Chapter 4 – May God Forgive Me
Friday morning April 21, 2006 – 10:00 AM
Samuel Fox, better known by many as “Sammy the Fox”, listened half-heartedly to his court-appointed Defense Attorney Gene McCarthy as they sat in the defense consultation room of the Suffolk County Jail.
“This guy’s finally giving me a few minutes of his time…how nice of him,” thought Fox who, based on past experience, didn’t have much faith in the lawyers assigned to him by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.
“OK Sammy, here’s the deal. I talked to Breslin’s attorney and their strategy is going to be that his client had nothing to do with this, and while they are going to cast doubt on whether you killed Miller, they are going to contend that if you did do it, then you did it on your own.”
“And what the hell are we gonna do…let everyone shit all over us?” growled Fox, his icy, penetrating eyes drilling holes into his lawyer as he stared him down.
McCarthy was petrified just being in the presence of this hulk of a man, and he didn’t doubt that he could have been the one who pulled the trigger that ended Fred Miller’s life. But be that as it may, there was no physical evidence against his client, and he planned to defend him as vigorously as possible.
The 58 year old, balding McCarthy, all 5’ 3” and 130 pounds of him, was a mild-and-meek looking man, but he was actually a very capable defense attorney who could also be quite ruthless in his own unique forum…that is to say, in the courtroom.
McCarthy was known to tell his clients, “I’m the best attorney that money can’t buy,” referring to the fact that as a public defender, most of his clients would never pay him a penny.
“Now calm down Sammy. They have every right to use that strategy. In a way it makes perfect sense for both of us, this way we can demand separate trials. Breslin’s attorney doesn’t want his client to be tried with you because of your past record. He thinks Breslin will be found guilty by association. And we don’t want to be tried with him because he had a motive to have this guy killed, whereas you had no motive other than the money that the government is contending Breslin paid you.”
“I told you already, Breslin gave me a thousand bucks, that’s it… and if you don’t believe me then get the fuck out of here and bring me in someone who does,” demanded Fox.
“Relax Sammy…I do believe you. And I think you have a decent chance to walk out of this place if you just listen to me. Now let’s go over your story again,” replied McCarthy.
“I already told you the damned story. What are you trying to do, catch me in a lie?” exclaimed an irritated Fox, and for all-the-world it looked as though he was about to jump over the table and choke the life out of his defenseless lawyer.
“Of course not…I just need to know that your story is consistent, and that it will hold up against the evidence that the government intends to present in court,” assured McCarthy, while at the same time he was skittishly thinking, “It’s a good thing that there are two prison guards standing right outside this door, watching us.”
“First of all, I hardly even know Breslin. I met him through my old girlfriend, Nancy O’Brien. She worked with him. The fuckin’ asshole got a hard-on hanging around with me because I’m an ex-con. He started calling me day and night….telling me about a problem he’s having with his wife…she’s seeing some dude…he wants me to go talk to the guy and maybe slap him around a bit to scare him away. I felt sorry for Breslin so I told him I’d do it for a thousand bucks. Breslin gives me the money, but then I never get around to doing the job, and then I had to check into the VA hospital for knee replacement surgery. And wouldn’t you know it, Breslin starts visiting me at the hospital. I couldn’t get rid of the guy…and he kept calling me every fuckin’ day…and eventually I’d had enough. So I finally told him to ‘go fuck off and by the way you’re not getting your money back’ is what I told him…end of story,” insisted Fox.
“But there’s evidence that Breslin called you the night before the murder,” replied McCarthy.
“Like I just told you, he called me so many fuckin’ times that he was starting to drive me crazy,” added Fox as he shifted nervously in his seat.
“Then on the day of the murder there is evidence that you tried to contact Breslin at his office…and there is evidence that he called you that night…and there is evidence that he met up with you a couple of nights later, and that he transferred a large sum of cash over to you,” rebutted McCarthy.
And even though his attorney’s statement of the facts caused Fox to become even more agitated than he already was, he grumpily continued with his explanation anyway.
“Look this is how it went down. I heard on the news that this guy Miller got whacked so I tried to call Breslin and ask him what the fuck happened. You think if I killed the guy I’m gonna immediately start calling people and bragging about it? I’m not that fuckin’ stupid. And I don’t remember him calling me on the night of the murder…and I sure as hell didn’t meet up with him after the murder. He never gave me another penny. That’s a bunch of bullshit.”
“Sammy, I honestly believe you, and I think we can win this case. It’s probably going to take a couple of years before we go to trial, but in the meantime I’m going to try and get some of the more damaging evidence suppressed. However, I have to warn you that Breslin might be scheduled to go on trial before you, and if things go badly for him, his attorney might advise him to rat you out…and who knows, he might even turn government’s witness. I’m just speculating here, but I want to prepare you for anything that might come up,” warned McCarthy, and this healthy dose of reality enraged his client.
Fox punched his fist down on the table so hard that it sent a loud bang echoing through the room which got the attention of the prison guards, but McCarthy waved them off.
“If that motherfucker Breslin tries to pin this rap on me, he’d better hope he’s in solitary confinement for the rest of his fuckin’ life because I know people in the joint who’ll shank a stool pigeon like him without thinking twice about it. And if he’s lucky enough to make it back out on the streets, well I got friends out there too who’ll be waiting to greet him with open arms,” replied Fox with an evil laugh.
“Look Sammy you can’t be talking about this stuff in front of me. I’ll pretend I never heard that. Now let’s go over your record again. What the hell happened in 77?”
“It’s a simple story, really. I’m delivering pizzas in the hood, never had a problem before that night…it’s around midnight and a couple of brothers decide to rob me. I said to them ‘look dudes take the money I don’t want any trouble’ but one of them has to be a tough guy and he pulls a piece on me…and I just freaked out,” explained Fox.
“What do you mean you freaked out?” asked McCarthy.
“What do I mean?” replied Fox incredulously. “Have you ever had a fuckin’ gun pulled on you? I thought I was gonna fuckin’ die. My fuckin’ life flashed before my eyes, so I throw the pizza box up in the air, and lucky for me it distracts them. Then I grab the dude with the gun by the wrist and pulled his arm around his back…almost snapped his limb right off at the shoulder. Then the other dude comes at me with a knife, so I kicked him in the balls with my army boots. Sent him flying in the air, grabbing his nuts. Now he’s out of the picture, but the dude with the gun is still struggling for all he’s worth and somehow the gun went off…and hit him.”
“The evidence shows that the victim was shot in the back,” added McCarthy in an even tempered voice.
“THE VICTIM…what do you mean the fuckin’ victim? I was the fuckin’ victim! I was a fuckin’ war hero for Christ Sake’s. An honorable discharge from the Army…I served my time in Nam. And this guy tries to rob me…and kill me for all I know. So I defend myself, and after that it don’t matter what fuckin’ happened. The son of a bitch deserved to die, but the State of Massachusetts they don’t see it that way…no, the cr
ook’s the victim and I’m a fuckin’ murderer. I could still be locked up for that bullshit charge if those law schools students don’t come along and help me plead it down to manslaughter. But still, the fuckin’ State took four years of my life and for what…for defending myself against some nigger punks,” roared Fox, the rage in him still strong, almost 30 years later.
“I understand Sammy…and if it makes you feel any better I think it’s a crime that you even did one day in prison for that charge,” replied McCarthy in a consoling tone before calmly adding, “and what about the gun charges?”
“The gun charges? I had to make a fuckin’ living. No one’s gonna hire someone like me for a decent job. Look, the guns I dealt with got smuggled overseas. They weren’t used on the street to commit any crimes around here…but anyway, I did my time. I was trying to straighten up my act and now this…now this fuckin’ Breslin gets me mixed up in his fuckin’ problems,” fumed Fox.
By now, McCarthy had all of the information he needed, so he packed up his briefcase as quickly as possible and waved in the guards. However, on his way out the door he seemed to have a change of heart and he hesitantly turned back towards Fox and vowed, “If it’s any consolation Sammy, once again I reiterate that I believe you, and I’m convinced that I can get you off.”
But Fox apparently didn’t hear another word that McCarthy said to him. He was suddenly immersed in austerity; totally preoccupied with a doodling he was making on a scrap of paper. And moreover, the artistic masterpiece that he was in the process of creating depicted the crude sketching of a graveyard filled with crosses, which coincidentally enough, matched a tattoo that was plastered across his upper back.
“Breslin better hope that I never get my hands on him…’cause I’ll ring his neck. I’ll choke the shit out of him…choke the fuckin’ life out of him,” seethed Fox as his face began to turn a purple shade of red. And as the guards led him back to his cell, he crumpled up the sullied piece of paper with such a force that his fingernails cut into the palm of his hand, which drew blood…and in the process, lured out the madman that lay hidden within his soul.
…
Meanwhile, as Defense Attorney Gene McCarthy left the jailhouse and slowly ambled back to his car, he made the sign of the cross and muttered to himself; “I just might be able to get this crazy bastard off…and if I do…may God forgive me.”