The Guardians: The explosive new thriller from international bestseller John Grisham (33 page)

I finally leave the room and the building and drive back to the hospital where I find Marvis sitting with his brother. He tells me he talked his boss into a few days of vacation and he’ll be around. This is welcome news and I hurry back to the motel and gather my things. I’m inching out of town in traffic when inspiration hits so hard I’m almost compelled to pull over and walk around my car. I keep driving as a simple yet beautiful plan takes shape. Then I call my new best friend, Special Agent Agnes Nolton.

“What’s up?” she says crisply after I hold for ten minutes.

“The only way to nail Pfitzner is to suck him into the conspiracy,” I say.

“Sounds like entrapment.”

“Close, but it might just work.”

“I’m listening.”

“Have you already packed off DiLuca to parts unknown?”

“No. He’s still around.”

“We need one more job before he vanishes.”

At Hialeah Park, DiLuca takes a seat in the grandstand far away from other spectators. He holds a racing sheet as if ready to start betting on the horses. He’s wired with the latest bug, which can pick up a deer snorting thirty yards away. Mercado appears twenty minutes later and sits next to him. They buy two beers from a vendor and watch the next race.

Finally, DiLuca says, “I have a plan. They moved Miller again, between surgeries. He continues to improve but he ain’t leaving for some time. The guards are rotating and there’s always somebody watching his door. The prison sends a few boys over now and then. That’s where the plan begins. We borrow a guard’s uniform from Stone and one of my boys puts it on. He eases in late at night. On cue there’s a bomb threat at the hospital, maybe we’ll blow up something in the basement, nobody gets hurt. Typically, the hospital will go berserk. Active shooter drill and all that craziness. In the melee, our boy gets to Miller. We’ll use an EpiPen needle, get one from the pharmacy, and load it with something like ricin or cyanide. Jab him in the leg and he’s gone in five minutes. If he’s awake, he won’t be able to react in time, but they keep him knocked out a lot. We’ll do it late at night when more than likely he’ll be asleep. Our man walks out and disappears into the confusion.”

Mercado sips his beer and frowns. “I don’t know. Sounds awfully risky.”

“It is, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take. For a fee.”

“I thought there were cameras everywhere.”

“Above the door, but not in the room. Our guy gets in because he’s a guard. Once inside, he’ll do the deed in seconds and then join the chaos. If he gets his picture taken, no big deal. No one in hell will ever know who he is. I’ll have him on a plane within an hour.”

“But Miller’s in a hospital, surrounded by good doctors.”

“True, but by the time they identify the toxin he’ll be dead. Trust me on this. I poisoned three men in prison and did it with homemade juice.”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.”

“It’s no sweat for you, Mickey. Except for the cash. If our boy screws up and gets caught, he won’t talk. I promise. If Miller survives, you keep the other half. But prison hits are cheap. This ain’t prison.”

“How much?”

“A hundred grand. Half now, half after his funeral. Plus the other twenty-five grand from the first hit.”

“That’s pretty steep.”

“It’ll take four men, me and three others, including the bomb maker. It’s far more complicated than shanking some stiff in prison.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

“You want him dead or not?”

“He’s supposed to be dead already but your thugs screwed up.”

“Dead or not?”

“It’s too much money.”

“It’s chump change to your boys.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Across the track and next to the paddocks, a crew in the back of a delivery van films every movement as the bug captures every word.

Pfitzner takes long walks with his second wife, fishes with a buddy in a sleek thirty-two-foot Grady-White, and plays golf every Monday and Wednesday in the same foursome. From all indications—dress, home, cars, nice restaurants, clubs—he is quite affluent. They watch him but they do not go into his house—too many security cameras. He has an iPhone that he uses for normal conversations, and he has at least one burner for the more sensitive calls. For eleven days he ventures no farther than the golf course or the marina.

On the twelfth day, he leaves Marathon, driving north along Highway 1. By the time he reaches Key Colony Beach the plan is activated. It is ramped up when Mercado leaves Coral Gables, headed his way. He arrives in Key Largo first and parks in the lot outside Snook’s Bayside Restaurant. Two agents in shorts and floral-print shirts ease in and take a table near the water, thirty feet from Mercado’s table. Ten minutes later, Pfitzner arrives in his Volvo and goes inside without his gym bag, one of several mistakes.

As Mercado and Pfitzner dine on seafood salads, the bag is removed from the Volvo. Inside are five stacks of $100 bills wrapped tightly with rubber bands. Not fresh new banknotes, but bills that have been stashed for some time. A total of $50,000. Two stacks are removed and replaced with newer bills whose serial numbers have been recorded. The gym bag is returned to the rear floorboard of the Volvo. Two more agents arrive, rounding out the team of ten.

When lunch is over, Pfitzner pays the bill with an American Express card. He and Mercado exit and step into the sun. They hesitate by the Volvo as Pfitzner unlocks the door, opens it, grabs the gym bag, and, without unzipping it and looking inside, hands it to Mercado, who takes it so nonchalantly it’s clear he’s done it before. Before Mercado can take one step, a loud voice yells, “Freeze! FBI!”

Bradley Pfitzner faints and falls hard into the car next to his Volvo. He crumples to the asphalt as the agents swarm Mercado, take the bag, and slap on cuffs. When Bradley stands, he’s dazed and there is a cut above his left ear. An agent wipes it roughly with a paper towel as the two suspects are loaded up for the ride to Miami.

Chapter 39

The following day, Agent Nolton calls with the news that Skip DiLuca is on a plane headed to Mars with a new identity and the chance for a new life. His girlfriend plans to join him later. Agnes passes along the latest with Pfitzner and Mercado, but nothing has changed. Not surprisingly, Nash Cooley’s law firm is representing both, so the prosecution will soon grind to a halt while the lawyers gum up the system. Both defendants are trying to get out on bond but the federal magistrate won’t budge.

Her voice is more relaxed, and she ends the conversation with “Why haven’t you asked me to dinner?”

Any pause would show weakness so I immediately say, “How about dinner?” In my usual state of cluelessness around the opposite sex, I had not bothered to notice if she wears a wedding band. I would guess her age at forty-two. I seem to remember photos of children in her office.

“You’re on,” she says. “Where shall we meet?”

“It’s your city,” I say, on my heels. The only food I’ve eaten in Orlando has been in the basement cafeteria of Mercy Hospital. It’s dreadful, but cheap. I desperately try to remember the balance on my last credit card statement. Can I afford to take her to a nice restaurant?

“Where are you staying?” she asks.

“At the hospital. It doesn’t matter. I have a car.” I’m staying in a cheap motel in a sketchy part of town, a place I would never mention. And my car? It’s really a little Ford SUV with bald tires and a million miles on the odometer. It hits me that Agnes knows this. I’m sure the FBI has checked me out. One look at my wheels and she’ll prefer to “meet” at the restaurant rather than go through the formality of me picking her up. I like the way she thinks.

“There’s a place called Christner’s on Lee Road. Let’s meet there. And Dutch treat.”

I like her even more. I may even fall in love with her. “If you insist.”

With a law degree and eighteen years of seniority, her salary is around $120,000, or more than mine, Vicki’s, and Mazy’s combined. In fact, Vicki and I really don’t consider ourselves on salary. We each extract $2,000 a month to survive, and give ourselves a bonus at Christmas if there’s anything left in the bank.

I’m sure Agnes realizes that I live in poverty.

I dress in my only clean shirt and well-used khakis. She breezes in from the office and, as always, is well put-together. We have a glass of wine at the bar then retire to our table. After we order another glass of wine, she says, “No shoptalk. Let’s talk about your divorce.”

I chuckle at her abruptness, though I’ve come to expect it. “How’d you know?”

“Just guessing. You go first and talk about yours, then I’ll talk about mine, and in doing so we’ll avoid talking about work.”

Well, I say, it was a long time ago, and I launch into my past. Law school, courting Brooke, marriage, the career as a public defender, my nervous breakdown that led to seminary and a new career, the calling to help the innocent.

The waiter hovers and we order salads and pasta dishes.

She’s had two divorces, actually. A minor one that followed a terrible first marriage, and a major one that was settled less than two years ago. He was a corporate executive who was transferred a lot. She wanted her career and got tired of moving. It was a painful split because they loved each other. Their two teenagers are still trying to cope.

Agnes is intrigued by my work, and I’m happy to talk about our exonerees and our current cases. We eat and drink and talk and enjoy a delightful meal. I’m thrilled to be in the presence of an attractive and intelligent woman, and also to be dining outside the hospital cafeteria. She seems to crave conversation that is unrelated to her work.

But over tiramisu and coffee, we drift back to pressing matters. We are baffled by the actions of Bradley Pfitzner. For many years now he has lived a comfortable life far away from the scene of his crimes. He never came within a mile of being indicted. He was suspected and investigated but too smart and lucky to get caught. He walked away with his money and laundered it nicely. His hands are clean. He did a fine job of putting Quincy away and making sure Kenny Taft would never squeal. Why would he now run the risk of entangling himself in a plot to kill our efforts by killing Quincy?

Agnes speculates he was acting on behalf of the cartel. Perhaps, but why would the cartel, and Pfitzner too for that matter, care if we walk Quincy out of prison? We are no closer to identifying the hired gun who murdered Russo twenty-three years ago. And if by some miracle we learn his name, it will take three more miracles to link him to the cartel. Exonerating Quincy does not equate to solving that murder.

Agnes speculates that Pfitzner and the cartel assumed the hit in prison would be easy and leave no clues. Just find a couple of tough guys pulling hard time and promise a little cash. Once Quincy was buried, we would close the file and go away.

We agree that Pfitzner in his old age probably got spooked when he realized someone with credibility was digging into a matter he considered stone cold. He knows our case has merit, and he knows from our reputation that we are tenacious and usually successful. Walking Quincy out of prison would leave many unanswered questions. Hauling him out in a hearse would bury those questions.

There is also the real possibility that Pfitzner believed himself to be immune from any reckoning. For years he was the law. He operated above it, below it, within and without, did whatever he pleased while keeping the voters content. He retired with a fortune and considers himself quite clever. If one more crime was needed, and one as straightforward as a prison hit, then he could certainly pull it off and never worry again.

Agnes entertains me with tales of incredible blunders by otherwise smart criminals. She says she could fill a book with such stories.

We speculate and second-guess and talk about our pasts late into the evening, thoroughly enjoying the long conversation. The other diners clear out, though we hardly notice. When the waiter gives us the look, we realize the restaurant is empty. We split the check, shake hands at the door, and agree to do it again.

Chapter 40

When the FBI sank its fangs into Adam Stone and Skip DiLuca, I realized that Quincy Miller has one beautiful civil lawsuit. With the active complicity of a state employee, Stone, the assault became an intentional tort far more actionable than the garden-variety prison beating. The State of Florida became liable and has no way out. I discussed this at length with Susan Ashley Gross, our co-counsel, and she recommended, hands down, a trial lawyer named Bill Cannon, of Fort Lauderdale.

There is no shortage of tort stars in Florida. The state’s laws are plaintiff-friendly. Its juries are educated and historically generous. Most of its judges, at least those in the urban areas, lean toward the victims. These factors have spawned an aggressive and successful trial bar. Just observe the billboards along any busy Florida highway and you’ll almost wish you could get injured. Switch on early morning television and you’re bombarded with hawkers who feel your pain.

Bill Cannon doesn’t advertise because he doesn’t need to. His stellar reputation is national. He’s spent the past twenty-five years in courtrooms and convinced juries to fork over a billion dollars in verdicts. The ambulance chasers who roam the streets bring him their cases. He sifts through their nets and selects the best ones.