The Guardians: The explosive new thriller from international bestseller John Grisham (20 page)

“I’ll appeal that order,” Chad says without bothering to stand.

“I’m sorry. Are you trying to address the court?”

Chad stands again and says, “I will appeal such an order.”

“Of course you will. Why are you so opposed to DNA testing, Mr. Falwright?”

Rosenberg and I exchange looks of sheer disbelief, with no small amount of humor thrown in. In our business, we rarely have the upper hand and almost never see a judge peel skin off a prosecutor. Our astonishment is hard to conceal.

Chad, still standing, manages to say, “It’s just not necessary, Your Honor. Duke Russell was convicted in a fair trial by fair-minded jurors in this very courtroom. We’re just wasting time.”

“I’m not wasting time, Mr. Falwright. But I believe you are. You’re stalling and trying to avoid the inevitable. This tampering charge is further proof of that. I’ve ordered the testing, and if you appeal my order you will only waste more time. I suggest you cooperate and let’s get it done.”

She glares at Chad with a withering look that rattles him. When he can’t think of anything to say, she wraps up the hearing with “I want all seven pubic hairs on this desk within the hour. It would be awfully convenient for them to simply disappear.”

“Judge, please,” Chad tries to protest. She raps the gavel and says, “Court’s adjourned.”

Chad, of course, does not cooperate. He waits until the last possible moment to appeal her order, and the issue is sent to the state supreme court where it could languish for a year or so. Up there the Supremes have no deadline forcing them to rule on such matters and they are notoriously slow, especially in post-conviction relief cases. Years ago they affirmed Duke’s conviction after his trial and set a date for his execution, then they denied his first effort at relief. Most appellate judges, state and federal, despise these cases because they drag on for decades. And once they decide that a defendant is guilty, they rarely change their minds, regardless of new evidence.

And so we wait. Rosenberg and I discuss the strategy of pushing hard for a hearing before Judge Marlowe. Our fear is that old Judge Raney might recover and take his job back, though this is unlikely. He’s in his early eighties, golden years for a federal judge but a bit long in the tooth for an elected one. However, we are faced with the obvious reality that without DNA testing we cannot prevail.

I return to Holman and death row to visit with Duke. It’s been over three months since I last saw him and delivered the news that we had found the real killer. That euphoric moment has long since passed. These days his moods swing from raw anger to deep depression. Our phone conversations have not been pleasant.

Prison is a nightmare for those who deserve it. For those who don’t, it is a daily struggle to maintain some level of sanity. For those who suddenly learn that there is proof of their innocence yet they remain locked up, the situation is literally maddening.

Chapter 25

I’m driving on a two-lane highway, headed east in either Mississippi or Alabama, it’s hard to say because these pine forests all look the same. Savannah is the destination in general. I haven’t been home in three weeks and I need a break. My cell buzzes and the ID says it’s Glenn Colacurci, the old lawyer in Seabrook.

It’s not him but rather his comely little secretary, Bea, and she wants to know when I’ll be back in the area. Glenn wants to talk but would rather meet somewhere other than Seabrook.

Three days later, I walk into The Bull, a popular bar in Gainesville. In a booth near the back, I see Bea as she waves and begins scooting out. Seated across from her and spiffed up nicely is Attorney Colacurci. Blue seersucker suit, starched white shirt, striped bow tie, suspenders.

Bea excuses herself and I take her seat. The waitress informs us that the bartender just happens to be concocting his own special recipe of sangria and we really should try it. We order two glasses.

“I love Gainesville,” Glenn says. “I spent seven years here in another lifetime. Great town. Great university. What’s your school, Post? Can’t remember.”

I don’t recall mentioning it to him. “Tennessee, undergrad. Good ole Rocky Top.”

He offers a slight grimace at this, says, “Not my favorite song.”

“And I’m not much of a Gator fan either.”

“Of course not.” We’ve managed to skip the weather, which in the South consumes at least the first five minutes of every casual conversation between two men before the subject turns to football, which goes on for an average of fifteen minutes. I am often almost rude in my desire to avoid wasting all this time.

“Let’s skip the football, Glenn. That’s not why we’re here.”

The waitress delivers two impressive glasses of pinkish sangria on ice.

When she’s gone he says, “No, it’s not. My girl found your petition online and printed me a copy. Not much of a computer man myself. Interesting reading. Well reasoned, well argued, very convincing.”

“Thank you. That’s what we do.”

“Got me to thinking back some twenty years ago. After Kenny Taft got murdered, there was some speculation that that episode did not go down like Pfitzner said. A lot of rumors that Taft got ambushed by his own men, Pfitzner’s boys. Perhaps our fine sheriff was involved in the drug trade, as you suspect. Perhaps Taft knew too much. At any rate, that case has been cold for twenty years. No sign of the killers, no evidence at all.”

I nod politely as he warms up. I hit my straw and he follows my lead.

“Taft’s partner was a boy named Brace Gilmer, who walked away with minor injuries, seems like he may have been nicked by a bullet, but nothing serious. I knew his mother, an old client from an old lawsuit. Gilmer left town not long after the killing and never came back. Years ago I bumped into his mother and we had a nice chat. She told me then, must’ve been fifteen years ago, that Brace believed that he was also a target that night and just got lucky. He and Taft were the same age, twenty-seven, and got on well. Taft was the only black deputy and didn’t have many friends. He also knew something about the Russo murder, at least according to Gilmer. Have you talked to him by chance?”

“We have not.” We can’t find him. Vicki can usually track down anyone in twenty-four hours, but so far Brace Gilmer has eluded us.

“Didn’t think so. His mother moved away sometime back. I found her last week in a retirement home near Winter Haven. She’s older than me and in bad health, but we had a nice chat on the phone. You want to talk to Gilmer.”

“Probably,” I say with restraint. Gilmer is at the top of my list these days.

Glenn slides over one of his business cards. On the back is scribbled the name:
Bruce Gilmer
. The address is in Sun Valley.

“Idaho?” I ask.

“He was in the Marines and met a girl from there. His mother thinks he may not be too talkative. He got scared and left town a long time ago.”

“And changed his name.”

“Looks like it.”

“Why would the guy’s mother give out his address if he doesn’t want to talk?” I ask.

He circles an index finger around his ear to indicate she’s crazy. “I suppose I caught her on a good day.” He laughs like he’s really clever and pulls long and hard on his straw. I take a sip. His big nose is red and his eyes leak like a drinker’s. I start to feel the alcohol.

He continues, “And so a few weeks ago I was having drinks with another old-fart lawyer in Seabrook, guy you don’t know. We used to be partners back in the day but he quit after his wife died and left him some money. I told him about meeting you and about your theories and such, and I gave him a copy of your petition. He says he always suspected Pfitzner got the wrong man because Pfitzner wanted the wrong man. Keith knew too much and had to be disposed of. Frankly though, Post, I just don’t remember conversations like that at the time of the murder.”

This old gossip is of no benefit at all. After a town rushes to judgment, it’s only natural that some people take the time to reflect as the years pass. Most folks, though, are just relieved that somebody got convicted and the case is closed.

I have what I need and am unlikely to gather any more useful information. As he drains his glass, his eyelids begin to droop. He probably drinks his lunch most days and naps throughout the afternoon.

We shake hands and say goodbye like old friends. I offer to get the check, but he’s decided to have some more sangria. As I’m walking away, Bea appears out of nowhere, and with a big smile says she’ll see me later.

Kenny Taft left behind a pregnant wife, Sybil, and a two-year-old child. After his death, Sybil returned to her hometown of Ocala, became a schoolteacher, remarried, and had another child.

Like nightfall, Frankie eases into town and finds her home, a nice split-level in the suburbs. Vicki has done her research and we know that Sybil is married to a high school principal. Their home is assessed at $170,000 and taxes last year were $18,000. There is one mortgage that is eight years old. Both vehicles have bank loans. Evidently, she and her husband live a quiet life in a nice section of town.

And Sybil does not wish to disturb her life. On the phone, she tells Frankie that she does not want to talk about her deceased husband. The tragedy of Kenny’s murder was twenty-plus years ago and it took her a long time to get over it. The fact that the killers have never been found only makes it worse. No, she knows nothing that was not known back then. Frankie presses a little and she gets upset. The line goes dead. He reports to me and we decide to back off, for now.

Driving nonstop for three days from Savannah to Boise would have been easier than flying there. Because of weather somewhere in between, I sit in the Atlanta airport for thirteen hours as flights fall like dominoes. I camp out near a bar and watch the stranded walk in and, hours later, stagger out. Once again, I am thankful that alcohol is not my temptation. I eventually make it to Minneapolis where I am informed that my flight to Boise is overbooked. I stand by and stand by and am finally awarded the last seat. We arrive in Boise at 2:30 a.m. and, of course, the rental car I reserved is not available because the rental desk is closed.

Other than the frustration, though, this is not a big deal. I have no appointment in Sun Valley. Bruce Gilmer does not know I’m on my way.

Leave it to Vicki to find a really cheap motel in this famous resort area. At dawn I drag myself into a small room in a run-down tourist trap next door in Ketchum, and sleep for hours.

Gilmer is employed by a Sun Valley resort as a golf course manager. We don’t know much about him, but since there are no divorce records for either Brace or Bruce Gilmer we are assuming he is still married to the same woman. Nor could Vicki find any official record of Brace legally changing his name to Bruce. Regardless, he did a nice job of leaving Seabrook behind some twenty years ago. He’s now forty-seven, a year younger than me.

Driving from Ketchum to Sun Valley, I can’t take my eyes off the mountains and the scenery. The weather is a dream. It was ninety-five and sticky when I left Savannah. Here it’s about thirty degrees cooler and if there is humidity I can’t feel it.

The resort is exclusive, for members only, and this is tricky. But the collar always helps. I put it on and stop at the gate. I tell the guard that I have an appointment with Bruce Gilmer. He checks a clipboard as cars line up behind me. Most are probably golfers eager to tee off. He finally gives me a pass and waves me through.

At the pro shop I ask for Mr. Gilmer and get directions. His office is in a building hidden from view and surrounded by tractors, mowers, and irrigation equipment. I ask a laborer and he points to a man standing under a terrace talking on the phone. I ease behind him and wait. When the phone is put away, I step up and say, “Excuse me, are you Bruce Gilmer?”

He turns, faces me, immediately notices the collar, and assumes I’m a minister of some variety instead of a nosy lawyer digging through his past.

“I am. And you are?”

“Cullen Post, with Guardian Ministries,” I say as I hand him my card. I’ve done this so often my timing is perfect.

He studies the card, slowly extends a hand, says, “Nice to meet you.”

“And you.”

“What can I do for you?” he asks with a smile. After all, the guy works in a service business. The customer first and all that.

“I’m an Episcopal priest and I’m also a lawyer, an innocence lawyer. I work with clients who have been wrongfully convicted and I try to get them out of prison. Men like Quincy Miller. He’s my client now. Can I have a few minutes of your time?”

The smile vanishes and he glances around. “To talk about what?”

“Kenny Taft.”

He sort of grunts and sort of laughs as his shoulders sag. He blinks a few times as if in disbelief and mumbles, “You gotta be kidding.”

“Look, I’m one of the good guys, okay? I’m not here to frighten you or blow your cover. Kenny Taft knew something about the murder of Keith Russo and maybe he took it to his grave, maybe he didn’t. I’m just chasing leads, Mr. Gilmer.”

“It’s Bruce.” He nods to a door and says, “Let’s step into my office.”

Thankfully, he has no secretary. He spends his time outdoors, and his office has the cluttered look of a man who would rather repair a sprinkler head than type a letter. There’s junk everywhere and old calendars tacked to the walls. He points to a chair and falls into one behind his metal desk.