Benny Avrile was no longer the fast-talking, pot-smoking flimflam man he’d been a year ago. At five feet, eight inches and slight of build, the young, fairly handsome Benny had been a sight for sore eyes to more than a few inmates who thought it would be easy to make him their bitch.
Benny had known what was coming. He’d heard enough horror stories over the years from ex-cons-none of whom ever admitted to being molested-to realize that he was literally going to have to fight for his ass. It wasn’t going to be the first time, however, and his experience as a foster kid had given him at least some preparation. Back then when his back was to the wall, Benny had always come out swinging. He adopted the same attitude the day he walked through the prison gates. If somebody even looked at him wrong, he hit him and hit him again and kicked him in the balls and bit him and head-butted him and didn’t stop until the guards pulled him off. The next day he’d do it all over again, constantly the aggressor, never waiting for somebody to make a move on him. He talked to nobody. If somebody talked to him he hit him and hit him and hit him. He was put in solitary a few times and got beaten up by the guards, but nothing stopped him. Eventually he didn’t get the looks anymore. He’d been tagged as crazy and was left alone.
Now Benny the crazy man was led into the room where Jack and Henry were waiting. Two guards were with him, and he was handcuffed. When they’d seated him, the guards left the room and waited right outside, where they could still see through a window in the door.
Henry knew that once Benny was convicted his accoutrements would change. He’d have leg and waist shackles as well as handcuffs, and the guards would never leave the room. Henry also saw the look of the animal in Benny’s eyes, a look he had seen many times.
Jack started the interview.
“Mr. Avrile, my name is Jack Tobin. I’m a lawyer. Your father has asked me to look into your case and, if possible, to represent you in your upcoming trial.”
“So you’re here to check me out to see if you really want to do it,” Benny growled.
“Something like that,” Jack answered.
Benny was conducting his own assessment. Jack certainly looked a lot more competent than Sal Paglia, but looks could be deceiving. He was probably another flunky that his father got for a bargain-basement price. But who was the big black guy? He certainly didn’t look like a lawyer.
Henry read his mind.
“I’m Henry Wilson, Benny,” he said. “I spent seventeen years on death row in Florida before Jack got me released last year. He’s the real deal, in case you’re wondering.”
Benny turned to Jack to respond. “If you’re the real deal, my father must be paying you a hell of a lot of money.”
“This isn’t about money,” Jack told him. “I knew your father when we were teenagers. I have a great deal of respect for him.”
Benny rolled his eyes. He didn’t know it, but he was on the verge of burying the only hope he had left.
At that moment, Henry decided to take over. “Benny!” he said sharply but not very loudly, and he waited for Benny’s eyes to meet his. “My mother was a heroin addict,” he began, keeping his gaze fixed on Benny. “She used to bring these guys home who beat the shit out of me every day. I was six years old when I found her dead by a creek near where we lived. I was put into the foster system, which was as bad as any prison I was ever in. I had my own bout with drugs and everything else on the street, and I despised my mother for the life she’d given me. I never even knew my father. But when I was strapped to that gurney and they were about to put my lights out forever, all I thought about was seeing my mother and hugging her and telling her I understood because I had my own demons. You hear what I’m saying?”
Benny nodded. Henry had tapped into something that he didn’t believe anybody else understood.
“Your father,” Henry continued, “had his own demons. He was drafted into a war he knew nothing about and he lost his best friend in the process-which drove him to heroin. We could talk about how he got there just like we could talk about how we got there. That part doesn’t matter. What matters is that he picked himself up and he fought his way back and now all he wants to do is help you. Yeah, he feels guilty, and he should feel guilty. He’s doing something about it, though. He’s had a second chance, and he wants you to have one. You’ve got to get past your hate and let him-and us-help you.”
Henry stopped talking but continued to look directly into Benny’s eyes. It was a challenge. Henry was waiting for some straight talk back.
Benny didn’t speak right away, but there was no mistaking the emotion in his eyes and on his face.
“I got past it once-the hate,” he finally said. “I’d wanted to kill them both, but then I let it go. It all came rushing back when I saw him again. This ain’t exactly the best place to sort out your feelings, if you know what I mean. I hear you, though. And I know you’re right. It’s just gonna take me some time to get there.”
“I’m with you,” Henry replied. “One other question: is there a bar you used to hang out in?”
“Yeah, Tillie’s.”
“Does the bartender know you?”
“Tillie’s the bartender. Yeah, he knows me. Why?”
“I’ll tell you the next time we see you.” Henry looked at Jack to see if there was anything else he wanted to talk about. Jack shook his head. Henry stood up, reached across the table, and shook Benny’s hand.
“You were awfully quiet in there,” Henry said to Jack as they were walking to the car. It was exactly the same comment Jack had made after their visit to Bruce Sentner, the public defender.
“Touche!” Jack replied. “Actually, there was no room for me in there. You two were in your own world. You get it now, Henry, don’t you? If you hadn’t come on this trip I would never have seen that other side of Benny. I’m not convinced yet, but if I’d been by myself today I’d be heading for the airport now.”
“You’re probably right,” Henry replied. “Now, I think we should pay a little visit to Tillie.”
45
Jack had a general idea from reading the police files where Tillie’s was-general in the sense that he knew it was in the South Bronx. They looked up the address in the phone book but had to stop a couple of times on the way to get directions from people on the street. By seven o’clock that evening, they were sitting at the bar, talking to Tillie.
“If you guys can hang on a few minutes,” Tillie said after they had introduced themselves, “I’ll be off the bar and we can sit in the back and talk.” So Henry and Jack each ordered a club soda and waited for Tillie to get off. The six other people in the bar looked at them like they had some sort of disease. One by one they stopped looking, however, when Henry returned their stares.
Fifteen minutes later, Tillie led them to a table in the back so that they could talk freely.
“So one of you guys is gonna represent Benny?” he asked, just to make sure he had it right.
“It’s a possibility,” Jack replied. “We’re kind of in the investigative stage.”
“How do I know that you are who you say you are?”
“You mean are we cops or something?” Jack suggested.
“I don’t wanna seem like an asshole or anything, but the thought had crossed my mind, yeah.”
“Do I look like a cop?” Henry asked. “Besides, we’re not going to ask you about anything that could hurt Benny. If we do, then you can refuse to talk to us. We just want to get a little flavor of who the guy is. He gave us your name.”
“All right,” Tillie said. “I don’t know if I can help you that much, but I’ll tell you what I know.”