The Guardians: The explosive new thriller from international bestseller John Grisham (17 page)

With no physical evidence linking Quincy to the crime, it became imperative for Pfitzner to create his own. Without notifying the state police, he obtained a search warrant for Quincy’s car, and, rather conveniently, found the flashlight in its trunk.

The brief then moves to the lying witnesses, and includes the affidavits from Carrie Holland Pruitt, Zeke Huffey, Tucker Shiner, and James Rhoad. Mazy is restrained but almost cruel in her treatment of the liars, and she rages on with a blistering commentary on the use of snitch testimony in American prosecutions.

Next, she analyzes the issue of motive and makes much of the fact that Quincy’s alleged grudge against Keith Russo was more anecdotal than factual. She presents an affidavit from the law firm’s former receptionist who says she remembers only one visit by the disgruntled client, who was “mildly perturbed.” But he made no threats and left when she informed him that Keith was not in his office. She does not remember the second and more threatening visit that Diana Russo described to the jury. The police were never called. Indeed, there was no record of anyone at the firm complaining about Quincy’s behavior. Regarding the phone threats, there was simply no proof. Diana blocked the defense’s efforts to obtain the couple’s phone records, and they have since been destroyed.

The last section of the brief covers Quincy’s own testimony. Since he did not testify at trial, he is now able to tell his story with his own affidavit. He denies any involvement, denies ever owning, or firing, a 12-gauge shotgun, and denies knowing anything about the flashlight until photos of it were presented in court. He denies being in Seabrook on the night of the murder. His alibi was and remains his old girlfriend, Valerie Cooper, who has never budged from her testimony that he was with her that night. We attach an affidavit from Valerie.

The brief is fifty-four pages of clear, sound reasoning, and leaves little doubt, at least in the minds of the fine folks at Guardian Ministries, that Florida got the wrong man. It should be read by learned and fair-minded judges who should be appalled and move quickly to correct an injustice, but that never happens.

We file it quietly and wait. After three days, it becomes obvious that the press has no interest, and that’s fine with us. After all, the case has been closed for twenty-two years.

Since I am not licensed to practice law in Florida, we associate Susan Ashley Gross, an old friend who runs the Central Florida Innocence Project. Her name is listed first on the pleadings, above mine and Mazy’s. Our representation is now public record.

I send a copy of our petition and brief to Tyler Townsend and hope for a response.

Over in Alabama, Chad Falwright makes good on his promise to seek justice for me and not the real killer. He files an ethics complaint with the Alabama bar, of which I am not a member, and one in Georgia, where my license is registered. Chad wants me disbarred for tampering with the evidence. For borrowing a pubic hair.

I’ve been through this before. It’s a hassle and can be intimidating, but I can’t slow down. Duke Russell is still serving time for Mark Carter, and this keeps me awake at night. I call a lawyer friend in Birmingham and he’s itching for a fight. Mazy will take care of the complaint in Georgia.

I’m in the conference room upstairs working through a pile of desperate letters from prison when Mazy yells. I bound down the stairs and step into her office where she and Vicki are staring at her desktop screen. The message is in a bold, silly font that’s almost difficult to read, but the message is clear.

your filing in Poinsett County makes for interesting reading but

it never mentions Kenny Taft. maybe he wasn’t shot by drug dealers;

maybe he knew too much. (this message will evaporate five minutes

after being opened. it cannot be traced. don’t bother).

We gawk at it until it slowly fades away and the page goes blank. Vicki and I back into chairs and stare at the walls. Mazy is pecking away and finally says, “It’s a site called From Under Patty’s Porch. For twenty dollars a month, with a credit card, you get thirty days’ access to a private chat room where messages are confidential, temporary, and cannot be traced.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about. She pecks some more, says, “Looks legitimate and probably harmless. A lot of these servers are in Eastern Europe where the privacy rules are stricter.”

“Can we reply?” Vicki asks.

“Do we want to?” I ask.

Mazy says, “Yes, we can reply, for twenty dollars.”

“It’s not in the budget,” Vicki says.

“This person is using the address of cassius.clay.444. We could pay up and send him a note.”

“Not now,” I say. “He doesn’t want to talk and he’s not going to say anything. Let’s think about this.”

Anonymous tips are part of the game and they provide an excellent way to waste a lot of time.

Kenny Taft was twenty-seven years old when he was killed in a remote part of Ruiz County in 1990. He was the only black deputy on Pfitzner’s force and had worked there for three years. He and his partner, Gilmer, were dispatched by Pfitzner to a site believed to be used as a staging point by cocaine smugglers, none of whom were supposed to be in the area. Taft and Gilmer were not expecting trouble. Their mission was a scouting trip supposedly requested by the DEA office in Tampa. There was only a slight possibility that the site was in fact being used, and their job was to take a look and file a report.

According to Gilmer, who survived with minor injuries, they were ambushed as they drove slowly along a gravel road at 3:00 a.m. The woods were thick and they saw no one. The first shots hit the side of the unmarked car Gilmer was driving, then the rear windows were blown out. He stopped the car and lunged out and scrambled into a ditch. On the other side, Kenny Taft also bailed out but was immediately hit in the head and died at the scene. He did not have time to pull his service revolver. When the bullets stopped, Gilmer crawled to his car and called for help.

The gunmen vanished without a trace. DEA officials believed it was the work of traffickers. Months later, an informant allegedly said the killers did not realize they were dealing with cops. There was a lot of cocaine hidden at the site, just down the road, and they were forced to protect their inventory.

The informant allegedly said they were somewhere in South America. Good luck with the search.

Chapter 22

I get an angry phone call from Otis Walker. Seems his wife, June, is upset because her second husband, James Rhoad, said something bad about her in court. I patiently explain that we have not been to court yet, but we did file an affidavit signed by Rhoad in which he claims that June laughed about lying in court to nail Quincy.

“He called her a liar?” Otis asks, as if surprised. “In front of a jury?”

“No, no, Mr. Walker, not in a courtroom, just in some papers.”

“Why’d he do that?”

“Because we asked him to. We’re trying to get Quincy out of prison because he didn’t kill that lawyer.”

“So, you’re saying my wife June is a liar, right?”

“We’re saying she lied in court way back then.”

“Same difference. Don’t know how y’all can drag up all this old shit after twenty years.”

“Yes sir. It’s been a long time. Just ask Quincy.”

“I think I should talk to a lawyer.”

“You do that. Give him my phone number and I’ll be happy to have a chat. But you’re wasting your money.”

From Under Patty’s Porch, Mazy gets the message:

the salty pelican is an old bar on the nassau waterfront,

bahamas; be there next Tuesday at noon; it is important;

(this message will burn itself five minutes after being opened;

don’t even think about trying to track it).

I grab a credit card, go to Patty’s, pay up, log in as joe.frazier.555 and send my message:
Should I bring a gun or a bodyguard?

Ten minutes later, I get:
No, I come in peace. The bar is always crowded, plenty of people around.

I reply:
Who is supposed to recognize the other person?

It’ll work. Don’t get yourself followed.

See ya.

The debate almost becomes an argument. Mazy is adamant in her belief that I would be foolish to walk into such a meeting with a stranger. Vicki doesn’t like it either. I maintain that it’s a risk we have to take for reasons that are obvious. The person knows a lot about the case and wants to help. He or she is also frightened enough to meet out of the country, which, at least to me, indicates some really rich dirt could be collected.

Outnumbered two to one, I leave anyway and drive to Atlanta. Vicki is masterful at finding the absolute rock-bottom prices for flights, hotels, and rent-a-wrecks, and she books me on a Bahamian turbo-prop that stops twice before I leave America. It has only one flight attendant, who cannot smile and has no interest in getting out of her jump seat.

With no luggage I’m waved through customs and pick a cab from a long line. It’s a vintage 1970s Cadillac with a loud radio blaring Bob Marley for us tourists. The driver smokes a joint to add to the local color. Traffic barely moves so there is little chance of a deadly crash. We stall in an impressive jam and I’ve had enough. I get out, pay him as he points this way and that.

The Salty Pelican is an old bar with sagging rafters and a thatched roof. Large creaky fans drop from the ceiling and offer the slightest of breezes. Genuine Bahamians play a rowdy game of dominoes at a crowded table. They appear to be gambling. Others are tossing darts in a corner. White people outnumber the natives and it’s obviously a popular place for tourists. I get a beer from the bar and sit at a table under an umbrella, ten feet from the water. I’m wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap, and I’m trying to casually notice things around me. Over the years I’ve become a pretty good investigator, but I’m still a lousy spy. If someone is following me, I’ll never know.

Noon comes and goes as I gaze at the water.

A voice behind me says, “Hello, Post.” Tyler Townsend eases into the chair beside me. His was the first name on my list of prospects. “Hello,” I say without calling his name, and we shake hands. He sits down with a bottle of beer.

He is also wearing sunglasses and a cap, and he’s dressed like he’s ready for tennis. Tanned and handsome with only a few streaks of gray. We’re about the same age but he looks younger. “Come here often?” I ask.

“Yes, we own two shopping centers in Nassau, so my wife thinks I’m here on business.”

“Why are we really here?”

“Let’s take a walk,” he says, standing. We stroll along the harbor, saying nothing, until we enter a large dock with a hundred boats. He says, “Follow me.” We step down to a lower platform and he points to a beauty. It’s about fifty feet long and designed to venture far into the ocean and catch those sailfish you see stuffed and hanging on walls. He jumps on board and reaches to steady me.

“This is yours?” I ask.

“I own it with my father-in-law. Let’s take it for a spin.” He gets two beers from a cooler, settles into the captain’s chair, and starts the engines. I recline on a padded sofa and breathe in the salty air as we putter through the harbor. Before long a fine mist is spraying my face.

Tyler grew up in Palm Beach, the son of a prominent trial lawyer. He spent eight years at the University of Florida pursuing degrees in political science and law, with plans to go home and join the family firm. His life was derailed when his father was killed by a drunk driver a week before he was scheduled to take the bar exam. Tyler waited a year, managed to pull things together, passed the bar exam, and found a job in Seabrook.

With his future employment always secure, he had not troubled himself with diligent studying. His undergraduate résumé was quite thin. It took him five riotous years to get a bachelor’s degree. He finished in the bottom third of his law class and liked it down there. He had the reputation of a quick-talking party boy, often cocky because his father was such a big shot. Suddenly, forced to look for a job, he found interviews scarce. A real estate firm in Seabrook hired him, but he lasted only eight months.

To survive the overhead, he shared office space with other lawyers. To pay bills, he volunteered for every court-appointed indigent case on the docket. Ruiz County was too small for a public defender, and the indigent cases were parceled out by the judges. His eagerness to be in the courtroom cost him dearly when the Russo murder stunned the town. Every other lawyer either left or hid, and Tyler was appointed to represent Quincy Miller, who was presumed guilty the day of his arrest.

For a twenty-eight-year-old lawyer with limited courtroom experience, his defense was nothing short of masterful. He fought fiercely, contested every piece of evidence, brawled with the State’s witnesses, and believed firmly in his client’s innocence.

The first time I read the trial transcript I was amused by his brashness in the courtroom. By the third reading, though, I realized that his scorched-earth defense probably alienated the jury. Regardless, the kid had enormous potential as a trial lawyer.

Then he quit the law.

We drift along the edge of Paradise Island and dock at a resort. As we walk along the pier toward the hotel, Tyler says, “We’re thinking about buying this place. It’s for sale. I want to branch out and get away from shopping centers. My father-in-law is more conservative.”