The Lawyer's Lawyer (21 page)

J
ack returned to Ron’s condo in town after Felton’s death. Henry arrived the next evening. They didn’t get to talk much until
the following morning over coffee on the patio.

“You did a real good thing there, Henry, taking care of Danni’s daughter.”

“Can it, Jack.”

“What?”

“I’ll listen to that kind of stuff from other people but not you. This is what we do. I didn’t tell you that you did a great
job hanging out in the woods until you caught Felton, did I?”

“No, but you were about to.”

“Hell I was. It was what I expected you to do just as you expected me to do what I did. Now let’s get to the real stuff. What’s
going on with you and Danni?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“C’mon. Danni told me you guys were together the day Felton was shot.”

“We were because I went to her house to check on her, that’s all.”

“So nothing’s going on in the romance department?”

“Nope, and it looks like it won’t ever be going on.”

“Never say never.”

“We had a good long talk. She was very honest with me. She told me she just couldn’t sustain another relationship after her
marriage. She said it’s like hitting a brick wall.”

“Well, you hadn’t seen her in two years anyway. Now you can at least put it behind you completely.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“So what’s going on with this investigation into Felton’s death? Danni tells me they were looking for Felton’s gun or something.”

“Yeah. When I saw him in the woods, I yelled at him to stop, and he turned and I’m almost certain he had a gun but I’m not
positive. That’s why I shot him. Now they say they can’t find the gun.”

“Are they going to try and charge you with something?”

“I’m not sure. That’s why I’m staying in town.”

“What could they charge you with potentially?”

“I don’t know—manslaughter maybe. I think Sam Jeffries still has it in for me. Part of me even thinks he took the gun out
of Felton’s hand.”

“Really? It seems like a big risk for the police chief to set you up for something like this. I mean, Felton was a serial
killer. You told him to stop. He didn’t. You thought he had a gun. You shot him. What jury is going to convict you under those
circumstances even if there wasn’t a gun?”

“I don’t know, Henry. But I wouldn’t discount Sam Jeffries. He’s lost his wife and now his daughter and I think he’s dangerous.
I also think he’s got some things up his sleeve that we don’t know about.”

Jack’s hunch turned out to be right. One week after his conversation with Henry, on a Monday afternoon, he was served with
a subpoena to appear before the grand jury.

“I wouldn’t go,” Henry told him when Jack showed him the subpoena.

“I’ve gotta go.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say a word. That’s a kangaroo court run by the prosecution. You need a lawyer, Jack.”

“I am a lawyer.”

“With a fool for a client. Who’s the best criminal lawyer in Miami?”

“I don’t know. Dez Calderon probably.”

“Do you know him?”

“I know him to say hello to. I don’t know any of those criminal guys that well. Remember, I did civil cases most of my career.”

“Give him a call. Tell him the situation. Put yourself in his hands as you’ve had your clients do with you.”

“All right, but I’m inclined to go to the grand jury and tell my side of the story.”

“And they just might use it against you. You’re not thinking objectively, Jack. You’ve seen enough of this stuff. You think
just because it’s you, you can do it differently. That’s exactly why you can’t represent yourself.”

Jack called Dez Calderon that very afternoon but did not get to talk to him until the next morning when Calderon called him
back. Jack filled him in on all the details.

“When are you scheduled to appear?” Calderon asked.

“Next Wednesday.”

“I’ve got to reschedule some things, but I’ll fly up Tuesday afternoon and we’ll go over everything and make our decisions.
Okay?”

“Sounds good,” Jack said, but it really didn’t sound good or bad. Calderon didn’t give him any assessment of the case at all.
He didn’t even talk about a fee. Jack was totally in the dark about a potential strategy.

I’m beginning to understand how a client feels
, Jack thought.

Dez Calderon arrived at Jack’s condo in a limo the following Tuesday afternoon. Henry was there with Jack. Calderon was a
smallish man, about five foot eight, with fine features. His short gray hair was groomed to perfection and his dark blue pinstriped
silk suit was tailor made. He was all business as he set his briefcase on the dining room table and shook Jack’s hand. Jack
introduced him to Henry, and Dez immediately asked Henry to leave the premises.

“You understand. I need to talk to my client in private.”

“No explanations necessary,” Henry said. “I know the drill. Jack, I’ll see you later.”

Once Henry left, Calderon gave Jack his assessment of the case.

“I read my notes of our telephone conversation on the way up and I had my secretary prepare a little synopsis of the Felton
case, which I read on the flight. You would think everybody in this town, especially the chief of police and the state attorney,
would want Felton dead. I don’t know why they’re prosecuting you.”

“I’m not sure either,” Jack said. “But Sam Jeffries—”

“That’s the chief?”

“Yeah. I think he might hold me responsible for Felton’s getting out of prison and killing his daughter.”

“The strongest motive in the world—revenge. Well, if they’re out to get you, you’re not going to help them. I’m going to call
the state attorney right now and tell him you’re not going to testify. We’ll see if we can work something out so you don’t
have to show up at all. Sometimes, if you just tell them you’re going to take the Fifth, they won’t require you to come in.
He’ll probably want something in writing signed by you and me, but that’s fine. I’ve already prepared the document.”

“Wait a minute. I think I should testify. I mean, I already admitted I shot the man. I can explain to the grand jury exactly
what I saw and why I was there.”

Dez Calderon just looked at Jack for what seemed like the longest time.

“I know you’re famous for your death penalty stuff,” he said finally, “but I also know you’re not a criminal lawyer, so let
me be brief. Whatever case they have against you right now, it’s because of what you’ve already said. They’re going to get
an indictment, you and I both know that. It’s just the way this world works. If they are out to get you, talking some more
will just lock you into your story and give them more information to twist into a coherent case against you. I know you’re
no boy scout, Jack, even though the newspapers make you out to be one. You know what I’m talking about. Bottom line—if I’m
representing you, you’re not testifying. Got it?”

“All right.”

Calderon opened his briefcase, which was lying on the dining room table, and took out a piece of paper. “This is a written
assertion of your Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination. I want you to sign it and I’ll sign it and then I’ll call
the state attorney.”

Jack read the document quickly and signed it while Calderon called Robert Merton on his cell phone. By the time Jack had finished
writing his name, Calderon was done.

“It’s all settled. Merton said they’ll probably be done today, which means you will be formally indicted probably tomorrow.
Be prepared to be arrested in the next day or so. Are you with me?”

“Yeah.”

All the time Calderon was talking, he was packing his briefcase. By the time Jack gave his brief answer, Calderon was headed
for the door.

“I’ve gotta run. I’ll be in touch with you in the next couple of days. Don’t worry about a thing.”

Jack
was
worried though. He followed Calderon and his silk suit out to the waiting limousine.

“Did he say what they were charging me with?”

“He did,” Calderon said as the driver opened the limo door and he got in.

“What is it?”

Calderon lowered the backseat window.

“First-degree murder.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll handle it. I gotta go.”

The limo driver took off for the airport and Dez Calderon’s private jet, leaving Jack standing dumbfounded in the parking
lot.

H
enry drove his own car, a Ford Explorer, to St. Albans, a city about an hour northwest of Tallahassee. It was a quiet, comfortable
ride, a far cry from his last trip to Tallahassee in Jack’s pickup.

He’d decided to go to St. Albans after his last conversation with Jack. When Dez Calderon left the condo, Henry was just pulling
into the parking lot. He found Jack standing outside about as upset as he’d ever seen him, and that was saying something considering
all the things that had occurred recently.

“What happened?” Henry asked after he’d parked his car and approached Jack, who hadn’t moved.

“Nothing. I’m just pissed.”

“At who?”

“Myself mostly.”

“For what?”

“I’ve just abdicated making my own decisions since Felton’s latest and last murder. I wanted to testify before the grand jury
and then I listened to you and Calderon. That son of a bitch was in and out of here in about fifteen minutes and when he left,
I was getting indicted for first-degree murder. I’ll bet I get a bill for ten grand for that little visit.”

“First-degree murder! I can’t believe that.”

“Well, believe it, Henry, because it’s true.”

“You can’t blame Calderon for that, Jack. That’s the prosecutor and Sam Jeffries. They’ve got it in for you. Calderon gave
you good advice not to testify. You can’t control what happens with the grand jury.”

“Henry, you’re my best friend and I love you, but I disagree with your assessment. Everybody says the grand jury is controlled
by the state attorney but that’s because there’s no other lawyer in the room. It’s just the state attorney presenting the
state’s case.

“If Calderon ever thought outside the box, he would have understood that if I testified, there would be two lawyers in the
room and that the possibility existed that I could persuade those jurors by my testimony that there was no crime. I can be
pretty convincing when I need to be.”

“I know that, my friend. There’s nobody better in a courtroom than you and there’s nobody I’d ever want representing me but
you. You can’t represent yourself, though. You’re too close to this. You need somebody dealing for you.”

“Maybe so, Henry, but I’ve got to be part of the process even if I’m the client. That’s not going to work with prima donnas
like Calderon.”

“We’ll find somebody you can work with, Jack.”

During those long years on death row, Henry, as part of his self-education, had read every book he could get his hands on.
One of the first subjects he had read about was the civil rights movement, especially how that movement had played out in
his home state of Florida. He figured that if he could understand the civil rights movement, its leaders, and what motivated
them, it might help him understand himself and turn his life around. He’d read about a lawyer in St. Albans, Florida, a white
man, who had put his life on the line on numerous occasions to protect innocent black people accused of crimes. The man’s
name was Tom Wylie. When he was released from prison, Henry eventually took a trip to St. Albans to see some of the historic
sites from the civil rights movement. While he was there, he stopped to see Tom Wylie. He just walked into the office, gave
the secretary his name, and two minutes later, he was shaking hands with the man himself.

“What brings you to these parts, Henry?” Tom asked after Henry had introduced himself and told Tom he was visiting from Miami.

“I know this city was a hotbed of action during the civil rights movement and I just wanted to visit the sites and meet you.”

“Me? Why would you want to meet me?”

“Well, I read about Rufus Porter for one thing, and the civil rights committee of which you were a member. There’s one particular
story I recall, about you single-handedly taking on the local Klan on a dirt road one night. You were riding shotgun for a
doctor on an emergency call to the black community and they stopped you. Is that true?”

Rufus Porter was a black man who had been accused of raping a white woman. There was no evidence to support the charge other
than the fact that Rufus was in the vicinity of the crime, but, in those days, that was enough. Tom had taken Rufus’s case
even though he’d put his own life in danger, and he had gotten Rufus off. The other story was true as well.

“You can’t believe everything you hear, son,” Tom said. He was a tall man, not as tall as Henry but close. And he was thin
like a reed, but strong. Henry could tell that from his handshake. His face and hands were tan and weathered, and he had a
full head of thick brown hair, cropped short, with only a stray strand of gray here and there, even though he had to be in
his midsixties. “I did represent a man named Rufus Porter but that story and the other one are way overblown.”

“Sure they are,” Henry said. “When I read Rufus Porter’s own account of the hair on his forearms standing straight whenever
he mentioned your name, that’s exactly the word I thought of—overblown.”

Tom changed the subject immediately. “Since you’re here, Henry Wilson, I guess I should be neighborly and take you to lunch.
After that, I’ll give you a short tour. I’m sure you’d like to see the Monsoon Hotel where the manager poured the acid in
the pool.”

“I would,” Henry replied.

At the height of the civil rights movement, when Congress was actually debating the Civil Rights Act and the southern senators
were filibustering, the manager of the Monsoon Hotel had poured acid in the hotel pool while a group of black and white protesters
were swimming. Somebody took a picture of the act and it made the newspapers all over the world. It was such a clear picture
of the racism that existed in the South, and the backlash was so great that it caused the senators to end their filibuster
and the Civil Rights Act to be passed.

Henry was so moved reading about the courage of the young demonstrators and people like Tom Wylie.
That’s who I want to be if I ever get out of here
, he’d thought to himself at the time. Now he was out and he was sitting at a table having lunch with Tom Wylie.

“So what’s your story, Henry?” Tom asked after they had ordered and had their drinks. Both men were drinking water.

“I was on death row for seventeen years. I just got released a couple of months ago.”

“That’s why your name sounded familiar to me,” Tom said. “I read all about your case. Jack Tobin represented you. Fine lawyer.
Good man, too. We’ve met a few times at different events over the years. Well, congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

The rest of the lunch went by quickly with Tom telling stories about St. Albans in the sixties and Henry telling stories about
life on death row, which Tom found fascinating.

“Now that you’ve got a new lease on life, what are you going to do?” Tom asked.

“I’m not sure exactly but I’m going to try to make a difference like you and Jack have.”

“Good for you, Henry.”

Henry didn’t know how to handle the compliment so he changed the subject as Tom Wylie had done a little while before.

“I want to ask you a question, Tom. I’m just curious.”

“Shoot.”

“Isn’t it hard to be a criminal lawyer? I mean, you have to represent everybody that comes in the door, don’t you?”

“I’m not a criminal lawyer, never was a criminal lawyer,” Tom replied.

“But Rufus Porter, and those other people I read about…”

“I didn’t say I didn’t represent people who were charged with crimes. I just said I’m not a criminal lawyer. I never represented
a person I didn’t believe was innocent. I could never get my arms around the idea of representing people I knew were guilty,
so I never did it.”

Henry was thinking about that previous visit and his conversations with Tom Wylie as he drove to St. Albans to ask Tom to
represent Jack. Both men were great lawyers and they shared the same values. It was only right that Jack should have somebody
like Tom representing him. The words were ringing in his ears—
a lawyer’s lawyer
. Henry knew he would have to be very convincing, though.

He’d called ahead and made an appointment but he didn’t say what it was about.

St. Albans was one of the oldest cities in the United States. Originally it had been founded and settled by the Spanish, and
the Old City reflected those roots. The city fathers had worked hard to keep the flavor of the Old City intact through zoning
ordinances and other similar regulations. New buildings had to be built in the old Spanish Colonial style and no building
could be over two stories in height. There was another part of St. Albans, the New City, that was modern and sleek and a commercial
center. Tom Wylie, however, lived in the Old City, and that’s where Henry was headed.

Tom was waiting for him.

“Henry, how are you? It’s been a long time,” he said as if they’d known each other all their lives. The two men had bonded
in that one afternoon they’d spent together, and Tom had kept up somewhat with Henry’s new life. He knew, for instance, that
Henry now worked with Jack.

“I’m fine, Tom. How about yourself?”

Henry noticed that Tom had changed somewhat over the years. The handshake was still strong but he looked thinner and his thick
brown hair had started to gray. For a moment he was concerned that Tom might be sick, but the handshake and the smile convinced
him that the man was just getting older.

“Getting a little long in the tooth but I can’t do anything about that. Come on into the office and sit down, and we’ll have
a chat. I know you’ve got something on your mind.”

They went into Tom’s office, and the two men sat in the client chairs next to each other. Tom didn’t want his big desk to
come between friends.

“So what is it, Henry? I assume it has something to do with our mutual friend Jack Tobin. I’ve been reading about the events
down in Oakville.”

Henry smiled. Tom was so perceptive. He probably knew what Henry was going to ask him already.

“It does,” he replied. “As you know, Jack has been indicted on first-degree murder charges.”

“They’re going after him because he represented that Felton character. I know this game. I’ve been there.”

“That’s why I’m here, Tom. You and Jack are so much alike. You have a passion for the law and for people just like he does.
Jack needs help, but he won’t be represented by just anybody. He needs somebody who can see all sides of an issue and who
will listen to his input. He needs you, Tom.”

Tom sat back in his chair and put his index finger to his lip, thinking about Henry’s words. After a few minutes he spoke.

“Have you talked to Jack about this?”

“Only to the extent that I told him I’d help find somebody for him. He knows he needs somebody.”

“I’m sure Jack can handle the preliminary stuff, including the bail proceedings.”

“He can,” Henry replied.

“I can clear my calendar to do this,” Tom said, thinking out loud. “I’ve been slowing down here for the last year or so. Henry,
you need to go back and talk to Jack. Tell him I’m willing to represent him if he wants me to. I can probably get down there
for a day sometime next week and we can go over everything in detail—start mapping a strategy.”

Henry was elated. “I’ll tell him. Thanks, Tom. And I know we haven’t talked about money, but I’ll pay whatever the fee is.”

“I’m sure that won’t be a problem. It will be a flat fee, and Jack and I will agree on a number together.”

Henry smiled again. “You’re the perfect lawyer for him.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I know this much though: When the state has it in for somebody—when it gets personal—they will move
mountains to get a conviction. Jack has pissed off people in power for a long time. They are going to go after him with a
bazooka.”