The Guardians: The explosive new thriller from international bestseller John Grisham (16 page)

We go through each of my other clients: Shasta Briley on death row in North Carolina, convicted of arson that killed her three daughters; Billy Rayburn in Tennessee, convicted by the dubious science of what has become known as the Shaken Baby Syndrome after he tripped and fell while holding his girlfriend’s baby; Duke Russell, still on death row in Alabama; Curtis Wallace, convicted in Mississippi of the abduction, rape, and murder of a young woman he never met; and Little Jimmy Flagler, who was seventeen and mentally retarded when Georgia locked him away for life.

These six cases are my life and career. I live with them every day and I often tire of thinking and talking about them. I ease the conversation back to Mom and ask how her poker game is going. She plays once a week with a group of lady friends, and though the stakes are small it’s cutthroat competition. She’s currently up $11.50. They settle their debts at Christmas with a party where they break bad and consume alcohol—cheap champagne. With another group she plays bridge twice a month, but she prefers poker. She is in two book clubs—one with church ladies and they stick to theology, and the other with looser friends who prefer popular fiction. Sometimes even trash. She teaches a Sunday School class, reads to seniors at a retirement home, and volunteers with more nonprofits than she can name. She just bought an electric car and explains in detail what makes it run.

Several times each year, Frankie Tatum stops by for dinner. They are close friends and she loves cooking for him. He was here last week and she talks about his visit. She is quite proud of the fact that he would still be locked away if not for me. This shifts the conversation back to my work. At one time she wanted me to get through this phase and move on to a more sustainable career, maybe in a real law firm, but those conversations are over. Her pensions provide a comfortable life, she does not do debt, and she sends Guardian a small check each month.

She goes to bed promptly at ten o’clock and sleeps for eight uninterrupted hours. She leaves me on the porch, with a kiss on the head, and I sit wide-eyed for hours on this cool, quiet night and think of my clients sleeping on cramped bunks and cots behind bars.

Innocent people.

Chapter 20

Acting on a tip, the guards raided Zeke Huffey’s cell a month ago and found a shank, a homemade knife. Drugs are routinely found in raids and are dealt with casually. But a weapon is a serious offense because it is such a threat to the guards. Zeke is spending time in the Cave, an underground unit used to punish offenders with solitary confinement. His dreams of being paroled early are gone. Instead, he’ll serve additional time.

I’m met at a front office by a man in a suit, a deputy warden of some variety, and, along with a guard, I’m whisked through security and led to a building away from the prisoners’ units. The deputy warden nods and frowns and doors open immediately. The right strings are being pulled. I walk down some concrete stairs and into a square, damp, windowless room. Zeke is waiting, in a metal chair with leg irons locked to the floor. There is no partition between us. His hands are free, and after a momentary shock of seeing me, he offers a limp handshake.

When the guard leaves and slams the door, Zeke asks, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here for a visit, Zeke. I’ve missed you.”

He grunts and can’t think of a response. Residents of the Cave are not allowed visitors. I pull out a pack of cigarettes and ask, “Want a smoke?”

“Hell yes!” he says, suddenly the addict again. I hand him one and notice his shaking hands. I light it with a match. He closes his eyes and sucks hard in a mighty effort to consume it with one fierce pull. He blows a cloud at the ceiling and hits it again. After three, he flicks ashes on the floor and manages a smile.

“How’d you get in here, Post? This hole is off-limits.”

“I know. Got a friend down in Little Rock.”

He burns it down to the filter, thumps the butt against the wall, says, “How ’bout another one?”

I light another cigarette. He is pale and gaunt, even thinner than the last time I saw him, and he has a new tattoo across his throat. The nicotine calms him and most of the shaking stops. I say, “They plan to add a few months to your time here, Zeke. Pretty stupid, hiding a shank like that.”

“Most of what I do can be classified as stupid, Post. You know that. Smart people don’t live like this.”

“True. Quincy Miller is a smart guy, Zeke, and he’s been locked away for a long time because of you. It’s time to set the boy free, don’t you think?”

We’ve swapped a few letters since my last visit, and Guardian sent another small check. However, from the tone of his correspondence he is not ready to admit he lied. He considers himself to be in charge of our fragile relationship and will manipulate it from every angle.

“Oh, I don’t know, Post. It was a long time ago. Not sure I remember all the details.”

“I have the details here in an affidavit, Zeke. One I want you to sign. Remember an old pal named Shiner? Another junkie you served time with in Georgia?”

He smiles and replies, “Sure, I remember Shiner. What a loser.”

“And he remembers you. We found him near Atlanta and he’s doing okay. Much better than you. Got himself cleaned up and so far has stayed out of trouble. We have an affidavit signed by him in which he says the two of you often bragged about your careers as jailhouse informants. Says you laughed about Quincy Miller. And the Preston kid in Dothan, still serving time. And Shiner says you always got a kick out of your performance in a murder trial in Gulfport, Kelly Morris, now serving life because of you. We’ve verified these cases, Zeke, read the transcripts with your testimony. Shiner is telling the truth, for a change.”

He glares at me, flicks more ashes. “So what?”

“So, it’s time for you to come clean and help Quincy. It’s no skin off your balls, Zeke. You’re not going anywhere. As I’ve said before several times, the folks in Florida forgot about you a long time ago. They couldn’t care less if you now admit you lied about Quincy.”

He thumps the remainder of number two and asks for number three. I light it for him. He pulls hard, adds to the fog above our heads, says, sarcastically, “Gee, I don’t know, Post, I’m worried about my reputation.”

“Very funny, but I wouldn’t waste much time worrying about that. I have a deal for you, Zeke, one that will last for fifteen minutes then disappear forever. As I said, I have a friend down in Little Rock, one with some clout, otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here right now. No one in the Cave gets visits, right? So the deal goes something like this. Arkansas plans to add an additional six months to your time, punishment for the shank. That adds up to another twenty-one months in this dump. My friend can make it go away, all but three months. A year and a half can vanish into thin air. All you have to do is sign the affidavit.”

He puffs, flicks, stares at me in disbelief. “You gotta be kidding.”

“And why would I be kidding? You do what you should do anyway, as a decent human being, something you’re not and we both know it, and Quincy gets a break.”

“Ain’t no judge gonna let him out just because I come along twenty years later and say I lied, Post. Come on.”

“Let me worry about that. Every piece of evidence helps in these cases, Zeke. You probably don’t remember a witness named Carrie Holland. She lied too, but the difference is that she now has the guts to admit it. I have her affidavit if you’d like to see it. A woman with courage, Zeke. It’s time to man up, big boy, and tell the truth for a change.”

“You know, Post, I was just starting to like you.”

“Don’t bother. I’m not that likeable and really don’t care. My mission is to untangle the web of lies that convicted Quincy. You want eighteen months knocked off or not?”

“How can I trust you?”

“The word ‘trust’ doesn’t sound right coming from you, Zeke. I’m an honest man. I don’t lie. I guess you’ll just have to roll the dice.”

“Give me another.”

I light the fourth cigarette. He is calm now, calculating, says, “This deal. Can you put it in writing?”

“No, it doesn’t work that way. Every prison in Arkansas is overcrowded and the state needs some relief. The county jails are backed up, some sleeping six to a cell, and the powers that be are looking for space. They don’t care what happens to you.”

“You got that right.”

I glance at my watch. “They promised me thirty minutes, Zeke. Time’s about up. Deal or no deal?”

He thinks and smokes. “How long do I stay in the Cave?”

“You’ll get out tomorrow, I promise.”

He nods and I hand him the affidavit. Assuming he doesn’t read much, the wording is simple, nothing more than three syllables. With a cigarette screwed into the corner of his mouth, and smoke burning his eyes, he reads it carefully. Ashes fall onto his shirt and he swats them away. After the last page he tosses the butt and says, “I got no problem with this.”

I hand him a pen.

“You promise me, Post?”

“I promise.”

The leading death penalty lawyer in Arkansas is a friend I worked with on another case. His wife’s first cousin is a state senator, chairman of the Appropriations Committee, and thus in charge of funding all agencies, including Corrections. I don’t like working the favor bank because I have so little to give in return, but in this business I’m forced to network. Occasionally, something clicks and a miracle happens.

Leaving the cotton fields of northeastern Arkansas, I call Vicki with the news. She is thrilled and runs to tell Mazy.

Once the nightmare of Quincy was behind her, June married again. Her second effort, with a man named James Rhoad, was slightly less chaotic than her first but didn’t last long. She was still a mess at that point, emotionally unstable and doing drugs. Frankie found Rhoad in Pensacola. He had nothing nice to say about his ex-wife, and over a few beers delivered the story we were hoping for.

They lived together before they married, and during that brief period of romance and bliss they drank too much and smoked crack, but always away from the kids. On several occasions June laughed about Quincy, a man she would loathe forever. She confided in Rhoad that she had lied to help put him away, and that the lies were encouraged by Sheriff Pfitzner and Forrest Burkhead, the prosecutor.

Rhoad was reluctant to get involved, but Frankie knows persistence. It’s part of our culture. Ease in, get to know the witnesses, develop a level of trust, and always gently remind them that an innocent man has been wronged by the system. In this case, by white folks in a small backward town.

Frankie assured Rhoad that he had done nothing wrong and would face no trouble. June had lied and she was unwilling to acknowledge the damage she had done. He, Rhoad, could help immeasurably.

In another bar and over another round of beers, he agreed to sign an affidavit.

Chapter 21

For the past three months, our work has been done as quietly as possible. If the men who killed Keith Russo know we’re digging, we’re not aware of it. This changes when we file our petition for post-conviction relief on behalf of Quincy Miller.

Mazy’s brief is an inch thick, beautifully written and skillfully argued, as always. It begins with a thorough dismantling of Paul Norwood’s expert testimony about bloodstain analysis. She attacks his credentials and says unkind things about him. In excruciating detail, she goes through the seven cases where he pointed the finger at innocent men who were later exonerated by DNA testing. She drives home the point that these seven men served a total of ninety-eight years in prison, but none as long as Quincy Miller.

Once Mazy’s brief has Norwood drowning in his own blood, she charges in with the real science and Kyle Benderschmidt takes the stage. His impeccable credentials are presented and contrasted with the State’s expert. His report begins with incredulity: The flashlight is the only link to Quincy, and it was not recovered from the crime scene. There is no proof whatsoever that it was actually present during the shooting. There is no proof that the tiny flecks on the lens are actually human blood. It is impossible to determine from the photographs if the little orange dots are really blood samples. It is impossible to determine the angle of the gunshots. It is impossible to know how the killer held the flashlight as he was firing away, if indeed he held it at all. Lots of impossibilities. Norwood’s testimony was factually wrong, scientifically unproven, contrary to reason, and legally irresponsible. Norwood assumed crucial facts that were not in evidence, and when confronted with unknowns he simply fabricated more testimony.

The summary of Benderschmidt’s findings is compelling, convincing, and constitutes new evidence. But there’s more.

Our second expert is Dr. Tobias Black, a renowned criminologist in San Francisco. Working independently of Dr. Benderschmidt, Dr. Black studied the photos and exhibits and read the trial transcript. His disdain for Norwood and his fellow pseudoscientists is hardly controlled. His conclusions are the same.

Mazy writes like a Nobel laureate, and when she’s armed with the facts she is unassailable. I don’t want her angry at me if I commit a crime.

She criticizes the investigation of Sheriff Pfitzner. Using the Freedom of Information Act, Vicki obtained records from the Florida state police. In a memo, an investigator complained of Pfitzner’s heavy-handedness and his efforts to maintain sole and complete control of the case. He did not want outside interference and refused to cooperate.