The Guardians: The explosive new thriller from international bestseller John Grisham (40 page)

After an hour of nonstop chatter, the guard says our time is up. We all hug Quincy and promise to see him in the morning.

Bill Cannon’s law firm has offices in the largest six cities in Florida. The partner who runs the Orlando office is a medical malpractice assassin whose name, Cordell Jollie, invokes horror among incompetent doctors. He has financially wrecked many of them and is far from finished. His verdicts and settlements have provided him the means to buy a mansion in a ritzy section of Orlando, an exclusive neighborhood with gates and shaded streets lined with outrageous homes. We pull into a circular drive and notice parked to one side a Bentley, a Porsche, and a Mercedes coupe. Jollie’s fleet is worth more than Guardian’s annual budget. And parked proudly in front is an old Beetle, no doubt owned by Susan Ashley Gross, who has already arrived.

Normally, we at Guardian would have declined a dinner invitation to such an address, but it is next to impossible to say no to Bill Cannon. Besides, we are just nosy enough to want to see a home that we would otherwise only glimpse in a magazine. A dude in a tux greets us at the front door—my first-ever encounter with a real butler. We follow him through a massive parlor with vaulted ceilings, a room bigger than most reasonable homes, and we are suddenly conscious about our clothes.

Frankie had the presence of mind to pass on the invitation. He, Quincy, and Luther Hodges plan to watch a baseball game on television.

We forget about our clothes when Cordell himself rushes in from another room in a T-shirt, dirty golf shorts, and flip-flops. He’s holding a beer in a green bottle and pumps our hands with vigorous introductions. Bill Cannon appears, also in shorts, and we follow them through the cavernous dwelling to a rear terrace that overlooks a pool large enough to race skiffs. A pool house at the far end can easily sleep fifteen. A gentleman in all whites takes our drink orders as we are directed to a shaded sitting area under creaking fans. Susan Ashley is sipping white wine as she waits for us.

“I’d introduce y’all to my wife but she left last month,” Cordell says loudly as he falls into a wicker rocker. “Third divorce.”

“I thought it was four,” Cannon says seriously.

“Could be. I think I’m done.” It’s easy to get the impression that Cordell plays hard, works hard, parties hard, and keeps nothing inside. “She wants this house but there’s that little prenup thing she signed right before the wedding.”

“Can we talk about something else?” Cannon says. “Our law firm lives in fear of Cordell’s next divorce.”

What, exactly, are we supposed to talk about at this point? “We had a good day in court,” I say. “Thanks to Bill.” Vicki, Mazy, and Susan Ashley are wide-eyed and seemingly afraid to speak.

Cannon says, “It always helps when the facts are on your side.”

“Damn right,” Cordell adds. “I love this case. I’m on the firm’s litigation committee and from the moment Bill pitched this case I said, ‘Hell yes.’ ”

“What’s a litigation committee?” I ask. Cordell is on our side, and he has a big mouth so there’s a chance we can learn a lot.

He says, “Every lawsuit we file has to be screened by a committee made up of the managing partners of the six offices. We see a lot of crap and we also see a lot of good cases that are either unwinnable or too expensive. For us to take a case there has to be a good chance of recovery of at least ten million bucks. That simple. If we don’t see the potential for ten million, then we pass. Quincy, he’s looking at more than that. You have the complicity of the State of Florida, with no caps on damages. You have four million already frozen in the sheriff’s bank accounts, with more parked offshore. And you have the cartel.”

“The cartel?” I ask.

Mr. All-Whites returns with a silver tray and hands down our drinks. Beer for me. White wine for Mazy. And white wine for Vicki as well, which is probably the second time she has not said no since I’ve known her.

Bill says, “It’s not a new angle, but it’s something we haven’t tried before. We’ve associated a firm out of Mexico City that stalks the assets of narco-traffickers. It’s dicey work, as you might guess, but they’ve had some success in attaching bank accounts and freezing property. The Saltillo Cartel has some new faces, primarily because the old ones got blown away, but some of the principals are still known. Our plans are to get a big judgment here and enforce it anywhere we can find the assets.”

“Seems like suing a cartel would be somewhat dangerous,” I say.

Cordell laughs and says, “Probably not as bad as suing tobacco companies, gun makers, or big pharma. Not to mention crooked doctors and their insurance companies.”

Mazy says, “Are you saying that Quincy Miller will get at least ten million dollars?” She asks this slowly, as if in disbelief.

Cannon laughs and says, “No, we never make guarantees. Too many things can go wrong. It’s litigation and so it’s always a roll of the dice. The State will want to settle but Pfitzner will not. He’ll go down swinging and trying like hell to protect his money. He has good lawyers, but he’ll be fighting from inside of a prison. I’m saying that Quincy’s case has that much potential, minus, of course, the matter of our fees.”

“Hear, hear,” Cordell says as he drains his bottle.

“How long will it take?” Vicki asks.

Bill and Cordell look at each other and shrug. Bill says, “Two, maybe three years. Nash Cooley’s firm knows how to litigate so it will be a fair fistfight.”

I watch Susan Ashley as she follows this closely. Like Guardian, her nonprofit cannot split attorneys’ fees with real law firms, but she told me in confidence that Bill Cannon promised to donate 10 percent of the legal fees to the Central Florida Innocence Project. She, in turn, promised me half of whatever they get. For a second my mind goes crazy as our Mexican lawyers garnish Caribbean bank accounts filled with huge sums of money that gets whacked as it trickles down, but at the very end there is little Guardian Ministries waiting with its hand out for a few thousand bucks.

There is a direct correlation between the amount of money we raise and the number of innocent people we exonerate. If we were to catch a windfall, we would probably restructure and add personnel. Maybe I can buy a new set of tires, or better yet, upgrade to a nicer used vehicle.

The alcohol helps and we are able to relax and forget about our poverty as drinks are freshened and dinner preparations are made. Litigators on booze can spin fascinating yarns, and Cordell entertains us with one about an ex-CIA spy he hired and planted deep inside a medical malpractice insurance company. The guy was responsible for three exorbitant verdicts and retired without getting caught.

Cannon tells one about getting his first million-dollar verdict at the age of twenty-eight, still a record in Florida.

Back to Cordell, who’s reminded of his first airplane crash.

It’s a relief when Mr. All-Whites informs us dinner is served. We move to one of the dining rooms inside the mansion where the temperature is much cooler.

Chapter 48

The Honorable Ansh Kumar takes the bench with another smile and says good morning. We’re all in our proper places, eager for the day to begin and anxious about what might happen next. He looks down at Bill Cannon and says, “After we adjourned yesterday, I contacted the state crime lab in Tallahassee and spoke with the director. He said the analyst, a Mr. Tasca, would be here at ten a.m. Mr. Cannon, do you have another witness?”

Bill stands and says, “Maybe, Your Honor. Agnes Nolton is a special agent with the FBI office here in Orlando and she is in charge of the investigation into the brutal attack on Quincy Miller almost five months ago. She is prepared to testify about that investigation and its relevance to this case.”

I had an early breakfast with Agnes and she is willing to help in any way. However, we are doubtful Judge Kumar will see the need for her testimony, restricted as it would be.

He knows this is coming because I mentioned it during a recess yesterday. He thinks about it for a long moment. Carmen Hidalgo rises slowly and says, “Your Honor, may it please the court, I’m having trouble understanding why this testimony can help us here. The FBI had nothing to do with the investigation into the murder of Keith Russo, nor the prosecution of Quincy Miller. Seems like a waste of time to me.”

“I tend to agree. I’ve read the indictments, the lawsuit, the press coverage, so I know something about the conspiracy to murder Mr. Miller. Thank you, Agent Nolton, for your willingness to testify, but you will not be needed.”

I glance back at Agnes and she is smiling.

His Honor taps the gavel and calls for a recess until 10:00.

Mr. Tasca has been studying blood for the State of Florida for thirty-one years. Both sides stipulate to his credentials. Carmen does so because he is the State’s expert. We do so because we want his testimony. Carmen refuses to question him on direct examination. She says this is our petition, not hers. No problem, says Bill Cannon, as he jumps into the testimony.

It’s over in a matter of minutes. Bill asks, “Mr. Tasca, you have tested the blood taken from the shirt and you have analyzed the blood sample from the flashlight lens, correct?”

“That’s correct.”

“And have you read the report prepared by Dr. Kyle Benderschmidt?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Do you know Dr. Benderschmidt?”

“I do. He’s quite well known in our field.”

“Do you agree with his conclusion that the blood on the shirt came from a human and the blood on the flashlight lens came from an animal?”

“Yes, there’s no doubt about it.”

Cannon then does something that I do not recall seeing before in a courtroom. He starts laughing. Laughing at the absurdity of eliciting further testimony. Laughing at the paucity of the evidence against our client. Laughing at the State of Florida and its pathetic efforts to uphold a bad conviction. He waves his arms and asks, “What are we doing here, Judge? The only physical evidence linking our client to the crime scene is that flashlight. Now we know it wasn’t there. It was never owned by our client. It wasn’t recovered from the crime scene.”

“Any more witnesses, Mr. Cannon?”

Still amused, Bill shakes his head and walks from the podium.

The Judge asks, “Ms. Hidalgo, any witnesses?”

She waves him off and is ready to sprint to the nearest door.

“Closing remarks from the attorneys?”

Bill stops at our table and says, “No, Your Honor, we believe enough has been said and we urge the court to rule quickly. Quincy Miller has been released by his doctors and is scheduled to be returned to prison tomorrow. That is a travesty. He has no business in prison, now or twenty years ago. He was wrongfully convicted by the State of Florida and he should be set free. Justice delayed is justice denied.”

How many times have I heard that? Waiting is one of the hazards in this business. I’ve seen a dozen courts sit on cases involving innocent men as if time doesn’t matter, and I’ve wished a hundred times that some pompous judge could be forced to spend a weekend in jail. Just three nights, and it would do wonders for his work ethic.

“We’ll adjourn until one p.m.,” His Honor says with a smile.

Cannon hops into a limousine and races away to the airport where his private jet is waiting to whisk him to a settlement conference in Houston, where he and his gang will carve up a drug company they caught fudging its R&D. He’s almost giddy in anticipation.

The rest of our team huddles in a café somewhere in the depths of the judicial building. Luther Hodges joins us for the first round of coffee. A large clock on one wall gives the time as 10:20 and it appears as though the second hand has stopped. A reporter butts in and asks if Quincy will answer some questions. I say no, then step into the hallway and chat with her.

During the second round, Mazy asks, “So what can go wrong?”

Lots of things. We are convinced Judge Kumar is about to vacate the conviction and sentence. There is no other reason for him to reconvene court at 1:00 p.m. If he planned to rule against Quincy, he would simply wait a few days and mail it in. The hearing clearly went our way. The proof is on our side. The judge is friendly, or has been so far. The State has all but given up. I suspect that Kumar wants some of the glory.

However, he could remand Quincy back to prison for processing. Or send the case back to Ruiz County and order Quincy held there until the locals screw it up again. He could order Quincy back to jail in Orlando pending the appeal of his order by the State. I do not anticipate walking him out the front door as the cameras roll.

The clock barely moves and I try to avoid looking at it. We nibble on sandwiches at noon just to pass the time. At 12:45 we return to the courtroom and wait some more.

At 1:15 Judge Kumar assumes the bench and calls for order. He nods at the court reporter and asks, “Anything from counsel?”

Susan Ashley shakes her head no for our side as Carmen does the same.

He begins reading: “We are here on a petition for post-conviction relief filed under Rule 3.850 by the defendant, Quincy Miller, asking this court to vacate his conviction for murder many years ago in the 22nd Judicial District. Florida law is clear that relief can only be granted if new evidence is shown to the court, evidence that could not have been obtained by due diligence in the original proceedings. And it is not sufficient to make an allegation that there is new evidence, but it must also be proven that the new evidence would have altered the outcome. Examples of new evidence can be recantations of witnesses, discovery of exculpatory evidence, or the finding of new witnesses who were unknown at the time of the trial.