James Sheehan - The Law of Second Chances

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.

Just after seven on the morning after the murder, Nick Walsh and Tony Severino headed over to the luxury apartment building at Seventy-eighth Street and East End Avenue. The uniforms had learned from several of the tenants that the deceased, Carl Robertson, had been a frequent visitor to the apartment of a young woman named Angie Vincent.

“Sounds like a high-class hooker setup to me,” Tony opined from the passenger seat. Nick looked across at him. Tony looked like shit-unshaven face, rumpled, slept-in suit, raging coffee breath. He was still half asleep. He’d been sitting at his desk writing the preliminary report on their crime scene investigation and had woken up two hours later. The Styrofoam cup of black coffee he was now holding, probably his twentieth of the night, was the only thing keeping his brain ticking.

Nick, on the other hand, who was ten years older than Tony, looked almost as fresh as a daisy.

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Nick responded. “He could have been visiting a sick relative, or his dentist.” He paused for a moment, then continued in the same serious tone: “Or his weenie and testicle cleaner.” It was perfect timing, honed over many years of telling stories to the same audience-cops. Tony laughed, spitting out a mouthful of coffee.

When they got to the building, they flashed their badges to the doorman, who told them Angie was home. Minutes later they were at her door.

Angie answered on the second knock. The two detectives could tell with one look that she had had a rough night. Her eyes were red and had charcoal half-moons under them. She was still in her nightgown, yet, despite the circumstances, she looked good. The nightgown was one of those flimsy jobs that left little to the imagination, and Tony was finding it hard to concentrate. He had an eye for the ladies, regardless of the situation.

Nick, on the other hand, was the consummate professional.

“Ma’am, I’m Detective Walsh, and this is Detective Severino. We’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”

Angie opened the door and let them walk in, not even bothering to excuse herself to put on a robe. She sat on the couch in the living room. The two detectives sat facing her in the leather chairs on the other side of the coffee table.

“What is your name?” Nick asked softly.

“Angela Vincent.” Nick could tell she was aware of the events of the previous evening.

“Angela, did you know the deceased?” Nick maintained the same soft tone.

“Yes.”

“And how did you know him?”

“We were lovers.”

It didn’t take Nick long to get the entire story from her-right down to the ten thousand dollars a month.

“Do you know why anyone would want to kill Carl?”

“No, I have no idea.”

“When did he bring you the money?”

“Usually the first week of the month, either Tuesday or Thursday.”

“Yesterday was the first Tuesday of the month. Were you expecting him to bring you the money last night?”

“Yeah. He usually brought it on Tuesday.”

“Did you tell anyone-maybe a boyfriend or a girlfriend-that he was bringing you the money that night?” Nick noticed her pause. Perhaps she was just searching her memory, but she clearly hesitated before answering.

“No, I didn’t tell anybody.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.” This time there was no hesitation. Nick made a mental note to follow up on that detail.

“Did he keep any personal effects here at the apartment?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”