The Guardians: The explosive new thriller from international bestseller John Grisham (41 page)

“In this case, the recantations of three witnesses—Zeke Huffey, Carrie Holland Pruitt, and June Walker—provide clear proof that their testimonies at trial were compromised and inaccurate. The court finds them to be strong, credible witnesses now. The only physical evidence linking Quincy Miller to the murder scene was allegedly the flashlight, and it was not available at trial. Its discovery by the defense team was remarkable. The analysis of the blood spatter by experts on both sides proves that it was not at the crime scene, but probably planted in the trunk of the defendant’s car. The flashlight is exculpatory evidence of the highest order.

“Therefore, the conviction for murder is vacated and the sentence is commuted effective immediately. I suppose there is the chance that Mr. Miller could be indicted and tried again in Ruiz County, though I doubt this. If so, that will be another proceeding for another day. Mr. Miller, would you please stand with your attorneys?”

Quincy forgets about his cane and jumps to his feet. I grab his left elbow as Susan Ashley grabs his right one. His Honor continues, “Mr. Miller, the people responsible for your wrongful conviction over twenty years ago are not in this courtroom today. I’m told some are dead. Others are scattered. I doubt they will ever be held accountable for this miscarriage of justice. I don’t have the power to pursue them. Before you go, though, I’m compelled to at least acknowledge that you have been badly mistreated by our legal system, and since I’m a part of it, I apologize for what has happened to you. I will help with your formal exoneration efforts in any way possible, including the matter of compensation. Good luck to you, sir. You are free to go.”

Quincy nods and mumbles, “Thank you.”

His knees are weak and he sits and buries his face in his hands. We gather around him—Susan Ashley, Marvis, Mazy, Vicki, Frankie—and for a long time little is said as we all have a good cry. Everybody but Frankie, a guy who did not shed a tear when he walked out of prison after fourteen years.

Judge Kumar eases over without his robe and we thank him profusely. He could have waited a month, or six, or a couple of years, and he could have ruled against Quincy and sent us into the appellate orbit where nothing is certain and time means little. It is unlikely he’ll have another chance to free an innocent man after two decades in prison, so he is savoring the moment. Quincy gets to his feet for a hug. And once the hugging begins it is contagious.

This is our tenth exoneration, second in the past year, and each time I look at the cameras and reporters I struggle with what to say. Quincy goes first and talks about being grateful and so on. He says he has no plans, hasn’t had time to make any, and just wants some ribs and a beer. I decide to take the high road and not blame those at fault. I thank Judge Kumar for his courage in doing what was right and just. I’ve learned that the more questions you take the more chances you have to screw up, so after ten minutes I thank them and we leave.

Frankie has pulled his pickup to the curb on a side street. I tell Vicki and Mazy that we’ll meet in Savannah in a few hours, then get in the front passenger seat. Quincy crawls in the rear seat and asks, “What the hell is this?”

“Called a club cab,” Frankie says, easing away.

“It’s all the rage, for white boys anyway,” I say.

“I know dudes driving these,” Frankie says defensively.

“Just drive, man,” Quincy says, soaking up the freedom.

“You want to run by Garvin and get your things?” I ask.

They both laugh. “I might need a new lawyer, Post,” Quincy says.

“Go ahead. He can’t work any cheaper than me.”

Quincy leans forward on the console. “Say, Post, we ain’t talked about this yet, but how much do I get from the State, you know, for the exoneration part of this?”

“Fifty thousand a year for each year served. Over a million bucks.”

“When do I get it?”

“It’ll take a few months.”

“But it’s guaranteed, right?”

“Practically.”

“How much is your cut?”

“Zero.”

“Come on.”

Frankie says, “No, it’s true. Georgia paid me a bunch of money and Post wouldn’t take any of it.”

It dawns on me that I’m in the presence of two black millionaires, though their fortunes were earned in ways that defy description.

Quincy leans back, exhales, laughs, says, “I can’t believe this. Woke up this morning and had no idea, figured they’d haul me back to prison. Where we going, Post?”

“We’re getting out of Florida before someone changes his mind. Don’t ask who. I don’t know who or where or how or why, but let’s go hide in Savannah for a few days.”

“You mean, somebody might be looking for me?”

“I don’t think so, but let’s play it safe.”

“What about Marvis?”

“I told him to meet us in Savannah. We’re eating ribs tonight and I know just the place.”

“I want some ribs, a beer, and a woman.”

“Well, I can handle the first two,” I say. Frankie cuts his eyes at me as if he might have some ideas about the third.

After half an hour of freedom, Quincy wants to stop at a burger place along the busy highway. We go in and I pay for sodas and fries. He picks a table near the front window where he tries to explain what it’s like to sit and eat like a normal person. Free to enter and leave. Free to order anything on the menu. Free to walk to the restroom without asking for permission and not worrying about bad things in there. The poor guy’s emotions are a mess and he cries easily.

Back in the truck, we join the crush on Interstate 95 and slog our way up the East Coast. We allow Quincy to select the music and he likes early Motown. Fine with me. He’s fascinated with Frankie’s life and wants to know how he survived the first few months out of prison. Frankie warns him about the money and all the new friends he is likely to attract. Then Quincy dozes off and there is nothing but music. We navigate around Jacksonville and are within twenty miles of the Georgia line when Frankie mumbles, “Dammit.”

I turn around and see blue lights. My heart sinks as Quincy wakes up and sees the lights. “Were you speeding?” I ask.

“I guess so. Wasn’t paying much attention.”

A second car with lights joins the first but, oddly, the troopers remain in their cars. This cannot be good. I reach into my briefcase, remove a collar, and put it on.

“Oh, so you’re a preacher now,” Quincy says. “Better start praying.”

Frankie asks, “Got another one of those?”

“Sure.” I hand him a collar, and since he’s never worn one before I help get it adjusted properly around his neck.

Finally, the cop in the first car gets out and approaches on the driver’s side. He’s black, with aviator shades, Smokey’s hat, the works. Fit and trim and unsmiling, a real hard-ass. Frankie lowers his window and the cop stares at him, sort of startled.

“Why are you driving this?” he asks.

Frankie shrugs, says nothing.

“I was expecting some Georgia cracker. Now I got a black reverend.” He looks across at me, takes in my collar. “And a white one too.”

He glances into the rear seat and sees Quincy—eyes closed, deep in prayer.

“Registration and license, please.” Frankie hands them over and the trooper goes back to his cruiser. Minutes drag by and we say nothing. When he approaches again, Frankie lowers the window and the officer hands over the registration card and driver’s license.

He says, “God told me to let you go.”

“Praise the Lord,” Quincy gushes from the back seat.

“A black preacher driving a pickup truck with a white preacher riding shotgun speeding down the interstate. I’m sure there’s a story here.”

I hand him one of my business cards and point to Quincy. “This guy just got out of prison after twenty-three years. We proved he was innocent down in Orlando and the judge let him walk. We’re taking him to Savannah for a few days.”

“Twenty-three years.”

“And I served fourteen in Georgia, for somebody else’s murder,” Frankie says.

He looks at me and says, “You?”

“They haven’t convicted me yet.”

He hands the card back, says, “Follow me.” He gets in his car, keeps the blue lights on, guns the engine, takes the lead, and within seconds we’re doing eighty miles an hour with a full escort.

Author’s Note

Inspiration came from two sources: one, a character; the other, a plot.

First, the character. About fifteen years ago I was researching a case in Oklahoma when I stumbled upon a box of documents marked for Centurion Ministries. I knew very little about innocence work back then and I’d never heard of Centurion. I asked around and eventually made my way to its offices in Princeton, New Jersey.

James McCloskey founded Centurion Ministries in 1980 while he was a divinity student. Working as a prison chaplain, he met an inmate who insisted that he was innocent. Jim eventually came to believe him and went to work to prove his innocence. His exoneration inspired Jim to take another case, and then another. For almost forty years, Jim has traveled the country, usually alone, digging for lost clues and elusive witnesses, and searching for the truth.

To date, sixty-three men and women owe their freedom to Jim and the dedicated team at Centurion Ministries. Their website tells a much richer story. Take a look, and if you have a few spare bucks, send them a check. More money equals more innocent people exonerated.

The plot of
The Guardians
is based on a real story, sad to say, and it involves a Texas inmate named Joe Bryan. Thirty years ago, Joe was wrongly convicted of murdering his wife, a horrible crime that occurred at night while Joe was sleeping in his hotel room two hours away. The investigation was botched from the beginning. The real killer was never identified, but strong evidence points to a former policeman who committed suicide in 1996.

The prosecution could not establish a motive for Joe killing his wife because he had none. There were no cracks in the marriage. The only physical evidence supposedly linking him to the crime was a mysterious flashlight found in the trunk of his car. An expert told the jury that the tiny specks found on its lens were “back spatter,” and belonged to the victim. Thus, the expert testified, the flashlight was present at the crime scene, even though it was not recovered from it.

The expert’s testimony was overreaching, speculative, and not based on science. He was also allowed to theorize that Joe probably took a shower after the murder to remove bloodstains but offered no proof of this. The expert has since backed away from those opinions.

Joe should have been exonerated and freed years ago, but it hasn’t happened. His case languishes before the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals. He’s seventy-nine years old and his health is failing. On April 4, 2019, he was denied parole for the seventh time.

In May of 2018,
The New York Times Magazine
and ProPublica copublished a two-part series about Joe’s case. It is investigative reporting at its finest. The journalist, Pamela Colloff, did a masterful job of digging into all aspects of the crime and prosecution, and the breakdown in the judicial system.

So, thanks to Jim McCloskey and Joe Bryan for their stories. One great regret is that Jim did not have the chance to discover Joe’s case thirty years ago. Thanks to Pamela Colloff for her fine work and for bringing the story to the attention of a much wider audience.

Thanks also to Paul Casteleiro, Kate Germond, Bryan Stephenson, Mark Mesler, Maddy deLone, and Deirdre Enright.

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