The Guardians: The explosive new thriller from international bestseller John Grisham (19 page)

“Sure, I’ve read everything. I thought your brief was sound.”

“Legally, yes, but I was going through the motions. Not that it would’ve mattered. The Florida Supreme Court was not going to reverse his conviction regardless of what I wrote. Quincy had no idea. He thought I was still raging against his injustice, but I backed off.”

“The Court affirmed unanimously.”

“No surprise there. I filed the usual perfunctory appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court. Denied as always. And I told Quincy it was over.”

“And that’s why you didn’t ask for post-conviction relief?”

“That, plus there was no new evidence at that time. I threw in the towel and walked away. Needless to say, I wasn’t getting paid at that point. Two years later, Quincy filed his own motions from prison, got one of the jailhouse lawyers to help him, but they went nowhere.”

He turns and walks back to the table and takes his seat. He places the file in an empty chair. I join him and we sit for a long, silent spell. Finally, he says, “Just think of the logistics, Post. They knew I was going fishing in Belize, knew where I would be staying, so they must have been listening to my phones. This was before the Internet, so no e-mails to hack. Think of the manpower it took to spike my drink, drag me away, load me up in a boat or plane and take me to their little camp where they made sport out of feeding their enemies to the crocodiles. The zip line was pretty elaborate, the crocs plentiful and hungry.”

“A well-organized gang.”

“Yes, one with plenty of money, resources, contacts with local police, maybe border agents, everything the best narco-traffickers need. They certainly made a believer out of me. I finished the appeal, but I was a wreck. I finally got some counseling, told my therapist I’d been threatened by people who could make good with their threats, and that I was cracking up over it. He got me through it and I eventually packed up and left town. You need any more proof that Quincy didn’t kill Russo?”

“No, and I really didn’t need this.”

“This is a secret that will never be told, Post. And this is the reason I’m not getting involved with anyone’s efforts to help Quincy.”

“So you know more than you’re telling?”

He considers this while he sips coffee. “Let’s just say that I know some things.”

“What can you tell me about Brad Pfitzner? I assume you knew him pretty well back then.”

“There were suspicions about Pfitzner back then, but they were always whispered. A few of the lawyers who worked the criminal beat, including me, heard more of the gossip than the others. There was a small port on the Gulf called Poley’s Inlet. It was in Ruiz County, thus under his control. The rumors were that he allowed the drugs to come in there and get warehoused in remote parts of the county before being distributed north toward Atlanta. Again, only rumors. Pfitzner was never caught, never charged. After I left, I watched from a distance and kept in touch with a couple of lawyer friends in Seabrook. The Feds never got their hands on Brad.”

“And Kenny Taft?”

“Taft was killed not long before I left town. There were rumors that the murder did not go down the way Pfitzner described. Again, like Russo, Pfitzner was in charge of the investigation and could write the story any way he wanted. He made a big production of losing one of his own men. Big funeral, procession, cops from all over lining the streets. A glorious send-off for a fallen soldier.”

“Is the Taft angle important?” I ask. He goes silent and studies the ocean. To me, the answer becomes obvious, but he says, “I don’t know. Might be something there.”

I’m not going to push him. I’ve already gotten far more than I expected, and we’ll talk again. I note his reluctance to discuss Kenny Taft and decide to move on.

“So why take out Keith Russo?” I ask.

He shrugs as if the answer should now be obvious. “He did something to upset the gang and they hit him. The quickest way to catch a bullet is to rat out. Maybe the DEA pressured him and flipped him. With Russo out of the way and Quincy taking the fall, it was soon business as usual. They wanted the conviction to stand, and I decided to go bonefishing.”

“Pfitzner retired to the Keys where he lives in a nice condo appraised by the county at one point six million,” I say. “Not bad for a sheriff who earned sixty thousand at his peak.”

“And didn’t finish high school so probably not too savvy of an investor. I’ll bet most of his loot is buried offshore. Be careful where you dig, Post. You might find things you wish you’d left alone.”

“Digging is part of my job.”

“But not mine. This is all history for me. I have a good life, with a beautiful wife and three teenagers. I’m not getting involved after today. Good luck and all that, but I don’t want to see you again.”

“Understood. Thanks for the meeting.”

“This suite is yours if you want. If you stay, you can take a cab back to the airport in the morning.”

“Thanks, but I’ll leave with you.”

Chapter 24

According to Section 13A-10-129 of the Alabama Code of Criminal Conduct, a person who “removes or alters physical evidence” from an official proceeding is guilty of tampering. And, though it is only a Class A misdemeanor, it can be punishable by up to one year in jail and a fine of $5,000. Normally, in a misdemeanor case, the complaining party, in this case the DA Chad Falwright, would simply file an affidavit accusing me of the crime and ask the sheriff to issue a warrant for my arrest.

But Chad is frightened these days because the greatest achievement of his lackluster career is about to become his biggest screwup. He is up for reelection next year, not that anybody really wants his job, and if it becomes known that he prosecuted and almost executed Duke Russell for someone else’s murder, then he
might
lose some votes. So Chad is fighting back, and hard. Instead of pursuing the lofty goal of finding the truth and unraveling an injustice, he attacks me because I’m trying to prove him wrong and exonerate an innocent man.

To prove his toughness, he convenes a grand jury in Verona and gets an indictment charging me with tampering. He calls Jim Bizko with
The Birmingham News
and squawks about this major accomplishment. But Bizko despises Chad and asks why he refuses to submit all seven pubic hairs for DNA testing. Bizko does not report the indictment.

My pal in Alabama is Steve Rosenberg, a radical lawyer from New York who moved south and remains noticeably unassimilated in his strange surroundings. He runs a nonprofit in Birmingham and defends dozens of death penalty cases.

Rosenberg calls Chad and they engage in an extensive cuss fight, and not for the first time. When the dust settles, it is agreed that I will surrender myself to Chad in his office, get processed, and immediately appear before a judge to discuss bail. There is a chance that I could spend a night or two in jail but this does not worry me. If my clients can endure decades in horrible prisons, I can certainly survive a brief stint in a county joint.

This is my first indictment and I’m quite proud of it. I have a book on my shelf about noted lawyers who were thrown in jail fighting for their clients, and I would be honored to join them. Rosenberg once spent a week behind bars for contempt in Mississippi. He still laughs about it, says he picked up some new clients.

We meet in front of the courthouse and embrace. Steve is pushing sixty and looks more radical with age. His thick gray hair is shoulder length and unkempt. He has added an earring and a small tattoo across his carotid artery. He grew up a brawler in Brooklyn and practices law like a street fighter. He’s fearless and likes nothing more than charging into old courthouses in backwater towns throughout the South and mixing it up with the locals.

“All of this for one lousy pubic hair?” he laughs. “I could’ve loaned you one of mine.”

“More than likely it would be too gray,” I reply.

“Ridiculous. Just ridiculous.” We enter the courthouse and walk upstairs to Chad’s office. The sheriff is waiting with two deputies, one of whom is holding a camera. In a show of real hospitality, the locals have agreed to go through the motions in the courthouse and avoid the jail, for now anyway. I sent them a set of my fingerprints two days ago. I pose for my mug shot, thank the sheriff, who seems bored with it all, and wait for Chad. When we are finally shown into his office, no one makes even the slightest effort to shake hands. Rosenberg and I thoroughly loathe this guy and he feels the same toward us. As we struggle with the preliminary chatter, it is obvious that he is preoccupied, even nervous.

We soon understand why. At 1:00 p.m., we enter the main courtroom and take our seats at the defense table. Chad assumes the other one with a couple of assistants. The courtroom is the domain of the Honorable Leon Raney, a crusty old fossil who presided over Duke’s trial and never gave the kid a break. There are no spectators. No one cares. It’s just a pubic hair taken by an innocence lawyer from Georgia. Chad’s dream of generating a bit of publicity fails again.

Instead of a grouchy old white man in a black robe, a young and very pretty black lady in a maroon robe appears on the bench, and, with a smile, says good afternoon. Judge Marlowe informs us that Judge Raney has taken a leave of absence because of a stroke last week, and that she will be pinch-hitting until he returns. She is from Birmingham and has been sent in by special orders from the Alabama Supreme Court. We begin to understand why Chad is so nervous. His home-field advantage has been annulled by an honest referee.

Judge Marlowe’s first order of business is my initial appearance and the issue of my bail. She nods at the court reporter, goes on the record, and begins, pleasantly, with “I’ve read the indictment and frankly, Mr. Falwright, there’s not much to this case. Surely you have better things to do. Mr. Rosenberg, does your client still have possession of the pubic hair that was DNA tested?”

Rosenberg is on his feet. “Sure does, Judge. It’s right here on the table and we would like to return it to Mr. Falwright, or whoever has the evidence file these days. My client didn’t tamper with or steal anything. He simply borrowed one of the pubic hairs. He was forced to, Your Honor, because Mr. Falwright refuses to do DNA testing.”

“Let me see it,” she says.

Rosenberg picks up a small plastic bag and hands it to her. Without opening it, she looks, strains, finally sees something, and puts it down. She frowns and shakes her head and says to Falwright, “You gotta be kidding.”

Chad stumbles to his feet and begins stuttering. He’s been the DA here for twenty years, and for his entire career he’s had the protection of a like-minded right-winger with little sympathy for those accused of crimes. Leon Raney was his predecessor in the DA’s office. Suddenly, Chad is forced to play on a level field and he does not know the rules.

“This is a serious matter, Your Honor,” he wails with fake indignation. “The defendant, Mr. Post, admits he stole the evidence from the files, files that are protected, files that are sacrosanct.” Chad loves big words and often tries to impress juries with them, but, reading the trial transcript, he often gets them wrong.

She replies, “Well, if I read the record correctly, the pubic hair in question was gone for over a year before you or anyone else realized it was missing, and it came to your attention only when Mr. Post told you about it.”

“We can’t guard all of the old files, Your Honor—”

She raises a hand and cuts him off. “Mr. Rosenberg, do you have a motion?”

“Yes ma’am. I move to dismiss this charge against Mr. Post.”

“So ordered,” she says immediately.

Chad’s mouth falls open and he manages to grunt before falling, loudly, into his chair. She glares at him with a look that frightens me, and I’ve just been cleared.

She picks up another stack of papers and says, “Now, Mr. Rosenberg, I have before me your petition for post-conviction relief filed two months ago on behalf of Duke Russell. Since I am the presiding judge, and will be for an unknown period of time, I am inclined to proceed with this petition. Are you prepared to do so?”

Rosenberg and I are on the verge of some serious laughter. “Yes ma’am,” he replies at full throttle.

Chad has turned pale and is once again struggling to get to his feet. “Mr. Falwright?” she asks.

“No way, Judge. Come on. The State has not even filed a response. How can we proceed?”

“You’ll proceed if I tell you to proceed. The State has had two months to respond, so what’s taking so long? These delays are unfair and unconscionable. Have a seat, please.” She nods at Rosenberg and both lawyers sit down. Everyone takes a deep breath.

She clears her throat and says, “At issue here is a simple request by the defense to DNA test all seven pubic hairs taken from the crime scene. The defense is willing to bear the expense of the testing. DNA is now used every day to both include and exclude suspects and defendants. Yet, as I understand it, the State, through your office, Mr. Falwright, is refusing to allow testing. Why? What are you afraid of? If the testing excludes Duke Russell, then we’re looking at a wrongful conviction. If it nails Mr. Russell, you will have plenty of ammunition to argue he received a fair trial. I’ve read the file, Mr. Falwright, all fourteen hundred pages of the trial transcript and everything else. The conviction of Mr. Russell was based on bite-mark and hair analysis, both of which have been proven, time and again, to be wildly unreliable. I have doubts about this conviction, Mr. Falwright, and I’m ordering DNA testing for all seven hairs.”