The Guardians: The explosive new thriller from international bestseller John Grisham (25 page)

I rise with a smile and say, “Yes, Your Honor. On behalf of my client, Duke Russell, I ask that his conviction entered in this case be vacated and that he be released immediately.”

“And what is the basis of this motion?”

“DNA testing, Your Honor. We have obtained DNA testing on the seven pubic hairs found at the crime scene. Mr. Russell is excluded. All seven originated from Mr. Carter.”

“And as I understand the facts, Mr. Carter was the last person seen with the victim while she was still alive, is that so?” She asks this as she glares at Chad.

“That is correct, Your Honor,” I say with suppressed glee. “And Mr. Carter was never considered a serious suspect by the police or the prosecutor.”

“Thank you. Mr. Falwright, do you oppose this motion?”

He rises quickly and almost whispers, “The State does not.”

She reshuffles some papers and takes her time. Finally, she says, “Mr. Russell, would you please stand?”

He gets to his feet and looks at her as if bewildered. She clears her throat and says, “Mr. Russell, your convictions for rape and capital murder are hereby vacated and dismissed. Forever, and they cannot be brought back. I was not involved in your trial, obviously, but I do consider it a privilege to be involved here today with your exoneration. A grave miscarriage of justice has occurred and you have paid a dear price. You were wrongfully convicted by the State of Alabama and incarcerated for a decade. Years that can never be replaced. On behalf of the State, I say that I’m sorry, and I realize my apology does not even begin to heal your wounds. However, it is my hope that one day soon you will remember the apology and take some small measure of comfort in it. I wish you a long happy life with this nightmare behind you. Mr. Russell, you are free to go.”

There are gasps and shrieks behind us as his family hears this. Duke leans forward and places both hands on the table. I stand and put an arm around him as he sobs. For some reason I notice how frail and thin he is in someone’s old sports coat.

Chad hits a side door and makes his escape, too cowardly to walk over and offer an apology of his own. He’ll probably spend the rest of his career lying about how Duke got off on one of those technicalities.

Outside the courtroom, we face the cameras and answer questions. Duke says little. He just wants to go home and eat his uncle’s barbeque ribs. I don’t have much to say either. Most lawyers dream of these moments, but to me they are bittersweet. On the one hand there is immense satisfaction in saving an innocent man. But on the other, there is anger and frustration with a system that allows wrongful convictions. Almost all can be avoided.

Why are we expected to celebrate after an innocent man is freed?

I navigate through the crowd and walk with my client to a small room where Jim Bizko is waiting. I promised him an exclusive, and Duke and I unload. Bizko starts with questions about his near miss with the executioner seven months earlier, and before long we’re laughing about Duke’s last meal and his frantic efforts to finish his steak and cake before returning to his cell. The laughter feels good and comes easily, as do the tears.

After half an hour, I leave them and return to the courtroom where the crowd is loitering and waiting for the next bit of drama. Judge Marlowe assumes the bench and everyone takes a seat. She nods and a bailiff opens a side door. Mark Carter appears in handcuffs and the standard orange jumpsuit. He glances around, sees the crowd, finds his family on the front row, then looks away. He takes a seat at the defense table and stares down as his boots catch his attention.

Judge Marlowe looks at him and asks, “Are you Mark Carter?”

He nods.

“Please stand when I address you and answer in a clear voice.”

He reluctantly gets to his feet as if he’s in control of the moment. “I am.”

“Do you have a lawyer?”

“Nope.”

“Can you afford one?”

“Depends on how much one might cost.”

“Very well. I’ll appoint one for now and he’ll meet you over in the jail. We’ll come back next week and try again. In the meantime you will be held without bail. Have a seat.”

He sits and I ease forward to the defense table. I lean down and in a low voice say, “Hey, Mark, I’m the guy who called you the night they almost killed Duke. Remember the call?”

He glares and since he’s cuffed and can’t throw a punch, he looks as though he might spit.

“Anyway, I called you a cowardly scumbag because you were willing to let another man die for your crime. And I promised I’d see you in court.”

“Who are you?” he snarls.

A bailiff is moving toward us and I back away.

In a brief ceremony, the staff at Guardian hangs a large, framed color photo of Duke Russell on the wall with the other eight exonerees. It is a handsome portrait we paid for. Our client is posing outdoors at his mother’s home, leaning on a white board fence with a fishing rod at his side. A big smile. The contented face of a man happy to be free and young enough to enjoy another life. A life we’ve given him.

We pause and pat ourselves on the back, then return to our work.

Chapter 30

Quincy thinks I’m here because I’m his lawyer and part of my job is to see my clients at every opportunity. This is my fourth visit and I bring him up to date. Of course we have heard nothing from Judge Plank just down the road, and Quincy does not understand why we can’t file a complaint and make the old fossil do something. I describe Zeke Huffey’s performance in court and pass along the guy’s apology for helping send Quincy to prison for the rest of his life. Quincy is unmoved. We kill two hours covering the same material.

Leaving the prison, I head south on a county road that soon expands to four then six lanes as Orlando looms. Watching the rearview mirror has become a habit that I hate, but I can’t make myself stop. I know there’s no one back there. If they are listening and watching they wouldn’t do it with such an antiquated method. They might hack phones and computers and who knows what else, but they wouldn’t waste their time chasing me in my little Ford SUV. I take a quick exit onto a busy thoroughfare, then another quick turn and wheel into the vast parking lot of a suburban mall. I park between two cars, walk inside like an average shopper, and hike at least half a mile to a sprawling Nike store where, at exactly 2:15, I find a rack of men’s running shirts. Tyler Townsend waits on the other side of the rack. He’s wearing a golf cap from a country club and a pair of fake tortoiseshell glasses.

Glancing around, he says softly, “This better be good.”

I examine a shirt and say, “We have seen the enemy. And I think you should know about it.”

“I’m listening,” he says without looking at me.

I tell him about the hearing in front of Judge Plank, the appearance of Nash Cooley and Mickey Mercado, and their clumsy efforts to avoid being seen together. Tyler does not recognize either name.

A kid with a big smile approaches and asks if we need help. I politely wave him off.

I give Tyler all the background we have on both Mercado and Cooley. I summarize what Len Duckworth told us about the DEA and the cartel.

“You suspected Russo was an informant, didn’t you?” I ask.

“Well, he was killed for a reason. Either his wife had him knocked off for the life insurance, which no one really ever believed, or he got in too thick with some of his shady clients. I’ve always figured it was the work of the drug gang. That’s how they handle informants, like those two boys I described down in Belize, or wherever it was. Remember the photo, Post? Me on the zip line?”

“I think about it all the time.”

“And so do I. Look, Post, if they’re watching you then we ain’t gonna be pals no more. I don’t want to see you again.” He takes a step back, glaring at me. “Nothing, Post, you hear? No contact whatsoever.”

I nod and say, “Got it.”

At the door he scans the mall, as if he might see a couple of thugs with large guns, then walks away as nonchalantly as possible. He quickens his pace and is soon out of sight, and I realize how utterly terrified he is by the past.

The question is: How terrified should we be of the present?

The answer arrives within hours.

We select our cases with great care, and once engaged we investigate and litigate with diligence. Our goal is to find the truth and exonerate our clients, something we’ve now done nine times in the past twelve years. However, it has never occurred to me that our efforts to save a client might get one killed.

It was a prison beating with all the markings of an ambush, and as such it will be difficult to get the facts. Witnesses are unreliable if they come forward at all. Guards often see nothing. The administration has every reason to cover up and to slant its version in a way most favorable to the prison.

Not long after I said goodbye to Quincy that morning, he was jumped by two men in a walkway between a machine shop and a gymnasium. He was stabbed by a shank and beaten severely by blunt instruments, and left for dead. A guard eventually walked by, saw him lying in a pool of blood, and called for help. He was loaded into an ambulance and taken to the nearest hospital and from there was rushed to Mercy Hospital in Orlando. Tests revealed a fractured skull, swollen brain, broken jaw, splintered shoulder and collarbone, missing teeth, and so on, and three deep stab wounds. He was given six pints of blood and put on life support. When the prison finally called our office in Savannah, Vicki was informed that he was “critical” and not expected to survive.

I was on the Jacksonville bypass when she called me with the news. I forgot all the other clutter in my brain and turned around. Quincy has no family to speak of. Right now, he needs his lawyer.

I have spent half of my career hanging around prisons, and I’ve become accustomed to the violent culture but not calloused by it, because caged men will always invent new ways to harm one another.

But I’ve never considered the possibility of an innocence case being derailed from inside the prison by rubbing out the prospective exoneree. It’s a brilliant move!

If Quincy dies, we close the file and move on. This is not an established policy at Guardian because we’ve never been confronted with such a death, but with an endless supply of cases to choose from, we cannot justify our time in trying to exonerate anyone posthumously. I’m sure they know that. Whoever “they” might be. For purposes of my own lengthy monologues behind the wheel, I suppose I could refer to them as the Saltillo gang, or something like that. But “they” works better.

So they are watching our court filings. Perhaps they are trailing us occasionally, maybe hacking a bit and eavesdropping. And they certainly know about us and our recent victory in Alabama. They know we have a track record, that we can litigate, that we are tenacious. They also know that Quincy did not kill Keith Russo and they don’t like us digging for the truth. They do not want to openly confront us, or frighten or intimidate, not now anyway, because that would verify their existence, and it would probably require them to commit another crime, something they would like to avoid. A fire, or a bomb, or a bullet could make for a mess and leave clues.

The easiest way to stop the investigation is to simply take out Quincy. Order a hit from inside the prison where they already have friends or know some tough guys who will work cheap for cash or favors. Killings there are so routine anyway.

I rarely spend time reviewing the prison records of my clients. Since they are innocent, they tend to behave themselves, avoid gangs and drugs, take whatever educational courses are available, work, read, and help other inmates. Quincy finished high school in Seabrook in 1978 but could not afford college. In prison, he has accumulated over a hundred hours of credits. He has no serious disciplinary violations. He helps younger inmates avoid gangs. I can’t imagine Quincy making enemies. He lifts weights, has learned karate, and in general can take care of himself. It would require more than one healthy young man to bring him down, and I’ll bet he inflicted some damage of his own before he fell.

Sitting in Orlando traffic, I call the prison for the fourth time and ask to speak to the warden. There is no way he’ll take my call, but I want him to know I’ll be there soon enough. I make a dozen calls. Vicki is hounding the hospital for information, of which there is little, and she relays this to me. I call Frankie and tell him to head south. I finally get Quincy’s brother, Marvis, who is working construction in Miami and can’t get away. He is the only relative who cares about Quincy and has visited him regularly for the past twenty-three years. He is shaken and wants to know who would do this to Quincy. I have no answers.

The collar usually works in hospitals so I put it on in the parking deck. ICU is on the second floor and I bluff my way past a busy nurse. Two huge young men—one white, the other black—are sitting on stools next to a room with glass walls. They are prison guards and wear the gaudy black-and-tan uniforms that I’ve seen around the Garvin Correctional Institute. They are bored and seriously out of place. I decide to be nice and introduce myself as Quincy’s lawyer.

Not surprisingly, they know virtually nothing. They were not at the scene, did not see the victim until he was in the ambulance, and were ordered to follow the ambulance and make sure the prisoner remains secure.

Quincy Miller is certainly secure. He is strapped down to a bed that sits high in the center of the room, surrounded by tubes, monitors, drips, machines. A ventilator hums away as it pumps oxygen through a tracheotomy tube and keeps him alive. His face is covered with thick gauze with tubes poked through it.