The Guardians: The explosive new thriller from international bestseller John Grisham (27 page)

I’m sick of the hospital and need to escape, but I can’t get too far from the patient. I spend hours on my sofa in the lounge, on the phone, online, anything to kill time. Mazy and I decide to wait another day before contacting the FBI. The federal lawsuit can wait too, though we’re having second thoughts about it. There is still no word from the warden, no contact with the prison.

Mosby and Crabtree are instructed to leave at 5:00 p.m. They are replaced by a gray-haired veteran named Holloway, who isn’t very friendly. He seems perturbed at being relegated to hallway monitoring and doesn’t say much. Whatever. At least we have another armed guard on duty. I’m tired of talking to people anyway.

Marvis Miller arrives early in the evening and I walk him to the room to see his brother. He is immediately emotional and I back away. He stands at the foot of the bed, afraid to touch anything, and stares at the mountain of gauze that is Quincy’s face. A nurse needs some information from him and I return to the lounge to kill more time.

I have dinner with Marvis, my third meal of the day in the cafeteria. He is six years younger than Quincy and has always idolized his big brother. They have two sisters but don’t speak to them. The family split after Quincy’s conviction when the sisters assumed he was guilty, the jury said so, and they cut all ties. This upset Marvis, who has always believed his brother was framed and who felt strongly that he needed the family’s support more than ever.

After we choke down the food, we choose to sit and drink coffee rather than to reenter the stultifying dreariness of the visitors’ lounge. I explain my fears about Quincy’s safety. I offer my rather speculative theory that the attack was ordered by someone connected to his conviction, someone who’s afraid of our investigation. I offer a lame apology for what has happened, but he will have none of it. He is grateful for our efforts and says so repeatedly. He has always dreamed of his big brother walking victoriously out of prison, an innocent man. Marvis is a lot like Quincy, easygoing, likeable, believable, a decent man trying to survive a tough life. There are flashes of bitterness at a system that robbed his brother, but there is also a lot of hope that a grievous wrong will someday be made right.

Eventually we drag ourselves upstairs and I yield my sofa. I go to the motel, shower, and fall asleep.

Mosby, meet Frankie Tatum. The rendezvous takes place in a honky-tonk on the outskirts of Deltona, far away from Mosby’s world. He says he once frequented the place in his youth but is sure no one will recognize him now. As always, Frankie scopes it out before they meet. It’s almost midnight on a Thursday and the place is deserted and quiet. It takes a couple of beers for them to relax with each other.

Give Frankie two beers with a brother in friendly surroundings and he can be trusted.

“I need six thousand cash,” Mosby says. They’re at a table in the rear, near an empty pool table. The two guys at the bar cannot hear a word.

“We can do that,” Frankie says. “What do we get for the money?”

“I have a piece of paper with three names. The first two are convicted killers pulling hard time, parole is way down the road, if ever. They did the number on Quincy. The third name is the guard who was close by and didn’t see a thing. Probably the lookout. There’s no video. They picked a spot that is unmonitored. Don’t know why Quincy was in the vicinity because most inmates know better. A guy got raped there two months ago. Maybe Quincy figured he was too tough to mess with and just got careless. You’ll have to ask him if you get the chance.”

“How much do you know about the two thugs?”

“Both are white, tough dudes in a tough gang, the Aryan Deacons. The first name is a guy I used to see every day when I worked his unit. From Dade County, nothing but trouble. The second name is unknown to me. There are two thousand prisoners at Garvin and thankfully I don’t know them all.”

“Any chance it was a gang matter?”

“I doubt it. The gangs are always at war, but Quincy stayed away from them, from what I’m told.”

Frankie takes a sip from his bottle and pulls a white envelope from a coat pocket. He places it on the table and says, “Here’s five thousand.”

“I said six,” Mosby says without reaching for the money.

From another pocket, Frankie pulls out a roll of bills and keeps it below the table. He counts quickly and hands over ten $100 bills. “That’s six.”

Mosby gives him the scrap of paper with one hand while taking the cash and the envelope with the other. Frankie unfolds the paper and looks at the three names.

Mosby says, “There’s something else. Quincy didn’t go down easy. He landed some punches while he was able. The first name there survived with a crushed nose. He was treated at the infirmary this afternoon, said he got in a fight. Happens all the time and few questions are asked. His face will be messed up for a few days so I’d move fast. A little confirmation.”

“Thanks. Anything else?”

“Yeah, I won’t be going back to the hospital. They’re alternating guards now and we’re always shorthanded. Tell Mr. Post I appreciate the business.”

“Will do. And we appreciate it too.”

I give Mazy the first name, Vicki the second, while I pursue all three. Fifteen minutes after Frankie said goodbye to Mosby, our three computers are raging through the Internet.

Robert Earl Lane was convicted of first-degree murder for the killing of his girlfriend seventeen years ago in Dade County. Prior to that, he served three years for assaulting a police officer. Jon Drummik killed his grandmother for $60 in cash, money he needed to buy crack. He pled guilty in Sarasota in 1998 and avoided a capital trial. Both have been at Garvin Correctional Institute for about ten years, and since their prison files are confidential we can’t find much. Mazy can usually hack into almost anything, but we decide to avoid breaking the law. Likewise, prison gangs such as the Aryan Deacons are not known to keep much in the way of records, so there is no way to verify their membership.

The guard is Adam Stone, white male, thirty-four years old, resident of a little hick town half an hour from the prison. At 2:15 a.m., Frankie finds Stone’s home and calls in the license plate numbers of his car and pickup truck. At 3:00 a.m., the team at Guardian has a conference call and all info is exchanged. We put together a plan to dig deep into the backgrounds of Lane and Drummik and learn as much as possible about the Aryan Deacons in Florida.

Our theory is that the hit on Quincy was ordered, and paid for, by someone on the outside. Lane and Drummik had nothing to do with the Russo murder. They’re just a couple of hard-timers doing the job for a few bucks. The fact that their victim was black made the attack more enjoyable.

At 5:00 a.m. I return to the hospital and find the visitors’ lounge empty. I’m stopped at the ICU desk by a nurse, so at least someone is awake. I ask about Marvis Miller, and she nods toward Quincy’s room. Marvis is asleep on a rollaway cot, protecting his brother. There are no other guards or cops around. The nurse explains that last night around midnight Marvis became upset at the lack of vigilance and demanded the cot. Her boss agreed and they rolled one into Quincy’s room. I thank her and ask, “How’s the patient?”

She shrugs and says, “Hanging on.”

An hour later, Marvis stumbles forth, rubbing his eyes and happy to see me. We find some stale coffee and sit in folding chairs in the hallway, watching the parade of nurses and doctors doing their early rounds. One group motions for us to join them at Quincy’s door, and we are informed that his vitals continue to show slight improvement. They plan to keep him in a coma for several more days.

Marvis is worried about losing his job and needs to leave. We embrace at the elevator and I promise to call if there is a change. He promises to return as soon as possible, but he’s almost five hours away.

Two heavily equipped Orlando policemen appear and I chat them up. They plan to hang around for an hour or so until a prison guard arrives.

At 7:30 I get an e-mail from the prison. The warden has a few spare minutes to grant me an audience.

I arrive at Garvin forty-five minutes before my ten o’clock appointment. I try to explain to the staff at check-in that I have a meeting with the warden, but I’m treated like every other lawyer there to see a client. Nothing is easy in a prison. Rules are entrenched, or they are amended on the fly—whatever it takes to waste more time. I’m finally fetched by a guard in a golf cart and we go for a spin toward the administration building.

The warden is a large black guy with a real swagger. Twenty years ago he played football at Florida State and was drafted into the NFL where he lasted ten games before blowing out a knee. His office is adorned with color photos of him in uniforms, and autographed footballs, and table lamps made of helmets. Looks like he played for the Packers. He sits behind a massive desk that’s covered with files and paperwork, the domain of an important man. To his left stands the prison lawyer, a pale white bureaucrat who holds a notepad and stares at me as if he just might drag me into court for some reason, or no reason at all.

“I’ve got about fifteen minutes,” the warden begins pleasantly. His name is Odell Herman. On the walls there are at least three framed jerseys of different colors with the name
herman
across the back. You’d think the guy made the Hall of Fame.

“Thanks for your time,” I reply like a real smartass. “I’d like to know what happened to my client, Quincy Miller.”

“We’re investigating and can’t talk about it yet. Right, Mr. Burch?”

Mr. Burch offers a lawyerly nod to confirm this.

“Do you know who attacked him?” I ask.

“We have suspects, but, again I can’t talk about it right now.”

“Okay, I’ll play along. Without divulging names, do you know who did it?”

Herman looks at Burch, who shakes his head.

“No sir, we don’t have that information yet.”

At this point the meeting is over. They are covering up and will give me nothing.

“Okay. Do you know if a guard was involved in the attack in any way?”

“Of course not,” Herman says with irritation. How dare I suggest something so outrageous.

“So, as of today, three days after the attack, you don’t know who did it and you claim that no one working for the prison was involved. Is that correct?”

“That’s what I said.”

I abruptly stand and head for the door. “There were two thugs who attacked my client. The first is Robert Earl Lane. Check him out. Right now his eyes are swollen shut, bluish in color because his nose was broken by Quincy. Lane was treated at your infirmary a few hours after the assault. We’ll subpoena the records so don’t lose them.”

Herman’s mouth opens but no words escape. Lawyer Burch frowns and looks thoroughly confused.

I open the door, pause, and conclude with “There’s more to the story. It will all come out when I bust your ass in federal court.”

I slam it behind me.

Chapter 33

The Orlando office of the FBI is located in a four-level modern building in the suburb of Maitland. Susan Ashley and I arrive early for a three o’clock meeting with the powers that be. She has spent the past two days making contacts and jockeying for the appointment. She has also sent along a short summary of our file on Quincy Miller. We have no idea which special agent we’ll meet, but we are optimistic that we’ll find someone willing to listen.

Her name is Agnes Nolton, early forties and with enough clout to have a nice corner office. Along the way we pass dozens of agents in cramped cubbyholes, so it’s readily apparent that Agent Nolton has some seniority. In her office we are joined by Special Agent Lujewski, who looks like he should still be in college. After coffee is served and the pleasantries are finished, I am invited to do the talking.

I quickly summarize Guardian’s work on behalf of Quincy Miller and give the opinion that he was framed by a drug gang, with a lot of help from the ex-sheriff of Ruiz County. Now that we’re pushing for post-conviction relief, those responsible for the murder of Keith Russo are feeling the heat. I give the names of Nash Cooley, the drug lawyer in Miami, and Mickey Mercado, one of his henchmen. I speculate that these two along with other unknowns are responsible for the rather brilliant idea of ending our investigation by eliminating our client.

“Would that work?” Nolton asks. “If your client dies, what happens to the case?”

“Yes, it would work,” I reply. “Our mission is to get innocent people out of prison. We don’t have the time or resources to litigate from the grave.”

She nods in agreement and I continue. I describe Quincy and make much of the fact that he was not involved with gang activity; thus, there should have been no reason for the Aryans to attack him.

“So, we’re talking about a contract killing?” she asks.

“Yes, murder for hire, a federal offense.”

It’s obvious, at least to me, that Nolton is intrigued by the case. Lujewski keeps a poker face but misses nothing. He opens a laptop and starts pecking.

I continue, “And, we have the names of the two assailants, both convicted murderers. You’ve heard of the Aryan Deacons?”

Nolton smiles and likes it even more. A drug gang, a Mexican cartel at that, a crooked sheriff, the murder of a lawyer at his desk, a wrongful conviction, and now an attempted contract killing to stop an effort at exoneration. Not your everyday case.