The Law of Second Chances (40 page)

The main street was lined with giant oak trees that formed a canopy over the road. Spanish moss hung from the branches like rotted tinsel. “Eerieville” was just right—and he hadn’t even seen the place at night yet.

It was about ten o’clock in the morning. He had flown into Tampa late Tuesday night and stayed at a hotel near the airport. He’d rented a car first thing in the morning and headed north on Interstate 75.

Micanopy was nothing more than two or three blocks of antiques stores, a town hall, and a library. It had that slow feel of the Old South. Henry had no idea where 26 Robin Lane was, so he pulled up next to the only person on the street, an old man who was shuffling along, and asked him for directions.

The old man rubbed his chin and looked to the sky for guidance. Henry was sure he didn’t have a clue. After a minute or so the man finally spoke, in a slow Southern drawl that only added to the feel of the whole place.

“Well, you go down this street here a ways,” the old man said, pointing back in the direction Henry had come from, “and you go maybe half a mile or so until you see a turnoff on the right. That’s Robin Lane. Now 26, I believe, is the third place on the left. That’s about a mile down the road.” He took another look at Henry and added, “I’d be mighty careful if I were you,” and then he turned and shuffled off.
Old South indeed
, Henry thought as he pulled away, shaking his head.

Surprisingly, the old man’s directions were very good. Henry found Robin Lane right where it was supposed to be. It was a narrow dirt road not wide enough for two cars, and he took it slowly. After about a mile and a half he’d counted only two places on the left so he decided to backtrack, realizing he’d probably missed the third left. Then he spotted it—a driveway so overgrown with old orange trees and bushes and mangroves that there was barely room for a car to fit. He turned in and kept going for what seemed like forever, the overgrowth scratching the finish of the rental car, until he came to a clearing. Beyond was a two-story wooden house with a wide front porch and a tin roof. A dog was lying on the porch; it didn’t move as the car approached. Henry noticed fields behind the house, a barn, and some cattle and horses. He turned to the left and pulled the car up a good distance from the house, mindful both of the dog and of the old man’s words. He got out and started walking slowly and cautiously toward the house. He was just about to shout and ask if anyone was home when a single shot rang out. Henry hit the ground.

He lay there for a few minutes not moving. Then he inched his head around slightly so he could see the front of the house. Everything was still, including the dog, who had not moved from his spot on the porch. Slowly Henry stood up and walked around toward the back of the house.

There was an old man in the backyard feeding the chickens. Henry slipped up behind him and put him in a headlock with his left arm, grabbing him around the middle with his right. The old geezer started kicking and flailing his arms.

“Hold on there, Mr. Woods. I don’t know what you’re
thinking, but I don’t want to hurt you even though you just tried to kill me. I’m just looking for some information.”

The old man kept up the barrage of kicks and punches. “I’m not Mr. Woods,” he cackled. “And if I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead. I just fired a warning. Figured you’d go away after that.”

Henry realized he needed to do something to calm the situation. He spun the old man around and hit him with a right cross to the chin. The poor fellow went down like a sack of potatoes. The chickens squawked, but the dog, who was now lying on the back porch, didn’t move.

Henry found some rope in the barn, tied the old man’s hands and feet, and carried him into the house, propping him up on a ratty old couch near the window. Henry sat down across from him and waited for him to come round.

Finally the old man’s eyelids flickered as he started to regain consciousness. He looked around as if lost, then focused on Henry, a flash of anger crossing his face. He struggled briefly against the ropes and then went limp, staring all the time at Henry.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” Henry said calmly. “First, I’m going to tell you who I am and why I’m here. Then you can decide if you want to answer my questions.”

“I’ve got no choice, I guess,” the old man grumbled.

Henry then told him about Carl Robertson’s murder, Benny’s murder charge, and Jack’s representation of Benny. “I work for Jack Tobin. The reason I’m here is because Mr. Robertson called you thirty-eight times in the month before he died. We want to know why and if there’s any connection to Mr. Robertson’s death.”

“He didn’t call me,” the old man answered. “He called Lenny.”

“You’re not Leonard Woods?”

“I already told you that before you slugged me. My name’s Valentine Busby. I farmed the land here for Lenny. He left me the house. Lenny Woods is dead.”

Henry’s heart sank momentarily. “When did he die?”

“Over a year ago back in the summer.”

“What happened?”

“He was murdered. A hit-and-run at seven o’clock in the morning right out there on Robin Lane.”

“Why do you think it was murder and not an accident?”

“Lenny went for a walk at seven every morning after the animals were taken care of and all the morning chores were done. It was broad daylight. Anybody coulda seen him. Do you know how fast you have to go on a road like that to kill a man? No, it was murder.”

“Did the police think it was murder?”

“The police around here don’t think, period.”

Henry frowned. These two murders didn’t appear to be a coincidence.

“Do you know what Lenny and Carl talked about on the phone?” he asked.

“No. I know they were working on something together but Lenny didn’t tell me about that kind of stuff. He had a colleague in Wisconsin who I’m sure knew all about it.”

“A colleague? What kind of business was Lenny in?”

“He wasn’t in any business. He was a professor of microbiology at the University of Florida.”

“In Gainesville?”

“Yeah. Right up the road.”

“Do you know the name of this colleague in Wisconsin?”

“I sure do. I’ve got his name and address written down somewhere. If you untie me, I can get it.”

Henry figured things were safe enough so he started to untie him. “Now don’t try anything funny.”

“Tangle with a man the size of you again? I’m not that stupid,” Valentine Busby said, rubbing his bruised chin now that his hands were free. “By the way, when was Carl Robertson murdered?”

“September first of last year,” Henry said, crouching down to undo the knots on the rope around Valentine’s feet.

“That’s funny.”

“Why is it funny?”

“Lenny was murdered on September second.”

Henry almost had a heart attack. He was still trying to process this new information when Valentine dropped another bombshell.

“You know, you’re not the first person I talked to about this.”

“Really?” Henry replied as he straightened up and helped Valentine to his feet.

“Yeah. I talked to an attorney maybe six months ago. Not the guy you work for. Somebody else. I told him pretty much what I told you, although it was a much shorter conversation. I never heard from him again but after that things got a little creepy. Cars started coming by at strange hours, that kind of stuff. I know it could be my imagination. I’m an old man and all, but that’s when I cut off the phone and wouldn’t let anybody past that clearing where you parked your car. I’m sorry I fired that warning shot, but now you know why.”

Henry wasn’t quite ready to accept Valentine’s apology so he ignored it. “Was the guy you talked to named Sal Paglia?”

“Can’t be certain. I don’t have the greatest memory in the world. But yeah, I think that’s the guy.”

60

For a moment at the outset of the trial Jack thought Langford Middleton was in cahoots with Spencer Taylor, because he was moving the case along so fast.

“Call your first witness,” the judge told Spencer before Jack had arrived back at his seat after finishing his opening statement.

“The state calls Angela Vincent.”

The bailiff left the room and came back less than a minute later with a beautiful blond woman dressed appropriately in a modest black dress. The clerk swore her in and she stepped up to the witness chair.

“Please state your name for the record,” Spencer Taylor began.

“Angela Vincent,” she replied.

“Ms. Vincent, did you know the deceased, Carl Robertson?”

“Yes.”

“And could you tell the jury the nature of your relationship?”

“I was Carl’s mistress for five years. He set me up in an apartment on Seventy-eighth Street and East End Avenue and he gave me ten thousand dollars a month. He came to visit every Tuesday and Thursday and sometimes on the weekend.”

Jack could tell from the detail in Angie’s answer and
the directness with which she delivered it that she and Spencer had rehearsed her testimony thoroughly.

“Do you know where Carl lived?”

“In Washington, DC.”

“And he came to your place every Tuesday and Thursday without fail?”

“Yes.”

“How did he get there?”

“Carl had his own jet, so he flew here and then drove to the apartment in a car he kept at the airport.”

“And what kind of car was it?”

“A black Mercedes.”

“And where did Carl park when he came to see you on Tuesdays and Thursdays?”

“He had a private spot reserved right in front of the building.”

“In what way was it reserved?”

“There was a sign that said ‘No Parking.’”

“And that sign was visible to the general public?”

“Yes.”

“And was the deceased dressed in any particular way when he came to see you?”

“Carl always arrived in a suit. He was very particular about how he looked.”

“What did you know about Carl before you began this relationship with him?”

“Well, I knew he was a very nice man. I went out with him on several occasions before I moved into the apartment.”

“Anything else?”

“I knew he was very wealthy.”

Jack could have raised an objection on the grounds that Carl’s wealth wasn’t directly relevant to the murder charge before the court, but Spencer was going to get that evidence in one way or another. Hell, the jury probably already knew that part. Objecting would only make Jack look like he was trying to keep something from them. He let it go.

On a related issue, though, Jack was ready to go to the mat. While the fact that Carl was wealthy was sufficient to
establish robbery as a motive, it was not in itself evidence that the separate crime of robbery had occurred. The fight over that was about to start.

“Ms. Vincent,” Spencer continued, “you mentioned that Carl brought you ten thousand dollars a month. How did he bring it?”

“In cash—one-hundred-dollar bills bound together. He kept it in his left inside pocket.”

“And when did he usually bring this money?”

Jack was on his feet immediately.

“Objection, your honor. May we approach?”

“State the basis for your objection, Counsel.”

“The question is irrelevant, speculative, and prejudicial.”

“You may approach.”

Both Jack and Spencer walked over to the judge’s dais on the side opposite the jury for a sidebar discussion. The court reporter went with them so she could take down everything that was said.

“I’m not sure I understand your objection, Counsel, so clarify it for me,” the judge told Jack.

“Mr. Taylor asked when the deceased
usually
brought the money, your honor. This is not a contracts case. What the deceased customarily did is not an issue. It speculates as to whether he had the money with him that night. In that respect it is prejudicial because the jury could assume without any
actual
evidence that Mr. Robertson brought the money that night. I believe Mr. Taylor could ask the witness if she knew whether the deceased had the ten thousand dollars on him that night. Then I assume the prosecution could establish through other testimony that it was missing after the murder. Nothing else is relevant, your honor.”

“I’m not so sure, Counselor. I think it is relevant for the jury to hear that Mr. Robertson was wealthy and that he normally brought ten thousand dollars a month.”

“Relevant to what, Judge? Doesn’t he have to show my client knew about the money before it becomes relevant?”

The judge looked at Spencer Taylor. “Do you have anything to add, Mr. Taylor?”

“Yes, your honor. Mr. Tobin’s argument is ridiculous. That’s like saying the prosecution has to show in every case that the defendant knew beforehand how much money was in the victim’s pocket in order to prove a robbery occurred.” It was a good argument, and it made sense to the judge.

“I agree, Mr. Taylor. I think the question is admissible. However, sometime during your case you’re going to have to establish that something of value in excess of five hundred dollars was
actually
stolen from the deceased in order to establish that a felony occurred.”

It was exactly the ruling that Jack wanted at this stage of the proceedings. “You may answer the question,” the judge told Angie.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat it?” Angie asked Spencer.

“Certainly. When did the deceased usually bring this ten thousand dollars?”

“The first Tuesday of the month.”

Spencer Taylor had gotten everything he needed from Angie. He had learned through trial and error over the years only to ask the questions that needed to be asked.

“No further questions.”

The judge looked at Jack. “Cross-examination?”

“Yes, your honor, thank you.”

Angie was stunning, and she had been direct and honest in her testimony. The jury obviously liked her, and Jack wanted to be very careful not to appear to be the bad guy with her.

“Ms. Vincent, you testified that the deceased usually brought the ten thousand dollars on the first Tuesday of the month, correct?”

“Yes.”

“But he didn’t always bring it on the first Tuesday, is that accurate?” Jack wasn’t fishing. He already knew the answer from the police reports in Benny’s file.