James Sheehan - The Law of Second Chances

“Did you have any active participation in his subsequent appeals?”

“No. Once the trial was over I was out of the picture. I talked to some of the appellate people over the years, but I can’t remember the conversations.”

“Do you remember anything about the trial?” Jack persisted.

“Not really. I can’t tell you how many cases I’ve had since then, both as a lawyer and a judge. I’ve sentenced a number of men to death myself. It is something I don’t take lightly. I’d like to help you, but I don’t think I can.”

The waitress arrived with the prime rib sandwiches, each with a side of steak fries. She filled the judge’s coffee cup and gave Jack a large glass of water before leaving the men to continue their conversation. The break enabled Jack to collect his thoughts.

“I’d like to ask you some specific questions about the trial itself,” Jack told him.

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to answer them. You refresh my memory about the details and we’ll go from there.”

“Your defense,” Jack began, “was that someone else had committed the crime, a man named James Vernon. You put Vernon-who was in prison at the time for another drug-related crime-on the stand, and he took the Fifth. Then you called up his cellmate, a fellow named Willie Smith, to testify that Vernon had confessed to him the Friday before, do you remember that?”

“Vaguely,” the judge replied. “The prosecutor tore Willie Smith a new asshole. James Vernon supposedly confessed to him the Friday before trial. It was so convenient that it was laughable, but it was all we had.”

“Something seems to be missing,” said Jack. “I’ve read the appellate attorneys’ notes-and somewhere you told one of them that you actually talked to James Vernon while he was in prison, is that correct?”

“I don’t recall. I’ll tell you this, though-I wouldn’t have called him to the stand without knowing what he was going to say. So either I talked to him or my investigator did.”

“How did you find him?”

“Again, I have no idea. I imagine somebody gave me his name as a possible suspect.”

“And I guess you don’t recall what he told you when either you or your investigator interviewed him?”

“No. It would have had to exonerate Wilson in some way though, otherwise I wouldn’t have called him.”

“But when you put him on the stand, he took the Fifth and refused to testify?”

“Yeah. And when he did, I wanted to wring his neck and snap it like a chicken’s. I remember that.” Benton paused, put his index finger to his lips, and seemed to stare off into space for a few moments. “You know, there’s got to be a record somewhere of my interview with him. I recorded witness interviews when I was with the public defender’s office in Miami. I had to because we had so many cases. It wasn’t under oath, so I couldn’t use it in the trial or anything, but it would at least tell you what he said.”

This was news to Jack. He had meticulously combed through the appellate files and never saw a reference to a recorded statement by James Vernon. Perhaps it was nothing, perhaps it was everything. He decided to think about this for a minute while he and the judge worked on their prime rib sandwiches, which were amazingly good.

“Judge, I never heard about this recorded statement before. Did you tell the appellate attorneys about it?”

Judge Benton furrowed his brow. He seemed to Jack to be getting a little irritated with these questions about what he did or maybe failed to do seventeen years ago.

“The reason I ask is because there is no reference anywhere in any of the appellate files to a transcript of an interview with James Vernon.”

Benton put another piece of prime rib in his mouth and took his time chewing. He then took a sip of his coffee.

“If there was a transcript, wouldn’t it have been in the public defender’s file?” Jack persisted.

“Obviously not, if you and the other appellate attorneys have never come across it,” Benton answered testily. “I had my own files. I left the public defender’s office soon after the Wilson trial and took them with me-boxes and boxes. I rented a U-Haul, packed ’em all up and put ’em in my barn. Haven’t looked at them since. It’s possible it’s in one of those boxes if the rats haven’t eaten it.”

“Can you check and see?” Jack asked.

Wofford Benton took another sip of his coffee and stared at Jack.

“Now I’m angry at myself for even telling you about my personal files. I guess I didn’t think you’d be so persistent. I might have as many as fifty boxes in that barn, Counselor, so the answer to your question is no-I can’t check. I don’t have the time. I’m a judge. I’ve got work to do and I’m coming up for reelection.”

Jack wondered himself why the judge brought up the boxes in his barn if he had no intention of looking through them.

“How about if I went through them?” he asked. The waitress came to the table and started to remove their empty plates.

Benton sighed. “Counselor, I think I might be violating some ethics rules if I let you just rummage through my files. There are a lot of other people in those files besides your Mr. Wilson, you know.”

“Most of it would be public record by now, Judge. Besides, a man’s life is at stake.”

“A man who was found to be guilty and deserving of death by the state of Florida,” the judge replied.

“You have a point. However, his execution is less than six weeks away-he’s entitled to have every stone unturned before that time.”

Judge Benton leaned back from the table, looked up at the ceiling, and let out another deep sigh. He then picked up the unlit cigar he had set on the table and twirled it in his fingers while staring at it.

“Okay, Counselor,” he finally said. “You can take a look. I’ll give you a day. When do you want to do it?”

“First thing tomorrow.”

“All right. Be at my ranch at seven tomorrow morning and I’ll get you set up.” He put the cigar in his mouth. “Now I’m going to go outside and have a good smoke.”

The next day, Jack drove east out of town for about two miles, as the judge had instructed, made a right on Benton Road, and drove another three miles until he saw a sign for the Benton ranch. Since he hadn’t planned on spending the night in Bartow, he had on the same clothes from the day before, although he discarded the tie and jacket and rolled his shirtsleeves up.

Wofford’s ranch was out in the middle of nowhere-flat grassland for as far as the eye could see. Jack could smell the cattle before he saw them as he drove down the dirt road. Wofford was sitting on the porch in his bathrobe, waiting for Jack. The house was a modest two-story with a three-car garage. The barn was several hundred yards behind it to the southeast. It was almost as big as the house.

Wofford was much more pleasant this morning. As Jack got out of his car, the judge slipped into a pair of cowboy boots that were sitting on the porch, right by the front door. Jack thought Wofford looked quite distinguished standing there in his bathrobe and boots.

“I don’t do any of the ranching here anymore,” he told Jack as they walked toward the barn. “I have a foreman who does everything. I like being out here though. It’s where I grew up.”

The barn doors were open, indicating that work for the day had already begun. A few chickens were squawking and running around in the front, along with two cats and a rooster. As they walked in, Jack noticed some horses’ stalls off to the left, although they were empty. The loft was full of hay, but the place had a foul smell, probably from the animals and their excrement. Wofford apparently noticed that Jack had caught a whiff.