The Law of Second Chances (34 page)

Jack finished up his preparations for Benny’s hearing on Wednesday morning and convinced himself that a dip in the ocean would be refreshing. He called Molly’s hotel on the way and left her a message that he would be there at two.

The hotel was midsized—five stories high. The lobby was elaborate and expensive-looking, but nothing really fit together. The floor and the walls were marble, while the furnishings and the art had that casual Key West feel. Molly was waiting in the lobby, a big smile on her face. She kissed him lightly on the mouth, took his hand, and led him to the elevators. She pushed the button for the top floor.

The room—it was actually a suite—was spectacular. The floors were marble throughout, even in the kitchen. The sliding glass doors off the living room area opened onto a patio that had a magnificent view of the ocean. As Molly and Jack
walked to the patio they were serenaded by the sound of the waves pounding the shore.

“This is quite a place,” Jack remarked.

“It’s an upgrade. One of the few benefits of working in sales. I love watching the waves roll in. It’s so relaxing.”

Molly showed Jack where the bathroom was, and he changed into his bathing trunks.

The ocean was everything Molly had advertised it to be. The waves were high but not too dangerous for bodysurfing, something Jack had not done in a long time. He quickly regained the form he had first acquired as a teenager on Rockaway Beach and was soon riding the waves like an expert. Molly was even better. Jack watched as she dove toward the shore ahead of a wave, her long, well-toned arms smoothly and swiftly carrying her along until she caught the wave at its crest and let the ocean propel her forward. She had a perfect body for surfing—and everything else in the universe.

“Let’s see who goes the farthest,” she challenged him, her smile as bright as her little red bikini.

“You’re on.”

They started a contest, riding wave after wave. Molly was lighter and beat him every time. She would roll over on her back at the shoreline, watch him still coming in, and laugh in triumph. More than a few times Jack had the urge to sweep her up in his arms.

Afterward they stopped at the tiki bar on the beach.

“Give us a couple of those drinks with the umbrellas in them,” she told the bartender.

“To the victor!” Jack toasted her when the piña coladas arrived.

“To the runner-up!” Molly replied, raising her glass.

They stayed at the tiki bar for a couple of hours, talking and laughing about nothing in particular. It had been quite a while since Jack had felt so carefree and alive. They were both a little tipsy when they finally headed for the room to shower and get ready for dinner.

Jack sat on one of the high chairs out on the patio looking over the ocean while Molly took the first turn in the
shower. It was already dark outside, and the moon lit up the beach.

“Jack,” Molly suddenly called to him from the living room.

Jack turned to the sound of her voice. Molly was standing in the middle of the living room, her figure silhouetted by the light from the kitchen behind her. She had shed the little red bikini.

“I think we ought to skip dinner,” she said as she walked toward him.

Jack swallowed hard. She was standing next to him now, and he put his arms around her although he had no idea what he was going to do next. “You know, I noticed today that you ride the waves very well. Were you a surfer in your younger years?” he asked, his voice stuttering.

Molly sat in his lap, her naked skin rubbing up against him. “What an interesting question to ask at a moment like this,” she said as she kissed him lightly on the lips.

“I was just curious,” Jack replied, still not acknowledging what was happening.

“Well, the answer is no, Jack. I’ve never been a surfer. I wanted to keep that a secret. A woman has to retain her mystery, you know.”

“I guess so,” Jack mumbled as she leaned over and kissed him again. This one was longer and much sweeter than the last.

Right then he knew he wasn’t going to make it home that night.

50

“Where were you last night?” Henry asked when they were seated on the plane the next evening, waiting for takeoff.

“Why?” Jack asked rather defensively.

“Well, I called you around midnight because I’d forgotten what time we were leaving and I got no answer.”

“Maybe I was sleeping.”

“Jack, this is me, remember. I know your habits. You could be in a dead sleep and still answer the phone at three o’clock in the morning.”

“Well, I was out.”

“Out where? There’s nothing open at midnight in Bass Creek.”

“What are you, my mother or something?”

“You don’t have to get so defensive. I was just wondering where you were. You’re the one with all these conspiracy theories about people getting murdered. I’m just trying to make sure you’re not one of them. You’re lucky I didn’t come over there last night. I certainly thought about it.”

“I’m sorry, Henry. I was in Vero Beach with a woman.”

“A woman? Last week you couldn’t go on with your life, and this week you’re seeing hookers?”

“She wasn’t a hooker.”

“She wasn’t? As of last Friday, I was the only one around here in your life. This is Thursday.”

“I met her on Monday.”

“Oh? You met her on Monday and you’re sleeping with
her on Wednesday. Is that what they call a whirlwind romance?”

“What’s with all these questions? I’m a grown man, you know. I can run my own life.”

“I know you can, Jack. I’m just a little concerned that’s all.”

“About what?”

“Look, you’re a strong person, but you’re just a little weak right now in the emotional department.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about, Henry. This is just a fling.”

“A fling? You, Jack Tobin, are having a fling?” Henry raised his voice a little on the remark, and the woman sitting next to them in the aisle seat looked up from her book and gave Jack a distasteful look.

“You’re ruining my reputation, Henry,” Jack deadpanned.

“All right, all right. Forget I mentioned anything.”

Spencer Taylor was perfect in every way. Detective Nick Walsh had referred to him as a peacock: his hair was perfectly groomed to look perfectly natural—there was some kind of gel holding it, but it wasn’t noticeable. His suits were impeccably tailored. He was just the right size—about six feet tall—and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on his well-toned body. He had perfect diction, and he smiled when he spoke, to let you know how pleasant he was and how much he enjoyed talking to you. The perfect gentleman, he was bright and confident without a trace of arrogance—at least, not that anyone could see on the surface. Even his name had a perfect ring to it—Spencer Taylor.

Prosecutors came in many sizes and shapes, but the good ones were usually either bulldogs or, on rare occasions, smart, smooth, and silky. Spencer was clearly the latter. The bulldogs were normally career guys who really believed in truth, justice, and the American way. Guys like Spencer were filling out their résumés on their way to private practice and a life of representing rich drug dealers, white-collar criminals, and celebrities. Spencer had only stayed this long at the
district attorney’s office because he thought he had a shot at the top job.

Spencer was delighted when he heard that Jack Tobin was going to represent Benny Avrile. Sal Paglia had been a blow-hard and in many ways an easy mark. Jack Tobin was a formidable opponent, at least by reputation, and Spencer relished the opportunity to do battle with him and in the process enhance his own standing.

When Spencer received Jack’s emergency motion requesting an expedited production of documents, he immediately called the attorneys for the telephone company and Carl Robertson’s estate and invited them to lunch. They met at O’Malley’s, a little Irish pub on Worth Street. Spencer was his usual charming self. He had never met Samuel Mendelsohn, the attorney for the estate, or Gary Hunt, the telephone company’s counsel.

Before his untimely death, Sal Paglia had bragged to Spencer that Benny’s father had paid him twenty-five thousand to represent his son. Sal had even told Spencer how he had talked Luis into refinancing his house to get the money. Spencer had filed the information away, never thinking that it might be useful one day. As he was formulating a plan to thwart Jack’s emergency motion, he realized that day had arrived.

“Gentlemen,” Spencer said to the two attorneys sitting across from him at O’Malley’s. “The district attorney himself wanted to be here today to meet with you, but he was unable to get away. He wants you to know, however, that he considers this case the most important one in the DA’s office right now. You are, of course, aware of all the publicity it has received. Mr. Jacobs and I believe that Mr. Tobin has filed this emergency motion in order to delay the trial. We cannot let him do that, and we need your help.”

Sam Mendelsohn protested immediately. “He’s asked for five years of financial records. Mr. Robertson was a very busy man, even though he was retired. We can’t produce that type
of information in a week. The judge will have to delay the trial.”

“Ours isn’t that big a problem,” Gary Hunt offered. “Still, it will be very costly for us to get the information that quickly.”

“I think we need a game plan for Friday’s hearing, gentlemen,” Spencer told them. “And I can tell you the judge is not going to listen to ‘We can’t do it.’ The defendant is on trial for his life. He is entitled to this information, even though it is totally irrelevant and isn’t going to help him one bit. On the other hand, this case has been pending for a year now. The judge does not want to continue it. I suggest that you fellows go back and figure out how much it will cost in manpower hours to comply with this ‘impossible’ request. Then, at the hearing, instead of telling the judge that you cannot comply, you tell him how much it’s going to cost to comply. You see what I mean? You’re giving him an option. I suspect that he’ll make the defendant foot the bill and that the defendant won’t be able to pay the freight. He spent all his money on his last lawyer. So you’ll be getting what you want—you’ll just be doing it in a roundabout way.”

“That’s beautiful,” Mendelsohn said. “This Tobin guy won’t know what hit him. I’ll get the numbers together.”

“I’ll do the same,” Gary Hunt added.

The press was waiting outside the courthouse on the Friday afternoon of the hearing. Henry had decided not to attend, so Jack was alone. As he walked up Centre Street toward the courthouse, a throng of reporters followed, shouting questions as they surged forward. Jack didn’t say anything until he reached the courthouse steps. He knew they were looking for some kind of quote that they could then bounce off the governor and keep the war of words going. Sal had been great for that. Jack, however, was not going to play their game.

“Look,” he told them, “this is a minor hearing to obtain certain records for trial. I don’t expect it to take more than fifteen minutes.” He then refused to say anything more and headed into the courthouse.

Spencer Taylor had already given his interview, telling
the reporters that the state had no objection to the request. “The state is just interested in seeking justice as quickly as possible.”

Spencer was waiting for Jack outside the courtroom.

“Mr. Tobin?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Spencer Taylor. I’m the prosecutor in the Avrile case.” Spencer extended his hand and Jack shook it. As he did, he noticed the handsome face, the tailored suit, the perfect hair, and the too-firm grip.

“I recognize your name,” Jack told him. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“I just want you to know beforehand that I don’t have an objection to your request. I’m more or less just an observer here today.”

Yeah, right!
Jack said to himself.
You just want to help
. He smiled at Spencer to let him know he understood.

The Avrile case had been like a dark cloud hanging over Judge Langford Middleton’s head since day one. The Judicial Qualifications Commission was watching to see how he handled it, and so was Warren Jacobs, the district attorney. Now that Jack Tobin had entered the fray, the pressure had become even more intense. For all those reasons, Judge Middleton had decided that every hearing, no matter how trivial, would be in open court. He was also determined to get this case to trial on time and to finally repair his reputation in the process. Along the way, there’d been many sleepless nights and frequent trips to the bathroom.
What was it the doctor called it—irritable bowel syndrome?

He had read Jack’s motion and, once again, didn’t know what to do.

Promptly at three o’clock, the judge walked into the courtroom. He waved the lawyers to sit down.

“I’ve read your motion, Mr. Tobin. What do you want this information for?”

“Your honor, the deceased, Carl Robertson, was a very wealthy and powerful man. There is evidence in the police
investigation that another person, a woman, may have been involved in this murder. I just want to find out if somebody else had a motive.”

“What do you say, Mr. Taylor?”

“It’s a fishing expedition, Judge, but I can’t argue that it won’t lead to discoverable evidence. I just don’t know.”

“Who are the other people here? Please identify yourselves.”

Sam Mendelsohn stood up. “Samuel Mendelsohn, your honor. I represent Mr. Robertson’s estate.”

Gary Hunt stood up next and introduced himself.

“What’s the estate’s position, Mr. Mendelsohn?”

“Your honor, we don’t object to the production per se. But if we have to produce this material, the earliest we could do so would be a week before trial, and the volume is so enormous it will cost us twenty thousand dollars in manpower hours to compile it. I have cost estimates here from our accountants. Most of the cost will be digging the material out, assembling it, and copying it.”

Jack recognized the tactic immediately. When he was an insurance defense attorney, he had always tried to make frivolous lawsuits too expensive for the plaintiffs’ lawyers to pursue. These clowns were trying to play the same game with him. One look at Spencer Taylor, who was smiling smugly, told him who the ringleader was. Gary Hunt’s figure was five thousand dollars to retrieve the telephone records.