“I may not be for long, Jack. If the Judicial Qualifications Commission gets wind of half of what I’ve done, I’m toast.”
“I’ll represent you, Wofford. Count on it.”
“I appreciate that, Jack, but you know, I haven’t felt so good since God knows when. Knowing that I’m helping to rectify a wrong that I was part of is all I need to sleep at night. By the way, Judge Fletcher set the evidentiary hearing for two weeks from today.”
“We’ll be ready. I’ll get my subpoenas out right away. And you can also count on me telling Henry all about your efforts on his behalf.”
“Thanks, Jack. I appreciate that too.”
Henry’s circumstances had certainly changed since the day before-and not all to the good. He was no longer facing imminent death-so he was back in chains, and the couch and chairs were gone. He and Jack were returned to the sterile room where everything was bolted to the ground. Jack could tell Henry was still a little groggy from the injection and still a little shocked by the turn of events.
“I was in a good place yesterday, Jack. I was ready to die-with dignity. But when they strapped me on that gurney and pressed that needle into my skin, I felt degraded, like some sort of guinea pig. Now I’m back in my little cell until they decide to do this again. What the hell do they think I am? I’ll tell you this, Jack-the next time they strap me in will be the last. Everything is different now.”
“I’m with you, Henry. We’re going to have a hearing before Judge Fletcher in two weeks, and she’s going to decide whether there’s enough evidence to grant you a new trial or not. If the answer is yes, you probably won’t be retried, since the state’s only witnesses are dead. If the answer is no, there will be no more appeals. No more stays. The next time they strap you in will definitely be the last.”
“Geez, Jack, don’t sugarcoat it like that.”
For a second Jack didn’t know how to take Henry’s last comment. It wasn’t until the big man started to laugh that he followed suit.
“By the way, Henry, this reprieve was all Wofford Benton’s doing.” Jack told him blow-by-blow about Wofford’s encounter with Judge Fletcher.
“And she still granted the motion after all that?”
“She did,” Jack replied. “Which means you have a good judge hearing your case now.”
“And a good lawyer defending me,” Henry replied. “Give Wofford my thanks, Jack.”
Jack was greeted at home as the great liberator by Pat and Charlie.
“I’m so proud of you, Jack,” Pat told him. “You saved Henry’s life.”
“It wasn’t me. It was Wofford. And besides, it’s not over yet. We’re going to have an evidentiary hearing in two weeks.”
Pat seemed to be feeling pretty good, so Jack suggested they take Charlie out to dinner at La Taqueria, their favorite restaurant in Bass Creek, to thank her for forcing herself on them when they needed her most.
Because of its location in southern Florida, Bass Creek was home to many people from south of the border-Cuba, Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras, Colombia. Many were transients who worked in the orange groves and the sugar fields, and they formed their own barrio in the northwest part of town. La Taqueria was on the border of that barrio. Its decor reflected that boundary location, which was one of the reasons Jack loved it. Nestled between portraits of matadors and bulls and Spanish, Cuban, and Central American landscapes were stuffed deer heads, gators, and jackrabbits, together with Florida State and University of Miami pennants. There was even a rectangular sign that had no ties to any part of the community. It read: Tips up, Aspen, Colorado.
The menu at La Taqueria reflected its diversity as well. There were Cuban, Spanish, and Mexican dishes alongside some typical American fare. The meals were tasty and plentiful and the prices were low, so just about everybody came to partake. It was the genuine melting pot of town-busy every night, the conversation always loud and lively.
Not too many people knew that it was owned by a husband-and-wife team who were Irish and Jewish, respectively. Lisa served as the friendly, helpful hostess while Mike stayed in the back and supervised the kitchen. Since Jack and Pat were frequent patrons, they had become friends with the owners over the years. No matter how busy it was, Lisa always managed to find a table for Jack and Pat in Rose’s section. Rose, a robust Cuban woman, was their favorite waitress.
“How’s my favorite lawyer?” Rose would say every time as she planted a big kiss on his cheek. She always had a hug for Pat too, but both women knew that she saved her greatest affection for Jack.
“The chicken chimichanga is great tonight,” she told them.
“I’ll have that,” Pat said. She knew she would pay for the choice later, but she didn’t care. Tonight she was going to have fun. So far, Pat had avoided most of the symptoms of chemotherapy, although she had slowed down somewhat. She was nauseated from time to time, however, and Mexican food was not exactly the prescribed diet.
“I’ll have that too,” Charlie piped in.
“Just give me one of Mike’s Cubans, Rose, with some black beans and rice,” Jack said, having not even looked at the menu.
“And a pitcher of sangria,” Pat added, looking at Charlie and Jack. “I’m with the man I love and my best friend and I’m feeling good. I’m going to have a good time and that’s it.” Jack saw the sparkle in her eye and decided not to say anything. It was best to enjoy the moment.
“I’m going home for a week and then I’m coming back,” Charlie told them after Rose had brought the pitcher and filled their glasses.
“No, Charlie,” Jack protested. “You’ve already done enough. We’ll manage, won’t we, honey?”
“Listen, it’s not an inconvenience for me,” Charlie responded quickly. “This is still the off season in the tax world, and I’ve got more vacation time than I know what to do with. If I don’t use it, I’ll lose it. Besides, I love it here. And Jack, I covet your pool. Do you know what it’s like to swim in a lane with three other people every day? I know you think I’m going out of my way for you guys, but there’s a lot in it for me.”
Pat shrugged. “She’s hard to fight, Jack. And she never takes no for an answer.”
“Charlie, you should have been a used-car salesman,” Jack told her. In truth, he was glad once again that Charlie was so insistent. With her there, he could devote his attention to Henry’s hearing without worrying constantly about Pat.
“Then it’s settled,” Charlie declared. “I’m going to go home for a week, and then I’ll be back. That’ll give you a full week when I return to prepare for your hearing, Jack.”
They had a second pitcher of sangria and talked and laughed into the evening. Jack kept one eye on Pat. He was sure this wasn’t good for her, although she continued to laugh and to sparkle.
“By the way, your Uncle Bill came by every day you were gone,” Pat told him.
“Really? Does he know you’re sick?”
“He must. He hasn’t said anything to me directly, but there’s no other reason he’d be coming around so much.”
Not long after he came to Bass Creek, Jack had persuaded his Uncle Bill to move from St. Petersburg, a city on the west coast of Florida. Uncle Bill was eighty-seven years young and Jack had always been close to him. He was a retired merchant marine, a salty old tar and a sharp contrast to his brother, Jack’s dad, who had been an accountant. Jack had gravitated to his colorful uncle at an early age. It was only natural that he would want Uncle Bill close to him when he himself retired to Bass Creek to become a fisherman.
Uncle Bill had very quickly established his own group of friends and usually only visited Jack and Pat one night a week for dinner. “I don’t like to be a bother,” he’d told Jack when Jack had inquired why they saw him so seldom.
“It’s really strange how word just gets out in Bass Creek,” Jack said.
“It sure is,” Pat agreed.
Pat paid a price for her fun night out. Although she’d only had two small glasses of sangria, she was miserable the next day. The combination of wine, food, and Taxol and Carboplatin, her chemotherapy cocktail, was simply too much for her system.