One of those “others” was Sonny. Billy often included Fellino’s on his rounds to sell his goods, and Sonny had bought a TV from him once, among other things. Johnny’s story had struck just the right note of believability with Sonny.
“That was some quick thinking,” Frankie told Johnny after he’d described what happened. “Mikey, you were right. Johnny is the Mayor of Lexington Avenue. A mayor’s gotta think on his feet. Only a mayor could come up with a tale like that.”
Johnny and Mikey had recently secured jobs as ushers at St. Francis, the local Catholic Church. Father Burke, the pastor, had dubbed Mikey the Mayor of Lexington Avenue because, as he told Mikey’s mother, Mikey knew more people than he did, even though he had the pulpit. Mikey, in turn, had passed the moniker on to Johnny, telling him that a mayor was smart and knew how to run things and that the description fit Johnny more than himself. The nickname hadn’t caught on in the neighborhood yet. Johnny’s story to Sonny gave it fresh legs.
Something else happened that third week of practice that changed the course of the season. Some boys from north of the unofficial Ninety-sixth Street boundary line came to join the team. There were eight of them: one white guy, one Puerto Rican, and six blacks.
Johnny never knew for sure how they ever found out there was a team called the Lexingtons that practiced in Central Park, but he had his suspicions. Frankie O’Connor lived in that neighborhood, and Frankie made a point of walking up and shaking hands with each one of these new guys. It was a message to everybody else. The coach had to be in on it, too, because the new guys were on the team from the moment they arrived.
Johnny would soon find out why.
13
Anthony Webster, the prosecutor’s investigator in Henry Wilson’s case, did not live in Lake City-as Ted Griffin had surmised-but in Live Oak, a small community in north central Florida that was in the same general vicinity as Lake City. Jack figured that was probably the story of Ted Griffin’s life: he got things almost right.
It didn’t take Jack long to get the correct information. Like most investigators, Anthony Webster had been a retired cop before going to the state’s attorney’s office and starting to work on his second pension. Jack called his good friend Joaquin Sanchez, a retired homicide detective with the Miami Police Department, and told him his predicament. Twenty minutes later Joaquin called back with the address and number.
“You know the rules, Jack,” Joaquin said. “You don’t know where you got the information from, and you and Pat are going to have to take Maria and me out to dinner soon.”
“Gotcha, Joaquin. We need to get together anyway-it’s been too long. I’ll call you next week.”
Joaquin and his wife, Maria, had worked closely with Jack and Pat and another retired Miami homicide detective, Dick Radek, on Rudy Kelly’s case. They had all lived in the same house for a time and become close friends.
“Where did you get this number?” was the first question Anthony Webster asked after Jack introduced himself on the telephone.
“It’s not important,” Jack answered. It was the wrong thing to say.
“Hell it’s not! I don’t like people knowing where I am and snooping around in my business.”
“I know somebody you know, Mr. Webster.” It was a lie but a plausible one. “I had to convince that person that I would only use this number once. I also had to convince that person there was an important enough reason for me to have the number.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. For a moment Jack wasn’t sure if Webster was still there.
“So what is it that’s so important?” Webster finally asked.
“A man’s life.”
“Oh shit, you’re not one of those DNA activists, are you? ‘Everybody in jail is innocent! Everybody was wrongfully convicted!’”
Jack could tell this was going to be a challenging interview.
“No, nothing like that. DNA isn’t involved. It’s about a death-row case though, a man named Henry Wilson. He was convicted seventeen years ago based solely on the testimony of a convicted felon, David Hawke. Do you remember that case at all?”
“Not at all,” Webster replied.
Jack refused to be deterred by Webster’s faulty memory. “The deceased was a guy named Clarence Waterman, a drug dealer who also worked as a hairdresser. David Hawke said he drove Henry Wilson and Hawke’s cousin to Waterman’s place and waited while they killed him and then drove them away.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Neither David Hawke nor his cousin were ever charged with the crime, even though by Hawke’s own testimony they were both guilty.”
That last remark finally hit pay dirt. “That kind of shit happened all the time. Who was the prosecutor?”
Jack thought back to the records he had reviewed but couldn’t come up with the name. “I’m not sure. It was Man-something.”
“Mancuso?”
“That’s it.”
“It figures,” Webster replied. “Mancuso was famous for shit like that. I’ll never testify to that though, so I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Hang on a second, Mr. Webster. An attorney named Ted Griffin represented a guy named James Vernon-”
“Ted Griffin,” Webster interrupted Jack again. “Now, there’s a piece of shit.” Jack had him interested again-at least momentarily.
“Yeah, I’m with you on that one,” Jack replied, feeding right into the negativity. “Anyway, Vernon was a possible suspect in this murder. At least, that’s what the defense thought, and Griffin says that Vernon told him he’d talked to you. Do you remember that?”
“Do you have any idea how many thousands of people I’ve talked to? No way can I remember one particular interview.”
Jack was at his wit’s end. Of course Webster couldn’t remember. The murder happened seventeen years ago. He kept talking though.
“Would you have taken any notes? Where would they be?”
Jack was never to know why Anthony Webster gave him anything. Maybe the man had it in for the prosecutor, Mancuso. Maybe he simply didn’t like the system that allowed a man to be convicted on a felon’s word. But something Jack said flipped a switch in the former investigator.
“I always suspected that somebody was going to get caught with their tit in the wringer one day for using convicted felons as prosecution witnesses in cases like this. Don’t get me wrong-most of the prosecutors were hard-working, honest guys. Every barrel always has a few rotten apples, you know what I mean?”
Jack took his cue. “I sure do.”
“I don’t know if any notes exist, Mr. Tobin. I always made notes of my interviews, so if I interviewed this guy, there is a record of it. Prosecutors, especially guys like Mancuso, never produced those notes to the defense. They claimed they were work-product or some other bullshit terminology lawyers use when they don’t want to produce something. Anyway, those notes would probably be considered a public record by now. If you make a written request for the investigator’s notes in the prosecutor’s file for Henry Wilson, they should produce them, if they exist. You can call too. Ask for Margo Drake-she’s the records custodian. She can help you. Just tell her it’s a public record-those are the magic words. You didn’t get this information from me though. Understood?”
“Understood,” Jack replied, crossing his fingers.
Webster hung up the phone before Jack had an opportunity to thank him.