James Sheehan - The Law of Second Chances

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.