The Law of Second Chances (15 page)

Nick’s plan, if someone wanted to call it that, was to start a conversation with the suspect—about anything under the sun—and gradually, when a rapport had been established, get around to the crime at hand. It was a time-consuming process that required a lot of patience, although Nick could be forceful when necessary and was not above making threats. He simply let the circumstances dictate who he was going to be on any particular day.

Benny was a little guy, almost emaciated. There was quite a contrast between Nick with his huge hands and thick forearms and little Benny. Nick knew he had to soften his appearance if he was going to get Benny to open up. He rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt and opened his shirt collar, letting his tie hang loosely around his neck like an unwanted appendage. He walked in the room with his hands in his pockets and a slight smile on his face, although he didn’t overdo it. This was a criminal investigation, after all.

“Mr. Avrile, I’m Detective Nick Walsh,” he said to Benny, who was sitting uncomfortably on the edge of a chair with his hands still cuffed. Before Benny could answer, Nick approached him. “Let me get those cuffs off you,” he said, “so you can be comfortable when we talk.” He reached behind Benny and deftly removed the cuffs. Then he shook Benny’s hand.

“Nice touch,” Tony said to Lieutenant Amato on the other side of the mirror.

“You can call me Nick,” Nick said to Benny.

The last thing Benny expected was to be shaking hands with his interrogator. He had envisoned the room darkening, the overhead lamp being pulled close to the table, and some
body knocking him around the place with body shots until he started talking.

“You can call me Benny,” he said to Nick.

“How are you doing, Benny? Are they treating you okay?”

Benny thought he would ask for the moon right away since Nick was being so pleasant. “Not bad. Can you get me out of here, Nick?”

“Sorry, Benny. I can’t do that, but we’ll talk about what I can do for you in a few minutes. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself—where are you from?”

“Well, I was born in Spanish Harlem.”

“Really? So was I—Ninety-seventh and Park.”

“How about that,” Benny replied. “I was born on Ninety-ninth between Third and Lex. My father grew up there but I didn’t live there too long. My mother and father were drug addicts and she split from him after a couple of years, and we lived all over the city until she got strung out and I got put in a foster home.”

“Sounds like an all-American childhood.”

“Yeah. I guess the best I can say is, I survived.” Something happened at that point in the conversation that Nick Walsh had not and could not have anticipated. For some strange reason, as he looked at this skinny little Puerto Rican sitting in that chair trying to pretend he wasn’t scared, he thought of his younger brother Jimmy, and a feeling of both empathy and sorrow for Benny and his plight rushed over him like a tidal wave.

They didn’t look alike at all—Jimmy had been tall and fair-skinned. If anything, Jimmy had been more like Benny’s father—he found his courage and his pleasure at the end of a needle. He was younger than Benny when he died of an overdose.

Nick had interrogated hundreds of drug addicts since Jimmy’s death.
Why does this Benny conjure up memories of my brother?
he asked himself.
Why do I care about this guy?
Maybe it was the neighborhood connection, he didn’t know for sure. He tried to put it from his mind.

“Benny, listen to me. You’re not in a strong bargaining position here. I’ve got two eyewitnesses who have picked you out of a lineup and identified you as the person they saw leaning over a man who had just been shot on Seventy-eighth Street and East End Avenue on August twenty-ninth of this year.”

Behind the mirror Angelo Amato and Tony Severino looked at each other in surprise. Nick Walsh did not usually cut to the chase that quickly.

Benny didn’t reply, so Nick continued.

“Which means you are the prime suspect in the murder. You may not know this, but we now have the death penalty in New York and our good governor was elected in part because of his sworn promise to use it. I can’t get you out of here but if you work with me—if you tell me who the woman was who was your accomplice—maybe I can get you life imprisonment.”

Nick watched as the words
death penalty
and
life imprisonment
hit Benny like a torpedo to the chest. The little man lost his breath for a minute and started hyperventilating. It wouldn’t be long before he was spilling his guts. But Benny surprised Nick, although he couldn’t keep his mouth shut totally, as Joe Fogarty had advised.

“I’m sorry Nick, I can’t talk to you. I need to see a lawyer. This woman you’re talking about. I don’t know her name or where she came from.”

Nick now had his opening with Benny’s half answer about the woman, and he could easily drive a steel tank through that opening with a barrage of questions. Nobody was better at it than he was. He took one last look at Benny—and saw Jimmy again.

“All right, Benny. If that’s what you want, we’ll get you a lawyer.” Nick stood up and walked out of the room.

Behind the two-way mirror, Tony and Angelo looked at each other in shock.

21

Everybody started to walk with an air of confidence, a swagger, after the team won their fourth game. They felt unbeatable. But it didn’t last long. They lost the very next week to the Redskins by a score of thirteen to twelve. They missed both extra points, and that had cost them the game. They hadn’t made an extra point all season
.

“If we could have made just one kick we could have tied the game,” the coach, Joe Sheffield, reminded the team several times afterward. Joe was angry at himself, not the team. He knew he should have worked harder on the kicking game before the season started. Normally he was just trying to field a decent team, not vie for a championship. This year was different. He shared that thought with the team
.

“Now, we’re going to have to win every game if we want to make the championship,” he told them. It was the first time that he had mentioned the championship game since the season started—and it certainly got the boys’ attention
.

They won the next two games and were tied for the lead going into the last game of the season, against the Tremont Avenue Vikings
.

Two teams in the league were consistent winners—the Tremont Avenue Vikings and the Mount Vernon Navajos. Both had great organizations and money behind them. Every year they got new jerseys and their equipment was updated. They leased a team bus for all their away games. The
Navajos were tearing up the other division as they usually did. Both teams had that arrogance about them that comes with a winning tradition
.

The odds were stacked against a motley crew like the Lexingtons beating both teams in back-to-back games in a three-week period
.

The Vikings game started off slow. The Vikings were a running team, and they liked to pound it up the middle. They were finding it hard to run against the heart of the Lexingtons’ run defense, however. It was only a matter of time before they changed their plan of attack
.

“Watch the ends,” Frankie O’Connor told everybody in the huddle. “They’ll be testing us outside real soon.”

Sure enough, on the very next play the Vikings halfback came around the left side. He got past Mikey, who was playing outside linebacker, but Rico and Floyd converged on him, catching him at the same time from opposite angles. The hits were clean and hard, but everybody in the vicinity heard a loud snap as the man went down
.

“Oh shit, shit, shit,” the guy shrieked. “Get off! Get the fuck off!”

Both Rico and Floyd scrambled to get off, but it was too late. One of the bones in the man’s right leg had snapped just below the knee and was protruding from the skin. It hurt just to look at, and Johnny winced at the sight. Blood was everywhere, and the man lay on the field groaning. The referees stopped the game to call an ambulance
.

Meanwhile, somebody brought the guy with the broken leg a beer and a cigarette, and as the wait extended from ten minutes to twenty, another beer and then another. Pretty soon the guy was sitting up talking to his buddies—despite the fact that one part of his leg was going one way and the other part the other way. The bone was still sticking out, but the blood had slowed to a trickle even though nobody had thought to apply a tourniquet
.

When the ambulance pulled onto the field, everybody turned to look—except Johnny, whose eyes were riveted on
the man with the broken leg. Johnny had seen him drop the cigarette and slump over
.

Johnny ran to him. The man was not moving. “He’s unconscious!” Johnny yelled at the top of his lungs. “Tell them to hurry up!”

The emergency guys tried to revive him on the field but couldn’t. They transferred him to a stretcher, put him in the ambulance, and drove off. Before the sound of the siren had faded and the lights were out of sight, the referee blew his whistle and yelled, “Play ball!”

Johnny was bewildered. Football was the last thing on his mind, but he did what everybody else did. He huddled up and got ready for the next play
.

“Stay focused,” Frankie told them in the huddle. “They just lost their best guy.”

Even though they had lost their best guy, the Vikings didn’t give up. The game the Lexingtons absolutely needed to win ended in a tie
.

They were standing on the sideline listening dejectedly to Joe Sheffield tell them they had “played a hell of a game” when a cop came up to the coach. There were three other cops on the far sideline talking to the Vikings players
.

“Hey, Coach, can I talk to you for a minute?” the cop asked, motioning Joe Sheffield to step to the side. Joe looked at him and then at his nameplate, Dan Gillette. Dan was very fat, his face was purple and bloated, and he was breathing heavily from his walk across the field
.

“Sure,” Joe said, but he didn’t move away from the team. If something was going to be said, it was going to be said in front of his players

“A player on the other team—I don’t know his name—is dead,” Officer Gillette said casually, like the kid had merely left the field to get a hamburger. He pointed to the other sideline. “Some of his teammates say he died because two of your people hit him illegally.”

“Bullshit!” someone shouted angrily. Joe Sheffield stuck his hand up to quiet them
.

“Whoever’s making that accusation is wrong, Officer. It was a clean hit.”

“Maybe so,” Gillette replied. “But I gotta take the two involved in for questioning.” He turned to the team. “Who were the two guys who tackled the dead kid?” If the incident hadn’t been so tragic, Dan Gillette’s attitude and choice of words would have been funny
.

Nobody responded
.

“I got no takers, huh?” Dan said, looking around at their faces. “Okay, we’ll play it a different way.” He turned toward the far sideline and whistled. Two Viking players came across the field
.

“Can you guys pick those two tacklers out?” the fat cop asked when they arrived
.

The taller, heavier one pointed right at Floyd. “That nigger back there is definitely one of them.”

“Watch your mouth,” Frankie O’Connor snapped at him. “That cop is gonna be gone in a minute and you’re gonna be dealing with me.” The Vikings player didn’t react to Frankie’s words, although he had to have heard them
.

“You!” Gillette yelled, pointing at Floyd. “Come up here. What about the other one?” he said, turning back to the two Vikings as Floyd slowly made his way out of the pack
.

They scanned the faces of the Lexingtons. One of them fixed right on Rico. Johnny saw it
.

“It was me,” Johnny said, stepping in front of Rico before the Vikings player could say anything. He didn’t know why he did it. Maybe deep down he knew things would go better if he, rather than Rico, went to the station with Floyd
.

“No it wasn’t,” Rico said. “It was me.”

“No!” Johnny protested
.

Rico grabbed Johnny by the shirt with both hands and pulled him close. “Listen,” he said. “Me and Floyd deal with cops all the time. We know how to get out of this. You
—
they’ll have you feeling so guilty about this guy dying, you’ll sign a full confession and still be apologizing as they cart you off to prison. Just shut up and let us handle this, okay?”

Rico didn’t wait for a reply. He turned and walked straight up to the cop
.

“All right, let’s go down to the station,” Gillette said, motioning to Floyd and Rico. “You boys have some questions to answer.”

22

Charlene Pope—Charlie—had been a certified public accountant at the firm of Harrel and Jackson in New York City for twenty years. She was one of those strange people who truly found the tax code interesting. She loved her work, and she especially loved the firm she was with. All her significant relationships were at Harrel. She’d met her ex-husband there. When they divorced, there was no question that he would be the one who would have to go. Charlie would never leave the firm. She also met her best friend at Harrel—Pat Morgan.

Pat was ten years older than Charlie, but they had common interests. They liked concerts and sports, good books and men—not necessarily in that order. Pat was a runner, Charlie was a swimmer, and both of them were in great shape. Pat was the taller of the two, although Charlie was almost five-six. She had large green eyes that complemented her auburn hair and a smile so warm it could melt an iceberg.

They took long walks together accompanied by Charlie’s dog, Tinkerbell. Charlie was crushed when Pat moved to Florida but made frequent visits. As a senior member of the firm, she had plenty of vacation time stored up. And she loved Bass Creek.

“This place is like going back in time,” Charlie had exclaimed on her initiation morning at Jack and Pat’s special place on the river. “I feel like I’m part of it all—nature,
I mean.” She caught the way Jack and Pat smiled at each other. “What? What did I say?”