The Guardians: The explosive new thriller from international bestseller John Grisham (23 page)

Using the services of a high-tech security firm in Fort Lauderdale, we sent a video frame of Black Denim and paid for turnaround service. The firm’s facial recognition technology was primed to run the frame through the firm’s many data banks, but that was unnecessary. The first data bank was the Florida Department of Corrections, and the search lasted for all of eleven minutes. Black Denim is Mickey Mercado, age 43, address in Coral Gables, a convicted felon with dual citizenship—Mexican and American. When Mercado was nineteen he got shipped away for six years for, of course, trafficking. In 1994, he was arrested and tried for murder. The jury hung and he walked.

As we wait for Judge Plank, Vicki is still in the diner, ordering coffee and raging through the Internet. She will tell us later that Mercado is a self-employed private security consultant. Whatever that means.

Their identifications are stunning, and as we sit peacefully in the courtroom it’s hard not to turn around, call them by name, and say something like “What the hell are you doing here?” But we are much too seasoned for anything like that. When possible, never let the enemy know what you know. Right now, Cooley and Mickey have no idea that we have their names, home addresses, license plate and Social Security numbers, and places of employment, and we are still digging. Of course, we assume that they have a file on me and Guardian and its meager staff. Frankie is nothing but a shadow and will never be caught. He’s in the hallway outside the courtroom, watching and moving. There are few blacks in this town and he is always conscious of getting looks.

When Judge Plank appears at 2:17, he instructs Susan Ashley to call our next witness. There are no surprises in these hearings so everyone knows Zeke Huffey is back in Florida. The surprise was that he agreed to testify live if we would pay his airfare. That, and I had to swear in writing that the statute of limitations has run on perjury so he cannot be prosecuted.

These days Zeke is just happy to be free. It won’t last long and we know it, but at least he’s saying all the right things about going straight. Taking the oath, he swears to tell the truth, something he’s done many times in courtrooms before commencing to lie like a polished jailhouse snitch. He tells his story about chatting with his cellie Quincy Miller, who bragged about blowing off the head of his lawyer and tossing the 12-gauge in the Gulf. Zeke says that in return for his bogus testimony his drug charges were greatly reduced and he was sentenced to time served. Yes, he feels bad about what he did to Quincy and has always wanted to make amends.

Zeke makes a decent witness but his problem is obvious. He’s lied so many times that no one can be certain, especially His Honor, if he’s telling the truth now. Nonetheless, his testimony is crucial to our efforts because the recantations of witnesses do constitute new evidence. With Zeke’s live testimony and Carrie Holland’s affidavit, we have enough ammo to argue long and hard that Quincy’s trial was not fair. If we are successful in getting a new trial, we can then present much better scientific evidence to the jury. Neither Norwood nor anyone like him will get near the courtroom. Our dream is getting the facts before a new jury.

On cross, Carmen Hidalgo has far too much fun leading Zeke through his long and colorful career as a jailhouse informant. She has certified court records from five trials over the past twenty-six years in which Zeke lied to juries so he could walk. He admits to lying in that one but not the other one. He gets confused and can’t remember which lie he told in that case. It’s painful to sit through and His Honor is quickly tiring, but the bloodletting continues. Ms. Hidalgo hits her stride and surprises us with her courtroom presence.

By 3:30, Judge Plank is yawning and squinting and obviously checking out. He’s exhausted and trying desperately to stay awake. I whisper to Susan Ashley to wrap things up and let’s get out of here.

Chapter 28

The day after Vicki and I return to Savannah, we gather in the conference room with Mazy to assess the case. Florida, like Alabama, does not impose a deadline on judges in post-conviction matters, so old Plank might die before he decides anything. We suspect he’s already made up his mind, but he’ll take plenty of time before he rules. There’s nothing we can do to prod him along, and it would be counterproductive to try to do so.

We are assuming that we are being watched at some level and this provokes a spirited discussion. We agree that all digital files and communications must be upgraded and heavily secured. This will cost about $30,000, cash that’s not in our beleaguered budget. The bad guys have unlimited money and can buy the best surveillance.

I seriously doubt that they will snoop around Savannah and watch our movements. That would only bore them and yield no useful information. However, we agree that we must become more vigilant and vary our routines. They could have easily followed me to Nassau and tracked me as I met with Tyler Townsend. Same for Sun Valley and Bruce Gilmer. But those trips were before we filed our petition and before our names were officially entered.

Of Nash Cooley, we have learned more. We have public data regarding his autos, real estate, and both divorces. Suffice to say he makes a lot of money and likes to spend it. His home in Coral Gables is assessed at $2.2 million. He has at least three cars titled in his name, all German imports. His firm operates out of a sparkling new high-rise in downtown Miami, with branches on Grand Cayman and in Mexico City. According to a friend of Susan Ashley’s, some drug lawyers in south Florida are known to take fees offshore. They are rarely caught, but occasionally the Feds will bust one for tax evasion. This source says that Varick & Valencia has been in the dirty business for a long time and is quite adept at advising its clients on the more sanitary ways of laundering money. Two of the firm’s senior partners are veteran courtroom brawlers with many victories to their credit. In 1994, they defended Mickey Mercado on a murder charge and hung the jury.

I cannot understand the logic of Nash Cooley making the six-hour drive to watch our post-conviction hearing. If he wanted a good look at me, he could have gone to our website, simple as it is. Same for Susan Ashley. All of the petitions, motions, briefs, and rulings are public record, easily findable online. And why would he run the risk of being spotted? Granted, the risk was quite low in that backward part of the state, but nonetheless he got himself identified by us. I can assume only that Cooley was there because a client ordered him there.

Mickey Mercado is a career thug who has probably worked for a cartel his entire adult life. Which cartel, we are not certain. He and two others were charged with murdering another drug trafficker in a deal gone bad, but the Feds couldn’t make it stick.

Now he’s trailing me?

I make the point to the ladies that looking over our shoulders will not help Quincy Miller. Our job is to prove him innocent, and not necessarily to identify the guy who pulled the trigger.

I have not told the ladies everything. I seldom do. The story of Tyler and the crocodiles is one I’ll keep to myself. That image never goes away.

Our discussion about Tyler goes on throughout most of the day as we go back and forth with ideas and arguments. On the one hand I feel compelled to reach out again and at least warn him that our efforts are now being monitored. On the other hand, though, the mere act of contacting him could potentially place him in danger. The same goes for Gilmer, but he does not know as much as Tyler.

At the end of the day we decide it’s an important risk to take. I go online and return to From Under Patty’s Porch where I pay twenty bucks for another month and send a message that will erase itself in five minutes:

Nassau again—important.

Five minutes pass with no response. I send the same message four times over the next three hours and hear nothing.

After dark, I leave the office and walk a few blocks in sweltering heat. The days are long and humid, and the town is crowded with tourists. As usual, Luther Hodges is waiting on his porch, eager to get out of the house.

“Hello Padre,” I call out.

“Hello, my son.” We embrace on the sidewalk, exchange lighthearted insults about gray hair and waistlines, and start walking. After a few minutes I realize something is bothering him.

“Texas will kill another one tomorrow,” he explains.

“Sorry to hear.”

Luther is a tireless abolitionist whose simple message has always been: Since we can all agree that it’s wrong to kill, why do we allow the State to kill? When an execution appears on the horizon, he and his fellow abolitionists write the usual letters, make calls, post comments online, and occasionally go to the prison to protest. He spends hours in prayer and grieves for murderers he’s never met.

We’re not in the mood for a fancy meal so we duck into a sandwich shop. He pays for mine, as always, and as soon as we are seated he grins and says, “Now, tell me the latest on Quincy’s case.”

Since Guardian began its work, we have opened eighteen cases, eight of which resulted in exonerations. One client was executed. Six are current. Three we closed when we became convinced our clients were indeed guilty. When we make a mistake we cut our losses and move on.

With eighteen cases we have learned that, sooner or later, we’ll get a lucky break. His name is Len Duckworth and he lives at Sea Island, about an hour south of Savannah. He drove up, walked into our headquarters, saw no one at the reception desk, stuck his head into Vicki’s room, and said hello. Vicki was polite, as always, but very busy. Within minutes, though, she was calling for me. “This could be important,” she says. We eventually settle in the conference room upstairs with a fresh pot of coffee. Vicki and Mazy take notes and I just listen.

Duckworth is about seventy, tanned and trim, the epitome of a comfortable retiree with plenty of time for golf and tennis. He and his wife moved to Sea Island a few years back and are trying to stay busy. He’s from Ohio, she’s from Chicago, both prefer warm weather. He was an FBI agent in 1973 when Congress created the Drug Enforcement Agency, which sounded more exciting than his desk job. He switched agencies and spent his career with the DEA, including twelve years in charge of north Florida.

For months now we’ve been trying with no success to obtain DEA records from the 1980s. But, like the FBI and ATF, the DEA is tenacious about protecting its archives. One of Vicki’s FOIA requests came back with a letter in which every word was redacted except for the “a’s” and “the’s.”

This is indeed a lucky day. Duckworth says, “I know a lot about the drug business back then. Some things I can talk about, some I cannot.”

I say, “I’m curious about why you came here. We’ve been trying to get DEA files and notes for the past seven months, with no luck.”

“You won’t get much because DEA always hides behind the excuse that its investigations are active and ongoing. It doesn’t matter how old or inactive a case might be, the DEA’s procedure is to give you nothing. And they’ll go to court to protect their information. That’s the way we operated.”

“How much can you tell us?” I ask.

“Well, I can talk about the murder of Keith Russo because that case was closed over twenty years ago and because it wasn’t a DEA matter. I knew Keith, knew him well because we flipped him. He was one of our informants and that’s what got him killed.”

Vicki, Mazy, and I look at each other as this settles in. The only person on the planet who can confirm that Keith Russo was an informant is sitting in one of our old mismatched chairs and calmly sipping coffee.

“Who killed him?” I ask tentatively.

“Don’t know, but it wasn’t Quincy Miller. It was a hit from the cartel.”

“Which cartel?”

He pauses and takes a sip of coffee. “You ask me why I came here. I heard about your efforts to exonerate Miller and I applaud what you’re doing. They got the wrong guy because they wanted the wrong guy. I have a lot of background I can share without divulging confidential stuff. Primarily, though, I just wanted to get out of the house. My wife is shopping today around the corner and we’ll meet for a nice lunch later.”

I say, “We’re all ears and we have all day.”

“Okay, first a bit of history. By the mid 1970s, when the DEA was created, cocaine was raging across the country and coming in by the ton in ships, planes, trucks, you name it. The demand was insatiable, profits were enormous, and the growers and traffickers could barely keep up. They built huge organizations throughout Central and South America and stashed their money in Caribbean banks. Florida, with eight hundred miles of beaches and dozens of ports, became the preferred point of entry. Miami became the playground for the traffickers. South Florida was controlled by a Colombian cartel, one that is still in business. I was not involved down there. My section was from Orlando north, and by 1980 the Saltillo Cartel out of Mexico ran most of the cocaine. Saltillo is still around but it got merged with a bigger outfit. Most of its leaders got butchered in a drug war. These gangs are always up and down and the casualties are breathtaking. The savagery is unbelievable. I won’t bore you.”

“Please don’t,” Vicki says.

I have another quick visual of Tyler and the crocodile feast, and say, “We have a fair amount of background on Sheriff Pfitzner and what went on in Ruiz County.”

He smiles and shakes his head, as if reminded of an old friend. “And we never caught that guy. He was the only sheriff that we knew of in north Florida who was in bed with the cartel. We had him in our sights when Russo got hit. Things changed after that. Some of our crucial informants got lockjaw.”