The Law of Second Chances by James Sheehan Read Free Book Online

Florida cracker born and raised in Bartow, a cozy little town in the central part of the state. He loved to tell folks that he never wore shoes until he was five years old. He spent his youth hunting and fishing and riding horses and herding cattle. When he graduated from high school, Wofford, like his daddy before him, moseyed on up to the University of Florida to get his collegeeducation. He stayed for seven years and left with a law degree.
    Wofford’s first job was in the public defender’s office in Miami. Although it was a successful career move, Wofford never felt comfortable in the big city, and after twenty years he quit and went home to Bartow to run for judge.
    They met for lunch at the Log Cabin Inn, an upscale steak house just outside of town where the local businessmen hung out. Inside, it looked like a real log cabin, complete with a fireplace that was hardly ever used. Among the concessions to modernity were the plush, dark blue carpeting and the seats upholstered in black leather. Judge Benton was already seated at his favorite table when Jack arrived. He was in his mid-sixties now, with a bald pate and a stomach that looked like it didn’t miss too many meals. He had a big cigar wedged in the right side of his mouth, although it wasn’t lit. The waitress came over to take Jack’s drink order as soon as the lawyer sat down. She also had a message for the judge.
    “Judge,” she started with a thick Southern accent, “Walter suggests you try the prime rib sandwich today. He says it’s real good.”
    Wofford smiled at Jack. “Walter’s the chef. They treat me right here,” he said proudly. “All right, Sally, you tell Walter to fix me one of those sandwiches. He knows how I like it. How about you, Jack?”
    Jack wasn’t much of a red-meat eater, but he was looking for information.
    “I’ll have the same,” he replied. “Medium. And a glass of water.”
    “So what can I do for you, son?” Wofford asked when Sally had left.
    “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, butI 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.