The Lawyer's Lawyer

PART FOUR





April 21, 2003

St. Albans, Florida





CHAPTER Fifty-One



Henry 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.”