The Law of Second Chances (6 page)

“Well, Judge, as I told you over the phone, I’m looking into the Henry Wilson case to see if there is any basis to file a motion for a new trial.”

Henry’s trial had been almost eighteen years ago, and the judge had been a little sketchy on the details when Jack had called him initially.

“I didn’t remember the case when you first called, but
I do now. I can’t see his face, but I remember Henry Wilson was a big, imposing man and he was a career criminal. I don’t know if I can help you any more than that.”

“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.

“You’ll smell good after spending a day in here, Counselor. It’s a little bit different than a day at the office. The files are over here.”

He brought Jack to a door leading to a separate room in the right rear of the barn. The door had to be opened with a key, and when Wofford did so, Jack saw stacks and stacks of boxes in racks. The room was dark and obviously musty.

“There’s no electricity in here,” Wofford told him. “I’ll get you a lantern, a chair, and a cup of coffee. After that, you’re on your own. Just be careful opening boxes—you never know what’s living in there.

“I’ve got a meeting tonight in town, so I won’t be back until late. There’s a restaurant called Rooster’s right on Main Street. Maybe we can meet there first thing in the morning for breakfast.”

Jack hadn’t planned on staying another night. Hell, it was possible he’d be done in an hour. He didn’t want to bring any of that up with the judge, however, so he agreed with Wofford’s suggestion.

“That’ll be fine—about seven?”

“Make it seven-thirty,” the judge told him. “As you’ve probably noticed, I don’t get going as quick as I used to.”

Jack’s optimism was misplaced. Although the boxes were neatly placed on racks, the files inside were a mess. Cases were not separated or labeled. He had to go through every folder and every piece of paper. He had no idea how many pages were in the transcript or if the pages were stapled together—or if the document even existed. The lighting was terrible, and, as Wofford had predicted, from time to time a mouse scurried out of the box when Jack lifted the top. Jack was just glad that he hadn’t encountered a rat—yet.

The hours ticked past and the light outside was beginning to fade when he finally opened a box and saw a large folder labeled “Wilson.” He hesitated before opening it and said a little prayer. Another hour of this place and he’d be ready for a straightjacket. He opened his eyes and looked down. Within the folder, in a jacketed cover, was the transcript of Wofford’s recorded interview with James Vernon.

7

The next morning, Jack was a very conspicuous visitor at Rooster’s, sitting among the farmers as he waited for the judge to arrive. He’d taken a shower at the hotel that morning, but for the third day in a row he had to don the same clothes—clothes that had spent the previous day in Wofford Benton’s barn. That, however, actually made him fit in with the breakfast group. He stood out because he was a stranger.

Wofford came in about ten minutes after Jack and made the rounds of each table, shaking hands with everybody in the place.

“You can never stop politicking,” he said as he sat down at Jack’s table. “You forget to shake one hand and it could cost you a hundred votes in this town. Word travels like lightning.”

Ruthie, the waitress, came over and simply inquired if the judge was going to have “the usual.” Wofford nodded that he was. Jack had already given his order.

“Did you find anything interesting?” Wofford asked when Ruthie had left.

“I did,” Jack replied. “I found the transcript of your interview with James Vernon.”

“Well . . .?”

“Well, Vernon told you that he was there when Clarence Waterman was murdered. Vernon claimed to have been there with two other guys he wouldn’t name, neither of whom was Henry Wilson. One of those other two guys supposedly slit Clarence Waterman’s throat.”

Wofford thought about what Jack had said for a moment. “It makes sense,” he finally said. “That’s why I called Vernon to the stand. I hope you noticed something though. Vernon told me he was there at the scene. He told Willie Smith, the prison snitch I called to the stand at trial, that he
actually committed
the murder. One of those statements is a lie, and James Vernon supposedly made both of them. Of course, Willie Smith could have been lying. It’s a problem with these criminals—they never tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

“There was something else, Judge.”

“Really?”

“Vernon said that he also told Ted Griffin, his lawyer on the case he was in jail for, about the Waterman murder. Did you know Ted Griffin?”

“Yeah, I knew him.” Ruthie arrived with the food, and both men were quiet for a moment. Jack was careful not to press the judge. He wanted Wofford to stew over the information and come to his own conclusions.

“I guess I should have anticipated that Vernon might take the Fifth and should have had Ted Griffin ready to testify at trial. He’d have made a much better witness than that snitch I had to use—Willie Smith,” he said finally.

Jack was glad Wofford had seen the problem on his own. It didn’t matter what version of the story James Vernon gave Ted Griffin. It would have been dramatic and compelling testimony to have a lawyer on the stand telling the story after Vernon refused to testify, and it might have made the difference in the outcome of the trial. Jack had another issue he wanted to address, however, before coming back to the judge’s mistake.

“Judge, did you know that neither David Hawke nor his cousin was ever prosecuted?” he asked.

“Who are they?” the judge asked.

“David Hawke was the only witness who testified against Henry Wilson. There was no other evidence to connect Wilson to the crime. Hawke was a convicted felon, and he testified that he drove his cousin and Henry to Clarence
Waterman’s house and waited outside while they went in and killed him.”

“I vaguely recall that now,” Benton admitted.

“So you didn’t know that Hawke and his cousin were never prosecuted?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“What I don’t understand is why Hawke would testify that he drove his cousin and Henry to Waterman’s house and waited while they killed him. It doesn’t make sense—Hawke implicating himself like that in the crime if he was actually innocent.”

Benton looked at Jack quizzically. “Are you a criminal defense attorney?”

“No, sir. I spent my career representing insurance companies. I’ve only taken up representing death-row inmates in the last couple of years.”

“I see—your personal penance for representing those insurance companies for so long?”

Jack smiled. “I guess that’s part of it.”