The Law of Second Chances (18 page)

“Wait a minute, Susan. He moved to recuse a judge for a valid reason. Artie Hendrick signed the order because he had to. That’s not forum-shopping. Why the hell do you think they have the rule? It was my suggestion, by the way. And you shouldn’t be prejudging his motives without reading the damn motion.”

“Your suggestion? You still haven’t told me what your stake in this is. No matter—you are way out of bounds. Coaching a lawyer on a pending case? The Judicial Qualifications Commission will have your ass, Wofford.”

“I represented the man on death row seventeen years ago.
He’s there because of my incompetence. I’m having a difficult time with that, Susan, so I’m now going to see that he gets justice no matter what it costs me.”

“It might cost you your seat on the bench.”

“So be it. This man may be innocent, and I’m not going to sit idly by and watch him die because of something I neglected to do seventeen years ago.”

Susan sighed. “Even if I look at this motion, I might not think it merits an evidentiary hearing or a new trial. Seventeen years is a long time. I’m sure every stone has been turned over.”

“Just look with an open mind, that’s all I ask. Don’t think about the seventeen years. Don’t think about Artie Hendrick’s recusal. Just read the motion. If you think the facts merit an evidentiary hearing, then enter an order setting one. That will stop the execution. Here is the number to call.” Wofford handed her a card. “If you don’t think it merits an evidentiary hearing, then enter an order denying the motion.”

Susan Fletcher looked at him.

“All right, Wofford. I’ll read the motion this afternoon. I make no promises, however. If there is no new evidence that warrants a hearing, I’m going to deny it. What time is the execution scheduled for?”

“Six o’clock.”

“All right. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a courtroom full of people I’ve got to get through before this afternoon.”

26

Sal Paglia’s American dream was pretty much like everybody else’s—a good career, a nice car, a big house, and a loving family. And he’d almost made it. His criminal law practice had been going fairly well, he drove a Cadillac, and he owned—along with the bank, of course—his own two-story home in the Bronx not too far from his office. He’d made a mess of the family part, however.

Sal was a little guy and part of his Napoleon complex was his perceived sexual prowess. He represented a boatload of hookers, so blow jobs were a regular component of his fee. Every now and then, when a high-class hooker got busted—it wasn’t every day because
high-class hooker
and
the Bronx
were words that usually didn’t go in the same sentence—Sal would require the whole enchilada, and then some. He was collecting the “then some” one night at his office from Brigitte Babcock—aka Amy Stevens, originally from Peoria, Illinois—when his wife, Cynthia, showed up unexpectedly.

Cynthia Paglia had been suspecting Sal of infidelity for some time. The clue was always the same—a late night at the office, followed by Sal dragging his ass through the door smelling of alcohol and perfume. One thing about Sal—even though they had been married for ten years, he was still as horny as a teenager on his first date. All she had to do was express an interest in sex and he was ready—except on
those nights he worked late at the office. Then he was dead to her in every way.

Cynthia desperately needed to resolve her suspicions and she decided to do it personally. She had an office key made early one Saturday morning while Sal was sleeping. The very next time he called to say he’d be working late—the night he was with Brigitte Babcock—Cynthia hung up the phone, jumped in the car, and drove directly to his office on Webster Avenue about twenty minutes from the house. Slipping in very quietly, she tiptoed past the vacant secretary’s desk and cracked open the door of Sal’s inner sanctum. Her eyes scanned the room. She smelled the pot first. Then she saw the half-empty bottle of Chivas Regal on the corner of the desk and a woman all decked out in a beautiful black leather outfit—complete with boots, garter belt, stockings, and one of those designer whips with the little tassels on the end. She was standing over a nude male who had his head in the seat of an upholstered high-back chair and his buttocks raised toward the whip.

Although the man’s face was completely obscured, Cynthia instantly recognized her husband. She could no longer control herself. Bolting into the room, she pushed the surprised Brigitte out of the way, raised her right leg high in the air, swung it forward and kicked Sal right in the ass.

“Oooh!” Sal moaned. This infuriated Cynthia even more. She reared back and kicked him again.

“Oh my God!” Sal screamed in ecstasy. “Do it again, Brigitte.”

Cynthia stood there for a moment looking at him with disgust. Then she turned to Brigitte, who was cowering in a corner of the room.

“He’s all yours,” Cynthia said and headed for the door.

Somewhere in the recesses of his brain, beyond the booze and the dope, Sal heard his wife’s voice and—even though his mind fought against the reality of the circumstances—realized his predicament. But he didn’t move. He simply peered through his legs at Brigitte and noticed that his dick had gone limp.

When he returned home the next day with a story about how some client had slipped a tab of acid into his coffee, his wife and two kids were already gone. A few weeks later, Cynthia’s lawyer filed an emergency motion with the court, and Sal was tossed out of his two-story home. He still got to pay the mortgage, however, which meant that he could only afford to rent a cheap one-bedroom flat in a high-rise not far from the office. Part of Sal’s dream had slipped away forever.

Luckily for Sal and his clients, he was a somewhat better lawyer than he was a husband. He did mostly small-time stuff, but over the course of fifteen years he had handled several murder cases, all of them court-appointed except for the Russell O’Reilly case, the one that had finally brought him some notoriety. Russell O’Reilly was accused of the heinous murder of a blind girl. The case and Russell’s lawyer, Sal Paglia, were in the news every day for six months. In the end, Russell was exonerated because the DNA of the skin found under the blind girl’s nails—skin which came from her scratching her assailant—did not belong to Russell O’Reilly.

The O’Reilly case had brought Sal a steady stream of clients, but it was now three years old and had lost its legs. Sal was starting to have problems meeting his monthly obligations at the office. He had also taken up two new hobbies to fill the void caused by the absence of his wife and children—drinking and gambling—and he was doing a poor job controlling either of them. He was in to Beano Moffit, the local loan shark, for thirty thousand dollars when fortune seemed to smile on him once again.

A short, stocky Latin man with muscular forearms and calloused hands walked into his office early on a Wednesday morning.

“I’d like to see Mr. Paglia,” he told Sal’s secretary, Hazel.

“Do you have an appointment?” Hazel asked without looking away from the game of solitaire she was playing on her computer.

“No, I don’t,” the man replied. “I live a couple of blocks away. I thought I’d just stop in.”

“Sorry,” Hazel told him, her eyes still glued to the computer. “Mr. Paglia is a busy man. He can’t see you without an appointment.”

The man didn’t go quietly as most of them did. He stood his ground. “I’ve got cash,” he said, “and I’m willing to pay today. It’s a matter of life and death.”

Those words meant nothing to Hazel, who was unaware of the dismal financial status of her boss. But to Sal—who was sitting in his office with the door slightly ajar throwing paper airplanes at the trash can and wondering how he was going to pay the rent, make payroll, and keep his legs from getting broken—they sounded like sweet music.

“Send him in, Hazel,” Sal shouted.

“But he doesn’t have an appointment,” Hazel protested.

“Send him in,” Sal shouted back.

Hazel gave the man a dirty look but ushered him in to Sal’s office before returning to her game.

Sal came rushing from behind his desk, his right hand extended and a huge smile on his face. “Sal Paglia. Nice to meet you.”

The man shook his hand. “Luis Melendez,” he replied. “Nice to meet you too.” He did not smile.

Sal motioned Luis to one of his upholstered high-back chairs, the same one where, not many moons ago, his wife had caught him in a very awkward position. Luis sat down. His eyes roamed the room as Sal went back behind his desk.

Sal knew that his building was not much to look at from the outside and the neighborhood was, to put it kindly, a little seedy—a good place to find criminal clients but with few other redeeming values. His inner sanctum, however—the place where he coaxed the money from the clients, among other things—was top-shelf: plush maroon carpeting, rich mahogany paneling, a massive desk so large that Sal looked a little puny sitting behind it in his equally large and impressive burgundy leather lawyer chair.

“So what can I do for you?” Sal asked, changing his expression to one of pleasant, professional concern.

“My son is in jail and he’s been charged with murder.”

Dollar signs flashed in Sal’s eyes but he maintained his composure. “How long has he been there?”

“Not too long—a couple of months,” Luis replied. “He’s had several minor hearings about one thing or another. The public defender is representing him.”

“What’s your son’s name?”

“Benny Avrile.”

Sal noted that father and son did not have the same last name, but there was something else. He’d heard that name before, although he couldn’t remember where. Then it came to him. The case had been on the front page of all the papers and was still getting coverage months later. The trial for sure would be big news, maybe even international. Sal started to salivate.

Benny Avrile had killed some rich guy.
What the hell was his name?
Ah, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that little Benny’s father was sitting in front of him, offering the case up to him on a silver platter. The publicity alone would guarantee him another three years in the black, win or lose. He could pay off Beano, who was starting to pressure him a bit. Sal wanted to kiss Luis Melendez on the spot, but he had to play it close to the vest. After all, there was money to be had
right now
.

“Why are you coming to me?” Sal asked, the words slipping out of his mouth before he could catch them.

“I don’t want the public defender representing my son. He’s already had three different lawyers in two months. I’m afraid he’ll get assigned to somebody new on the day of trial who won’t know anything about his case. I remember you got a guy off a few years back—the one who was accused of killing the blind girl. Some people in the neighborhood say you’re pretty good, too.”

Sal wondered who had recommended him. Sometimes he paid people in the neighborhood to talk him up in criminal
circles—maybe it was one of those guys. He’d find out soon enough. Somebody would be sniffing around, looking for a bonus.

But now it was time to talk about the money. “You know, my services don’t come cheap. It’s expensive to try a murder case. Very expensive.”

“I’ve got five thousand dollars in cash,” Luis said without hesitating.

“That’s not even a third of what I would require up front.”

“It’s all I got.”

Sal had heard that line a million times. If this guy had five grand in cash, he could come up with fifteen, no problem. It was just a case of helping him find it. It didn’t matter, though. Sal was taking the case regardless. He just needed to squeeze Luis for as much as he could.

“Do you own a home?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any equity in it?”

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re talking about.”

“How long have you owned your home?”

“Seven years.”

“Do you have a mortgage?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you had that?”

“Since I bought the place.”

Those answers told Sal all he needed to know. Luis was not a sophisticated businessman. He didn’t know that he had equity in his home and that he could refinance and pull cash out to pay for the legal services of Sal Paglia.

“Luis, I’ve got great news for you. I’m going to take your son’s case, and I’m going to take it for the initial five thousand. And I’m also going to help you with the paperwork to refinance your house so you can get the additional twenty thousand dollars you’re going to need to pay me through the trial.”

Sal said the words in such a way that Luis felt like thanking him for being so helpful and kind. He promptly took five thousand dollars out of the front right-hand pocket of his pants and handed it to Sal, who stashed it in a desk drawer.

“I’ll file a notice of appearance first thing in the morning,” Sal told him, handing him a receipt for the cash. Luis thanked him several times before heading for the door, but stopped just as he reached it.

“One other thing,” Luis said before Sal ushered him out.

“What’s that?” Sal asked.

“Don’t tell Benny you got the money from me. He must never know I’m involved.”

That was okay with Sal. He could put ethical considerations aside for the greater good—at least, for
his
greater good. It wasn’t going to fly with the court, however. Benny was the client. He needed to approve of the arrangement. Technically, Benny could agree that he didn’t want to know who was paying, but Sal didn’t want to go down that road unless he had to.

“Sit,” Sal said, steering Luis back to the infamous chair again. “Tell me why you don’t want your own son to know that you’re paying for his lawyer.”

Luis sat down again. He took out a cigarette. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked.

Sal was a smoker himself. He took his own pack out of his pocket. “I’ll join you,” he said, handing Luis an ashtray.

“He doesn’t know me. I never married his mother.” Luis took a long drag on his Marlboro. “We lived together for about two years after Benny was born. We were both on drugs. She left. I didn’t see her after that. Years later, when I got clean, I couldn’t find them. That’s it. That’s the story.”