s, having a glass of beer. It was his first venture into the public since the murder two days before. It had taken him a while to come to grips with what happened that night. He’d spent most of the last two days smoking a lot of weed to calm his nerves and doing a little coke to keep his spirits up. Benny lived on the street-actually in a vacant condemned building-in a very rough section of the South Bronx, but he had never even witnessed a shooting before. He’d never seen a dead person close up-at least not before the makeup, the powder, and the formaldehyde. Seeing Carl Robertson lying there dead had truly flipped him out.

The story had been all over the Post and the Daily News , but so far the police didn’t seem to have any leads. Benny was fervently praying that they would continue to remain in the dark.

Tillie’s was a small place and it was empty except for Tillie, who was working behind the bar. Tillie was half Puerto Rican and half Italian and about forty-five years old, and he enjoyed his own booze a little too much. “I can’t go to the party and not play,” he’d told Benny one night after they’d both had a few too many. Tillie’s compromise with his demons was to work the day shift. It was usually slow, and he had no desire to drink during the day.