The Guardians: The explosive new thriller from international bestseller John Grisham (24 page)

“How’d you flip Russo?” I ask.

“Keith was an interesting guy. Very ambitious. Tired of the small town. Wanted to make a lot of money. Damned good lawyer. He had some drug clients in the Tampa–St. Pete area and sort of made a name for himself. An informant told us that he was taking big fees in cash, reporting some or none, even moving money offshore. We watched his tax returns for a couple of years and it was obvious he was spending a lot more than he was making on Main Street in Seabrook. So we met with him and threatened him with an indictment for evasion. He knew he was guilty and didn’t want to lose everything. He was also guilty of laundering money for some of his clients, primarily the Saltillo boys. He did this by using offshore shell companies to buy Florida real estate and doing all the paperwork. Not terribly complicated stuff, but he knew what he was doing.”

“Did his wife know he was an informant?”

Another smile, another sip. Duckworth could tell war stories for hours. “This is where it gets really fun. Keith liked the ladies. He was careful not to chase ’em in Seabrook, but Tampa was another story. He and Diana kept an apartment there, ostensibly for reasons related to their work, but Keith used it for other reasons. Before we flipped him, we got warrants and had bugs in the apartment, office, even at home. We were listening to everything, including Keith’s calls to his girls. Then, we got a real shock. Seems as though Diana decided to play the same game. Her dude was one of her drug clients, a pretty boy who worked in Miami for the Saltillo Cartel. Ramon Vasquez was his name. There were a couple of times when Keith was in Tampa hard at work and Ramon sneaked into Seabrook to visit Diana. Anyway, you can imagine what kind of shape the marriage was in. So, to answer your question, we were never sure if Keith told his wife about being an informant. We warned him not to, of course.”

“What happened to Diana?” Vicki asks.

“Somehow the cartel found out about Keith working for us. I strongly suspect that another informant, a double agent, one of our guys, sold the information. It’s a dirty business with loyalties that can change daily. Hard cash and the fear of being burned alive can flip a lot of people. They took out Keith, and Diana eventually left town.”

“And Ramon?” asks Mazy.

“He and Diana hooked up in Tampa for a while, then kept moving south. We didn’t know for sure back then but we suspected he sort of semiretired from his trafficking career and stayed out of trouble. Last I heard, they were still together somewhere in the Caribbean.”

“With plenty of money,” I say.

“Yes, with plenty of money.”

“Was she involved with the murder?” Mazy asks.

“That has never been proven. You know about the life insurance and the joint bank accounts, but that’s not too unusual.”

I ask, “Why didn’t you bust Pfitzner and the cartel?”

“Well, after the murder, the case evaporated. We were within a month or two of a huge bust that would have produced a lot of indictments, including some charges against Pfitzner. We had been patient, too patient, really, but we were fighting with the U.S. Attorney’s office down there. They were overworked and so on. We couldn’t get the lawyers fired up. You know how they are. After the murder, our informants vanished and the case fell apart. The cartel got spooked and pulled back for a while. Pfitzner eventually retired. I was moved to Mobile where I finished my career.”

“Who would the cartel use to do the killing?” Mazy asks.

“Oh, they have plenty of gun thugs, and these guys are not always sophisticated assassins. They’re brutes who’d rather cut off a man’s head with an axe than put a bullet in it. A couple of shotgun blasts to the face is tame for these boys. Their murders are messy because they want them to be. If they leave behind clues, they don’t care. You’re never going to find them because they’re back in Mexico, or Panama. Somewhere in the jungle.”

Mazy says, “But the Russo crime scene was clean, right? No clues left behind.”

“Yes, but Pfitzner was in charge of the investigation.”

I say, “I’m not sure I understand why you couldn’t nail Pfitzner. You say you knew he was guarding the port, storing the coke, protecting the dealers, and you had informants, including Keith. Why couldn’t you bust him?”

Duckworth takes a deep breath and locks his hands behind his head. He stares at the ceiling, keeps a smile on his face, replies, “That is probably the biggest disappointment of my career. We really wanted that guy. One of us, a law enforcement man, on the take and in bed with the nastiest people you could ever meet. Pumping cocaine into Atlanta, Birmingham, Memphis, Nashville, all over the Southeast. And we could’ve done it. We had infiltrated. We had built the case. We had the evidence. It was the U.S. Attorney in Jacksonville. We just could not get him to move fast enough and take it to the grand jury. He insisted on running the show and didn’t know what he was doing. Then Russo got hit. I still think about that guy, the U.S. Attorney. He later ran for Congress and I couldn’t wait to vote against him. Last I heard, he was chasing ambulances with his smarmy face on billboards.”

Mazy asks, “And you say this cartel is still around?”

“Most of it is, or at least it was when I retired. I’ve been out of the loop for the past five years.”

Mazy says, “Okay, let’s talk about the people who ordered the hit on Russo. Where are they now?”

“Don’t know. I’m sure some are dead, some are in prison, some have retired to their mansions around the world. And some are still trafficking.”

“Are they watching us?” Vicki asks.

Duckworth leans forward and takes a sip. He thinks about this for a long moment because he appreciates our concern. Finally, he says, “I can only speculate, obviously. But, yes, they are watching at some level. They do not want Quincy Miller exonerated, to say the least. I have a question for you,” he says, looking at me. “If your client walks, will the murder case be reopened?”

“Probably not. In about half of our cases we manage to identify the real perpetrator, the other half we do not. Here, it looks highly unlikely. The case is old. The evidence is gone. The real killer is, as you say, living well somewhere far away.”

“Or he’s dead,” Duckworth says. “Gun thugs don’t last long in the cartels.”

“So why are they watching us?” Vicki asks.

“Why not? You’re easy to watch. The court filings are public. Why not keep up with things?”

I ask, “Ever hear of a Miami drug lawyer named Nash Cooley?”

“I don’t think so. Is he with a firm?”

“Varick and Valencia.”

“Oh sure. They’ve been around for years. Well known in the trade. Why do you ask?”

“Nash Cooley was in the courtroom last week when we argued our motion.”

“So you know him?”

“No, but we identified him. He was with a guy named Mickey Mercado, one of his clients.”

Being a good cop, he wants to ask how we identified the two, but he lets it go. He smiles and says, “Yes, I’d be careful if I were you. It’s safe to assume they’re watching.”

Chapter 29

According to Steve Rosenberg, Judge Marlowe has more clout than we gave her credit for. He suspects she lobbied the Alabama Court of Appeals to move at what could be a record pace. Barely two months after the hearing in Verona, the court unanimously affirms Judge Marlowe’s command to DNA test the seven pubic hairs. And they order the testing to be paid for by the office of the Honorable Chad Falwright. Two detectives from the state police drive the evidence to the same lab in Durham that we used to test the saliva of Mark Carter. I stare at my phone for three days until it buzzes with a call from Her Honor herself.

With perfect unaccented diction and in the most beautiful female voice I’ve ever heard, she says, “Well, Mr. Post, it appears as though you are correct. Your client has been excluded by DNA testing. All seven pubic hairs once belonged to Mr. Carter.”

I’m in Vicki’s office and my face says it all. I close my eyes for a moment as Vicki quietly hugs Mazy.

Her Honor continues, “Today is Tuesday. Can you be here for a hearing on Thursday?”

“Of course. And thank you, Judge Marlowe.”

“Don’t thank me, Mr. Post. Our judicial system owes an enormous debt of gratitude to you.”

These are the moments we live for. Alabama came within two hours of killing an innocent man. Duke Russell would be cold in his grave if not for us and our work and our commitment to undoing wrongful convictions.

But we’ll celebrate later. I leave immediately and head west toward Alabama, phoning nonstop. Chad doesn’t want to talk and of course he’s far too busy at the moment. Since he’ll try to screw things up again, and since he’s incompetent to begin with, we’re worried about the apprehension of Mark Carter. To our knowledge Carter knows nothing about the DNA testing. Steve Rosenberg convinces the Attorney General to call Chad and get him in line. The AG also agrees to notify the state police and ask them to keep an eye on Carter.

Late Wednesday morning, Duke Russell is lying on his bunk, the same one he’s had for the past ten years, reading a paperback and minding his own business when a guard looks through the bars and says, “Hey Duke. Time to go, man.”

“Go where?”

“Goin’ home. A judge wants to see you in Verona. Leavin’ in twenty minutes. Get packed.” The guard shoves a cheap duffel through the bars and Duke begins stuffing in his assets: socks, T-shirts, boxers, two pairs of sneakers, toiletries. He owns eight paperbacks, and since he’s read each at least five times he decides to leave them for the next guy. Same for his small black-and-white TV and rotating fan. By the time he walks out of his cell, in handcuffs but no leg irons, his comrades are cheering and clapping. Near the front door the other guards have gathered to slap him on the back and wish him well. Several walk him outside where a white prison van is waiting. As he leaves death row he refuses to look back. At Holman’s administration building, he is transferred to a county patrol car and whisked away. Once outside the prison, the car stops and the deputy in the front passenger’s seat gets out. He opens a rear door, unlocks the handcuffs, and asks Duke if he would like something to eat. Duke thanks him but declines. His emotions are overwhelming his appetite.

Four hours later, he arrives at the county jail where I’m waiting with Steve Rosenberg and a lawyer from Atlanta. We’ve convinced the sheriff that Duke is about to be released because he is in fact innocent, so the sheriff is cooperating. He allows us to use his cramped office for our little meeting. I explain what I know to my client, which is not everything. Tomorrow, Judge Marlowe plans to vacate his conviction and order his release from custody. Idiot Chad is threatening to re-file charges against not only Duke but Mark Carter as well. His bizarre new theory is that the two of them tag-teamed the rape and murder of Emily Broone.

The two of them have never met. As outrageous as this sounds, it is not surprising. When boxed-in and bleeding, prosecutors often become wildly creative with new theories of guilt. The fact that Mark Carter’s name was never mentioned at Duke’s trial ten years ago will kill this nonsense. Judge Marlowe is on the warpath and will not listen to it. And, the Alabama Attorney General is putting pressure on Chad to back off.

Nonetheless, he has the power to re-file charges and it is something to worry about. He could have Duke arrested not long after he’s released. As I try to explain these legal vagaries to my client, he becomes too emotional to talk. We leave him with the sheriff, who takes him to the nicest cell for his last night in captivity.

Steve and I drive to Birmingham and have drinks with Jim Bizko of
The Birmingham News.
He’s rabid with the story and has circulated the gossip among his colleagues. Tomorrow, he promises us, will be a circus.

We have a late dinner and find a cheap motel, one far away from Verona. We do not feel safe staying there. The victim’s family is large and has many friends, and we’ve had anonymous phone threats. They too are part of the business.

Before dawn, Mark Carter is arrested by the state police and taken to a jail in a county next door. The sheriff tells us this as we enter the courtroom and prepare for the hearing. As we wait, and as a crowd gathers, I look out a window and notice brightly painted television vans in front of the courthouse. At 8:30, Chad Falwright arrives with his little gang and says good morning. I ask him if he still plans to re-indict my client. He smiles smugly and says no. He is thoroughly beaten, and at some point during the night, probably after a tense phone chat with the Attorney General, he decided to call it quits.

Duke arrives with his uniformed escorts and he’s all smiles. He’s wearing an oversized navy jacket, a white shirt, and a tie with a knot as big as a fist. He looks splendid and is already savoring the moment. His mother is on the front row behind us, along with at least a dozen relatives. Across the aisle is Jim Bizko and several reporters. Judge Marlowe is allowing still photography, and cameras are clicking.

She assumes the bench promptly at nine and says good morning. “Before we get started, I have been asked by Sheriff Pilley to inform the public and the press that a resident of this county, a man named Mark Carter, was arrested this morning at his home in Bayliss and charged with the rape and murder of Emily Broone. He remains in custody and will appear in this courtroom in about an hour. Mr. Post, I believe you have a motion.”