The Guardians: The explosive new thriller from international bestseller John Grisham (39 page)

She presses me on the source of the rumors about Kenny Taft, and I explain that I have confidential sources to protect. Sure, I know more than I’m offering at this time, but I am, after all, a lawyer and understand confidentiality. She asks His Honor to instruct me to answer her questions. Cannon objects and delivers a mini-lecture on the sanctity of a lawyer’s work product. Judge Kumar denies her request and I return to my chair behind Quincy.

Dr. Kyle Benderschmidt is in the courtroom and eager to leave it. Bill Cannon calls him as our next witness and begins the tedious qualification process. After a few minutes, Judge Kumar looks at Carmen Hidalgo and asks, “Do you really want to question his qualifications?”

“No, Your Honor. The State will accept his credentials.”

“Thank you.” Kumar is not rushing anyone and seems to enjoy being in control. With only three years under his belt, he seems quite accomplished and confident.

Cannon bypasses the flawed testimony the jury heard from Paul Norwood—it’s briefed extensively by Mazy—and instead drills into the real proof. Now that we have the flashlight and the spatter, we no longer have to guess. On the big screen Benderschmidt presents photos taken by him recently and compares them to the trial exhibits used twenty-three years ago. The specks have faded in color over time, even though the lens was apparently shielded from light. He identifies the three largest ones and points to his sample. More enlarged photos, more forensic jargon. Benderschmidt launches into what quickly becomes a tedious science lesson. Maybe this is because my gene pool runs shallow with science and math, but whether I’m bored or not is insignificant. His Honor is absorbing it.

Kyle begins with the basics: human blood cells are different from animal blood cells. Two large images appear on the screen and Benderschmidt goes into professor mode. The image on the left is a greatly enlarged red blood cell taken from blood on the lens. The image on the right looks similar and is a red blood cell taken from a rabbit, a small mammal. Humans are mammals and their red blood cells are similar in that they do not have nuclei. Reptiles and birds have nucleated red blood cells, we do not. The professor taps his laptop, the images change, and we are lost in the world of red blood cells. The cell’s nucleus is small and round and serves as the cell’s command center. It controls the cell’s growth and reproduction. It is surrounded by a membrane. And on and on.

Attached to our petition was Benderschmidt’s full report, including pages of impenetrable stuff on cells and blood. I confess that I have not read it entirely, but something tells me Judge Kumar has.

The bottom line: Animal red blood cells vary greatly among species. He is almost certain that the blood on the lens of the flashlight found in Quincy’s car by Bradley Pfitzner came from a small mammal. He is emphatically certain that it is not human blood.

We did not bother with DNA testing the two samples because there was no reason to. We know that the blood on Keith’s shirt was indeed his. We know that the blood on the lens was not.

Watching Cannon and Benderschmidt tag-team through the testimony is like watching a finely choreographed dance routine. And they had never met until yesterday. If I were defending the $50 million lawsuit roaring down the pike, I would start talking settlement.

It’s almost 1:00 p.m. when Benderschmidt finishes off the rote series of lame questions tossed up by Carmen. Judging by his rail-thin frame, His Honor cares little about lunch, but the rest of us are weak with hunger. We break for an hour and a half. Frankie and I drive Kyle to the airport, stopping for a quick drive-through burger along the way. He wants to know as soon as possible when there is a ruling. He loves his work and loves this case and is desperate for an exoneration. Bad science convicted Quincy, and Kyle wants to clean up the mess.

For the past seven months, Zeke Huffey has enjoyed his freedom so much that he’s managed to avoid another arrest. He’s on probation in Arkansas and can’t leave the state without permission from his parole officer. He says he’s clean and sober and determined to remain so. A nonprofit loaned him a thousand dollars for his initial survival, and he’s working part-time at a car wash, a burger place, and a lawn maintenance company. He is surviving and has repaid almost half of his loan. Guardian bought him a plane ticket, and he takes the stand looking tanned and healthier.

His performance in the first hearing before Ole Judge Plank was exemplary. He owned his lies and, while blaming Pfitzner and a bad system, said he knew what he was doing. He had been planted as a snitch and had delivered beautifully. Now, though, he deeply regrets his lies. In a poignant moment that catches everybody off guard, Zeke looks across the courtroom at Quincy and says, “I did it, Quincy. I did it to save my own skin, and I sure wish I hadn’t done it. I lied to save me and to send you away. I’m so sorry, Quincy. I’m not asking for forgiveness, because if I was you I wouldn’t forgive me. I’m just saying I’m sorry for what I did.”

Quincy nods but does not respond. He will tell me later that he wanted to say something, to offer forgiveness, but he was afraid to speak in court without permission.

Zeke gets roughed-up on cross when Carmen zeros in on his colorful history of lying in court. When did the lying stop, or has it? Why should anyone believe that you’re not lying now? And so on. But he survived this before and he handles it well. More than once he says, “Yes ma’am, I admit I’ve lied before, but I’m not lying now. I swear.”

Our next witness is Carrie Holland Pruitt. It took some work to convince Carrie and Buck to make the long drive to Orlando, but when Guardian generously threw in a family package of tickets to Disney World the deal was sealed. Mind you, Guardian cannot afford such family packages to Disney World, but Vicki, as always, somehow found the money.

With Bill Cannon in complete control, Carrie recalls her sad history in the prosecution of Quincy Miller. She did not see a black man running away from the scene, holding what appeared to be a stick, or something. Indeed, she didn’t see anything. Didn’t hear anything. She was coerced into lying at trial by Sheriff Pfitzner and Forrest Burkhead, the former prosecutor. She told her lies, and the following day Pfitzner gave her a thousand dollars in cash, told her to catch the next bus, and threatened to jail her for perjury if she ever returned to Florida.

After the first sentence or two of her testimony, her eyes begin to water. Before long her voice cracks. Halfway through it’s a tear-fest as she lays claim to her lies and says she’s sorry. She was a confused kid back then, doing drugs and dating a bad boyfriend, a cop, and she needed the money. Now, she’s been clean and sober for fifteen years and never misses a day of work. But she has thought about Quincy many times. She sobs and we wait for her to get control. Buck is on the front row, wiping his cheeks too.

Judge Kumar calls for a recess and we break for an hour. His clerk apologizes and says he is tending to an urgent matter in chambers. Marvis Miller arrives and huddles with his brother while a guard watches from a distance. I sit with Mazy and Vicki and analyze the testimony so far. A reporter wants a word but I decline.

At 4:30, we convene again and Bill Cannon calls our last witness for the day. I have just informed Quincy to lessen the shock. When Cannon says the name “June Walker,” Quincy turns and stares at me. I smile and nod reassuringly.

Frankie does not tire easily, especially when stalking people of color who need to cooperate with us. Over the months he gradually cultivated a relationship with Otis Walker in Tallahassee, and from there got to know June. They resisted at first and were still upset by the fact that Quincy’s lawyers had painted such an unflattering picture of his first wife. But with time, Frankie managed to impress upon June and Otis that old lies should be corrected if you’re given the chance. Quincy didn’t kill anybody, yet June had helped the real killers, a bunch of white men.

She rises from the third row and walks with a purpose to the witness stand where she is sworn in by the clerk. I’ve spent time with June and tried to impress upon her that there will be nothing easy about sitting in a courtroom and admitting to perjury. I’ve also assured her that she cannot and will not be prosecuted for it.

She nods at Quincy and grits her teeth. Bring it on. She gives her name and address and says that her first husband was Quincy Miller. They had three children together before the marriage flamed out in a bitter divorce. She’s on our side and Bill Cannon treats her with respect. He lifts some papers from his desk and addresses her.

“Now, Mrs. Walker, I direct your attention back many years ago to the murder trial of your ex-husband, Quincy Miller. In that trial you testified on behalf of the prosecution, and in doing so you made a series of statements. I would like to go through them, okay?”

She nods and says quietly, “Yes sir.”

Cannon adjusts his reading glasses and looks at the trial transcript. “The prosecutor asked you this question: ‘Did the defendant Quincy Miller own a twelve-gauge shotgun?’ And your response was, ‘I think so. He had some pistols. I don’t know much about guns, but, yes, Quincy had a big shotgun.’

“Now, Mrs. Walker, was your answer truthful?”

“No sir, it was not. I never saw a shotgun around our house, never knew Quincy to have one.”

“Okay. The second statement. The prosecutor asked you this question: ‘Did the defendant enjoy hunting and fishing?’ And your response: ‘Yes sir, he didn’t hunt much but went out to the woods from time to time with his friends, usually shooting birds and rabbits.’

“Now, Mrs. Walker, was your answer truthful?”

“No, it was not. I never knew Quincy to go hunting. He liked to fish with his uncle a little, but no hunting.”

“Okay, third statement. The prosecutor handed you a color photograph of a flashlight and asked if you had ever seen Quincy with one like it. Your response: ‘Yes sir, this looks like the one he kept in his car.’

“Now, Mrs. Walker, was your answer truthful?”

“No, it was not. I never saw a flashlight like that one, not that I can remember anyway, and I sure never saw Quincy with one like it.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Walker. Last question. At trial the prosecutor asked you if Quincy was in the vicinity of Seabrook on the night Keith Russo was murdered. Your response: ‘I think so. Somebody said they saw him out at Pounder’s Store.’

“Mrs. Walker, was your answer truthful?”

She starts to answer but her voice fails her. She swallows hard, looks directly at her ex-husband, clenches her jaw, and says, “No sir, it wasn’t truthful. I never heard anybody say anything about Quincy being around that night.”

Cannon says, “Thank you,” and tosses the papers on his table. Carmen Hidalgo slowly gets to her feet as if uncertain how to proceed. She hesitates as she studies the witness and realizes that she cannot score a single point here. She acts frustrated and says, “The State has nothing, Your Honor.”

Judge Kumar says, “Thank you, Mrs. Walker. You are excused.”

June can’t leave the witness stand fast enough. In front of me, Quincy suddenly shoves back his chair and gets to his feet. Without his cane he steps behind Bill Cannon and limps toward June. She slows a step as if frightened, and for a second the rest of us are frozen as a disaster unfolds. Then Quincy throws his arms open wide and June walks into them. He hugs her as they both burst into tears. Two people who once produced three children but grew to hate one another embrace in front of strangers. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers over and over. “It’s all right,” he whispers right back. “It’s all right.”

Chapter 47

Vicki and Mazy are eager to meet Quincy. They have lived with his case for a long time and know a lot about his life, but they’ve never had the chance to say hello. We retreat from the courthouse and gather at Mercy Hospital where he is still a patient and a prisoner. His room now is in a new annex where the rehab facilities are housed, but we meet him in the basement cafeteria. His guard is an Orlando policeman who sits far away, bored.

After twenty-three years of prison food, he does not complain about the bad food they sell in this cafeteria. He wants a sandwich and chips and I fetch it for him as he, Vicki, and Mazy rattle on about the day’s adventures in court. Frankie sits next to him, always ready to assist. Luther Hodges is close by, absorbing the moment and happy to be included. Quincy wants us to join him for dinner but we have committed to other plans later in the evening.

He is still moved by his encounter with June. He has hated her for so long and so hard that he is stunned by the speed with which he forgave her. Sitting there listening to her confess her lies, something came over him, maybe the Holy Spirit, and he just couldn’t hate anymore. He closed his eyes and asked God to take away all of his hate, and in a flash a huge burden left his shoulders. He could actually feel the release as he exhaled. He forgave Zeke Huffey, and he forgave Carrie Holland, and he feels wonderfully, beautifully unburdened.

Luther Hodges smiles and nods. It’s his kind of message.

Quincy nibbles at his sandwich, eats a few chips, says his appetite has yet to return. He weighed 142 yesterday, far below his fighting weight of 180. He wants to know what will happen tomorrow, but I’d rather not speculate. I assume Judge Kumar will finish with the witnesses, take the case under consideration, and issue a ruling in weeks or months. He gives every impression of being sympathetic, but I learned years ago to always expect the worst. And to never expect justice to be swift.