The Guardians: The explosive new thriller from international bestseller John Grisham (13 page)

When the table is cleared I ask for the check. I graciously thank them and offer my admiration for her courage in coming forward. I promise not to prepare the affidavit until she makes up her mind. We say goodbye in the parking lot and I watch them drive away. I return to the restaurant and walk to our table to fetch a baseball cap I deliberately left behind. When no one is looking I swap the salt and pepper shakers with two from my pocket.

Three miles down the road, I exit the interstate and pull into the parking lot of a shopping center. Seconds later, Frankie wheels in, parks next to me, and gets into the front seat, all smiles. He holds a small recorder and says, “Clear as a bell.”

This can be a dirty business. We are forced to deal with witnesses who have lied, police who have fabricated evidence, experts who have misled juries, and prosecutors who have suborned perjury. We, the good guys, often find that getting our hands dirty is the only way to save our clients.

If Carrie Holland Pruitt refuses to cooperate and sign an affidavit, then I’ll find a way to get her statements into the court record. I’ve done it before.

Chapter 15

Our hands get even dirtier. Frankie has hired an investigator out of Birmingham to stalk Mark Carter, the man who raped and murdered Emily Broone. He lives in the small town of Bayliss, ten miles from Verona, where Duke Russell was convicted. Carter sells tractors for a dealer in Verona, and he ends most workdays at a dive where he meets some buddies for a few beers and pool.

He is at a table drinking Bud Light from a bottle when a man stumbles and crashes into the little party. Bottles fly as beer is spilled. The man gets to his feet, apologizing profusely, and the situation is tense for a moment. He scoops up the half-empty bottles, buys another round, and keeps apologizing. He sets four fresh bottles on the table and cracks a joke. Carter and his pals finally laugh. All is well as the man, our investigator, retreats to a corner and pulls out his cell phone. In a coat pocket he has the beer bottle Carter was working on.

The next day, Frankie drives it to a lab in Durham and hands it over, along with a single pubic hair we filched from the police evidence file. Guardian pays $6,000 for an expedited test. The results are beautiful. We now have DNA proof linking Carter to the rape and murder.

At Duke’s trial, seven pubic hairs were entered into evidence by the State of Alabama. They were supposedly collected from the crime scene, from Emily’s body. Duke submitted samples of his own. With great certainty, the State’s expert testified that they matched those found on the corpse, overwhelming proof that Duke raped Emily before he strangled her. Another expert testified that he also bit her several times during the assault.

There was no semen found in or around her body. Undaunted by this, the prosecutor, Chad Falwright, simply told the jury that Duke “had probably just used a condom.” There was no proof of this, one was never found, but this made perfect sense to the jury. To get a death verdict, Falwright had to prove murder plus rape. The victim was naked and had probably been sexually assaulted, but the proof was weak. The pubic hairs became crucial evidence.

In a sober moment, Duke’s lawyer asked the court for money to hire his own expert hair analyst. The court said no. The lawyer either knew nothing about DNA testing or didn’t want to bother with it. He may have assumed the court would not authorize it. Thus, the seven pubic hairs were never tested.

But they were certainly analyzed. The expert testimony sent Duke to death row, and three months ago came within two hours of getting him killed.

Now we have the truth.

Verona sits in the center of the state, in a desolate, sparsely populated flatland packed with piney woods. For its 5,000 inhabitants, a good job is driving a pulpwood truck, a bad one is sacking groceries. One in five has no job at all. It’s a depressing place, but then most of my stops are in towns that time has passed by.

Chad Falwright’s office is in the courthouse, just down the dusty hallway from where Duke was convicted nine years ago. I’ve been here once before and would prefer to avoid it in the future. This meeting will not be pleasant, but I’m accustomed to that. Most prosecutors despise me and the sentiments are mutual.

As agreed upon, I arrive at 1:58 p.m. and give a nice smile to Chad’s secretary. It’s obvious she does not like me either. He’s busy, of course, and she invites me to have a seat under a dreadful portrait of a scowling and, hopefully, dead judge. Ten minutes pass as she pecks away at a keyboard. There are no sounds coming from his office. Fifteen minutes. After twenty minutes, I say rudely, “Look, we made an appointment for two p.m. I drove a long way to get here, now what the hell is going on?”

She glances at an old desk phone and says, “He’s still talking to a judge.”

“Does he know I’m out here?” I demand, loud enough for him to hear.

“Yes. Now please.”

I sit down, wait ten more minutes, then walk to his door and knock loudly. Before he or she can say anything, I barge in and find Chad not on the phone but at his window, as if enthralled by the vibrant city below.

“We agreed on two o’clock, Chad. What the hell?”

“Sorry, Post. I was on the phone with a judge. Come on in.”

“Don’t mind if I do. I drove five hours to get here. A little courtesy would be nice.”

“My apologies,” he says sarcastically and falls into his large leather swivel. He’s about my age and has spent the last fifteen years prosecuting criminals, primarily cookers and peddlers of meth. By far his most thrilling case was Emily’s murder. Three months ago, as the clock ticked, he chased every TV reporter within sight and chatted about the burdens of his job.

“No problem,” I say and take a seat.

“What’s on your mind?” he asks and glances at his watch.

“We’ve done some DNA testing,” I say and manage to maintain my sour expression. What I want to do is get in his face with some serious smack. “We know who the real killer is, Chad, and it ain’t Duke Russell.”

He takes it well. “Do tell.”

“Do tell. We obtained a sample from the killer and matched it with one of the State’s pubic hairs. Bad news, Chad. You got the wrong man.”

“You tampered with our evidence?”

“Brilliant. You’re more concerned with my sins than with your own. You almost executed an innocent man, Chad. Don’t worry about me. I’m just the guy who’s found the truth.”

“How did you steal a pubic hair?”

“It was easy. You gave me the file, remember? A year ago, down the hall. For two days I sweated in that cramped little room and went through the evidence. One pubic hair stuck to my finger. A year has passed and no one here has even realized it.”

“You stole a pubic hair. Unbelievable.”

“Didn’t steal it, Chad. I just borrowed it. You refused DNA testing, so somebody had to do it. Indict me, I don’t care. You have bigger problems right now.”

He exhales as his shoulders sag. A minute passes as he collects his thoughts. Finally, “Okay, who killed her?”

“The last man seen with her before she was murdered. Mark Carter. They had a history from high school. The cops should have pursued him, but didn’t for some reason.”

“How do you know it’s him?”

“Got a sample.”

“How?”

“A beer bottle. He likes beer, leaves behind a lot of bottles. We ran to the lab and I’ve brought you a copy of the test results.”

“You stole a beer bottle too?”

“Indict me again, Chad, and keep playing games. Look in the mirror, man, and give it up. Your bogus prosecution is going down the drain and you’re about to be humiliated.”

He offers a goofy grin and gives me a prosecutor’s favorite line: “No way, Post, I still believe in my case.”

“Then you’re an idiot, Chad. But we knew that a long time ago.” I toss a copy of the report on his desk and head for the door.

“Wait a minute, Post,” he says. “Let’s finish the conversation. Assuming you’re telling the truth here, what, uh, what’s next?”

I sit down calmly and crack my knuckles. Duke will get out earlier if I can persuade Chad to cooperate. If he fights me, which prosecutors usually do, then the exoneration will take months instead of weeks.

“Here’s the best way out of this, Chad, and I’m not going to argue strategy here. For a change, I’m holding all the cards. There are six other pubic hairs. Let’s get them tested too, so we’ll know a lot more. If all seven exclude Duke, then he walks. If all seven nail Carter, then you have a new case on your hands. If you agree to the additional testing, then things will go smooth. If you block it, then I’ll file in state court, probably lose, then go to federal court. Eventually, I’ll get the testing done and you know it.”

Reality sets in and he is angry. He pushes his chair back and walks to the window, deep in thought. He breathes heavily, rolls his head around as his neck crackles, strokes his chin. What all of this produces should surprise me, but it doesn’t. Not anymore. He says, “You know, Post, I can see both of them there with Emily, taking turns.”

“You can’t see the sky, Chad, because you don’t want to.” I stand and walk to the door.

“I believe in my case, Post.”

“Here’s the plan, Chad. You have two weeks. If you’re still delusional in two weeks, I’ll file my motion for testing and I’ll also sit down with Jim Bizko at
The Birmingham News.
As you know, he’s covered the case and we’re acquaintances. When I tell him about the DNA, you’ll be front-page news and it won’t be the headlines you dream about. Between Bizko and myself, we can paint you as one enormous fool, Chad. Won’t be that hard.”

I open the door and leave. My last image of Chad is him standing at the window, gawking at me, stunned, mouth-breathing, thoroughly defeated. I wish I could have taken a photo.

I leave Verona in a hurry and settle in for the long drive to death row. Duke doesn’t know about the DNA results. I want to tell him in person. Our meeting will be a wonderful occasion.

Chapter 16

There is no urgent need for me to visit Seabrook. All of the players in Quincy’s trial have either died, retired, fled, or disappeared under mysterious circumstances. I have no idea who I’m supposed to be afraid of, but there is a palpable sense of fear.

So I send Frankie on reconnaissance. He spends two days and two nights there moving through the shadows as only he can do. His verbal report is typically blunt: “Ain’t much to it, boss.”

He leaves and drives several hours to Deerfield Beach, near Boca Raton. He roams the streets, works the Internet, scopes out locations, and in short order puts on a handsome suit and makes the call. Tyler Townsend agrees to meet him at a new shopping center his company is finishing. Big signs announce plenty of space to lease. Frankie claims he and a partner are looking at prime spots for a sporting goods store. It’s a new company, one with no presence online.

Tyler seems friendly enough, but a bit wary. He’s fifty now, and he left the law a long time ago, a good move. He’s prospered in south Florida real estate and knows his business. He and his wife have three teenagers in their spacious home. Property taxes on it were $58,000 last year. He drives a fancy import and dresses and looks like money.

Frankie’s ruse doesn’t last long. They step into a 4,000-square-foot space with drying plaster and Tyler asks, “Now what was the name of your company?”

“No name, no company. I’m here under false pretenses but it’s still important.”

“Are you a cop?”

“Anything but. I’m an ex-con who spent fourteen years in a Georgia prison for somebody else’s murder. A young lawyer took my case and proved I was innocent, got me exonerated, and dear old Georgia forked over some cash. My record is clean. From time to time I work for the lawyer. Figure it’s the least I can do.”

“Is this by chance related to Quincy Miller?”

“It is. The lawyer now represents him. We know he’s innocent, as do you.”

He gives a deep breath and actually smiles, but only for a moment. He walks to a large front window and Frankie follows him. They watch an asphalt crew pave the parking lot.

Tyler asks, “And your name?”

“Frankie Tatum.” He hands over a Guardian business card and Tyler examines both sides. He asks, “So how is Quincy doing?”

“It’s been twenty-two years. I did only fourteen as an innocent man, somehow managed to keep my sanity. But every day is another nightmare.”

Tyler hands the card back as if he’s removing the evidence. “Look, I really don’t have time for any of this. I don’t know what you want, but I’m not getting involved, okay? Sorry and all that, but Quincy is a closed chapter in my book.”

“You were a helluva lawyer, Tyler. You were just a rookie, but you fought for Quincy.”

He smiles, shrugs, says, “And I lost. I’ll ask you to leave now.”

“Sure. Your property and all. My boss is a lawyer named Cullen Post, check him out. He’s exonerated eight people and he didn’t do that by taking no for an answer. He wants to talk to you, Tyler, somewhere private. Very private. Believe me, Tyler, Post knows the game, and he ain’t going away. You can save a lot of time and trouble if you’ll just meet with him for fifteen minutes.”

“And he’s in Savannah?”

“No. He’s across the street.” Frankie points in my direction.