James Sheehan - The Law of Second Chances

An attorney was standing at the podium arguing on behalf of his client when the intruder interrupted him in mid-sentence.

“Excuse me, sir. I’ll just be a minute,” the man said to the attorney, turning to the judge, who had not yet recognized him. “Your Honor, I am Judge Wofford Benton from Polk County and I have been trying to get in touch with you for two days. I want to talk to you about a motion that is pending before you regarding a man who is about to be executed today-Henry Wilson. I would like to know why you have not addressed that motion.”

There was dead silence in the courtroom. All eyes were on Judge Fletcher.

Wofford had learned a long time ago that transparency created its own pressure. He knew that he would not have gotten anywhere if he had gone to the judge’s chambers and tried to see her. Now that he had stated his position in open court, she would have to address the issue. He wasn’t just another lawyer that she could tell to sit down. He was her peer.

Susan Fletcher glared at Wofford. They knew each other, although not very well.

“We’re going to take a ten-minute recess,” she announced as she stood up. “Judge Benton, if you will follow me, we’ll discuss this matter in my chambers.”

As soon as they were in chambers and the door was closed, Judge Fletcher erupted.

“How dare you walk in my courtroom and make an accusation like that?”

“I didn’t make an accusation. I made a statement that is true. You have not addressed the motion and today is the last day.”

“What’s your stake in this, Wofford? Arthur Hendrick has already denied the motion. The tactics this Tobin guy has used-and I understand he has a very good reputation on the civil side here in Miami-these tactics border on the unethical. He’s forum-shopping and I don’t want to be part of it.”

“Wait a minute, Susan. He moved to recuse a judge for a valid reason. Artie Hendrick signed the order because he had to. That’s not forum-shopping. Why the hell do you think they have the rule? It was my suggestion, by the way. And you shouldn’t be prejudging his motives without reading the damn motion.”

“Your suggestion? You still haven’t told me what your stake in this is. No matter-you are way out of bounds. Coaching a lawyer on a pending case? The Judicial Qualifications Commission will have your ass, Wofford.”

“I represented the man on death row seventeen years ago. He’s there because of my incompetence. I’m having a difficult time with that, Susan, so I’m now going to see that he gets justice no matter what it costs me.”

“It might cost you your seat on the bench.”

“So be it. This man may be innocent, and I’m not going to sit idly by and watch him die because of something I neglected to do seventeen years ago.”

Susan sighed. “Even if I look at this motion, I might not think it merits an evidentiary hearing or a new trial. Seventeen years is a long time. I’m sure every stone has been turned over.”

“Just look with an open mind, that’s all I ask. Don’t think about the seventeen years. Don’t think about Artie Hendrick’s recusal. Just read the motion. If you think the facts merit an evidentiary hearing, then enter an order setting one. That will stop the execution. Here is the number to call.” Wofford handed her a card. “If you don’t think it merits an evidentiary hearing, then enter an order denying the motion.”

Susan Fletcher looked at him.

“All right, Wofford. I’ll read the motion this afternoon. I make no promises, however. If there is no new evidence that warrants a hearing, I’m going to deny it. What time is the execution scheduled for?”

“Six o’clock.”

“All right. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a courtroom full of people I’ve got to get through before this afternoon.”

Sal Paglia’s American dream was pretty much like everybody else’s-a good career, a nice car, a big house, and a loving family. And he’d almost made it. His criminal law practice had been going fairly well, he drove a Cadillac, and he owned-along with the bank, of course-his own two-story home in the Bronx not too far from his office. He’d made a mess of the family part, however.

Sal was a little guy and part of his Napoleon complex was his perceived sexual prowess. He represented a boatload of hookers, so blow jobs were a regular component of his fee. Every now and then, when a high-class hooker got busted-it wasn’t every day because high-class hooker and the Bronx were words that usually didn’t go in the same sentence-Sal would require the whole enchilada, and then some. He was collecting the “then some” one night at his office from Brigitte Babcock-aka Amy Stevens, originally from Peoria, Illinois-when his wife, Cynthia, showed up unexpectedly.

Cynthia Paglia had been suspecting Sal of infidelity for some time. The clue was always the same-a late night at the office, followed by Sal dragging his ass through the door smelling of alcohol and perfume. One thing about Sal-even though they had been married for ten years, he was still as horny as a teenager on his first date. All she had to do was express an interest in sex and he was ready-except on those nights he worked late at the office. Then he was dead to her in every way.

Cynthia desperately needed to resolve her suspicions and she decided to do it personally. She had an office key made early one Saturday morning while Sal was sleeping. The very next time he called to say he’d be working late-the night he was with Brigitte Babcock-Cynthia hung up the phone, jumped in the car, and drove directly to his office on Webster Avenue about twenty minutes from the house. Slipping in very quietly, she tiptoed past the vacant secretary’s desk and cracked open the door of Sal’s inner sanctum. Her eyes scanned the room. She smelled the pot first. Then she saw the half-empty bottle of Chivas Regal on the corner of the desk and a woman all decked out in a beautiful black leather outfit-complete with boots, garter belt, stockings, and one of those designer whips with the little tassels on the end. She was standing over a nude male who had his head in the seat of an upholstered high-back chair and his buttocks raised toward the whip.

Although the man’s face was completely obscured, Cynthia instantly recognized her husband. She could no longer control herself. Bolting into the room, she pushed the surprised Brigitte out of the way, raised her right leg high in the air, swung it forward and kicked Sal right in the ass.

“Oooh!” Sal moaned. This infuriated Cynthia even more. She reared back and kicked him again.

“Oh my God!” Sal screamed in ecstasy. “Do it again, Brigitte.”

Cynthia stood there for a moment looking at him with disgust. Then she turned to Brigitte, who was cowering in a corner of the room.

“He’s all yours,” Cynthia said and headed for the door.

Somewhere in the recesses of his brain, beyond the booze and the dope, Sal heard his wife’s voice and-even though his mind fought against the reality of the circumstances-realized his predicament. But he didn’t move. He simply peered through his legs at Brigitte and noticed that his dick had gone limp.

When he returned home the next day with a story about how some client had slipped a tab of acid into his coffee, his wife and two kids were already gone. A few weeks later, Cynthia’s lawyer filed an emergency motion with the court, and Sal was tossed out of his two-story home. He still got to pay the mortgage, however, which meant that he could only afford to rent a cheap one-bedroom flat in a high-rise not far from the office. Part of Sal’s dream had slipped away forever.

Luckily for Sal and his clients, he was a somewhat better lawyer than he was a husband. He did mostly small-time stuff, but over the course of fifteen years he had handled several murder cases, all of them court-appointed except for the Russell O’Reilly case, the one that had finally brought him some notoriety. Russell O’Reilly was accused of the heinous murder of a blind girl. The case and Russell’s lawyer, Sal Paglia, were in the news every day for six months. In the end, Russell was exonerated because the DNA of the skin found under the blind girl’s nails-skin which came from her scratching her assailant-did not belong to Russell O’Reilly.