Grisham this time is once more on territory explored before, that of a man wrongly convicted for rape and murder, waiting on death row, while the real culprit is sitting home free.
He's off to a flying start, and as chapter one ends, one would think that all that remains is for the protagonist hero lawyer to get the real culprit caught and proven guilty. As highly non trivial as that is, knowing Grisham one might expect some surprises too.
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"Duke Russell is not guilty of the unspeakable crimes for which he was convicted; nonetheless, he is scheduled to be executed for them in one hour and forty-four minutes. As always during these dreadful nights, the clock seems to tick faster as the final hour approaches. I’ve suffered through two of these countdowns in other states. One went full cycle and my man uttered his final words. The other was waved off in a miracle finish.
"Tick away—it’s not going to happen, not tonight anyway. The folks who run Alabama may one day succeed in serving Duke his last meal before sticking a needle in his arm, but not tonight. He’s been on death row for only nine years. The average in this state is fifteen. Twenty is not unusual. There is an appeal bouncing around somewhere in the Eleventh Circuit in Atlanta, and when it lands on the desk of the right law clerk within the hour this execution will be stayed. Duke will return to the horrors of solitary confinement and live to die another day.
"He’s been my client for the past four years. His team includes a mammoth firm in Chicago, which has committed thousands of pro bono hours, and an anti–death penalty group out of Birmingham that is spread pretty thin. Four years ago, when I became convinced he was innocent, I signed on as the point man. Currently I have five cases, all wrongful convictions, at least in my opinion."
"“If I get out I’m going straight to a bar and drinking cold beer until I pass out.”
"“I’ll go with you. Here’s the Governor.”
"He appears on-screen and I hit the volume. He’s standing in front of a bank of microphones with camera lights glaring at him. Dark suit, paisley tie, white shirt, every tinted hair gelled with precision. A walking campaign ad. Sufficiently burdened, he says, “I have thoroughly reviewed Mr. Russell’s case and discussed it at length with my investigators. I’ve also met with the family of Emily Broone, the victim of Mr. Russell’s crimes, and the family is very much opposed to the idea of clemency. After considering all aspects of this case, I have decided to allow his conviction to stand. The court order will remain in place, and the execution will go forward. The people have spoken. Clemency for Mr. Russell is therefore denied.” He announces this with as much drama as he can muster, then bows and slowly backs away from the cameras, his grand performance complete. Elvis has left the building. Three days ago, he found the time to grant me an audience for fifteen minutes, after which he discussed our “private” meeting with his favorite reporters.
"If his review had been so thorough, he would know that Duke Russell had nothing to do with the rape and murder of Emily Broone eleven years ago. I hit the mute again and say, “No surprise there.”"
"The cell phone in my pocket vibrates and I grab it. I look at the caller ID and say, “Here it is.” I smile at Duke and say hello. It’s the law clerk at the Eleventh Circuit, a guy I know pretty well, and he informs me that his boss has just signed an order staying the execution on the grounds that more time is needed to determine whether Duke Russell received a fair trial. I ask him when the stay will be announced and he says immediately.
"I look at my client and say, “You got a stay. No needle tonight. How long will it take to finish that steak?”
"“Five minutes,” he says with a wide smile as he carves more beef.
"“Can you give me ten minutes?” I ask the clerk. “My client would like to finish his last meal.” We go back and forth and finally agree on seven minutes. I thank him, end the call, and punch another number. “Eat fast,” I say. He has suddenly found his appetite and is as happy as a pig at the trough."
"The architect of Duke’s wrongful conviction is a small-town prosecutor named Chad Falwright. Right now he’s waiting in the prison’s administration building half a mile away, poised for the proudest moment of his career. He thinks that at 11:30 he’ll be escorted to a prison van, along with the Broone family and the local sheriff, and driven here to death row where they’ll be led to a small room with a large glass window that’s covered with a curtain. Once situated there, Chad thinks, they’ll wait for the moment when Duke is strapped to the gurney with needles in his arms and the curtain will be pulled back in dramatic fashion.
"For a prosecutor, there is no greater sense of accomplishment than to witness an execution for which he is responsible.
"Chad, though, will be denied the thrill. I punch his number and he answers quickly. “It’s Post,” I say. “Over here on death row with some bad news. The Eleventh Circuit just issued a stay. Looks like you’ll crawl back to Verona with your tail between your legs.”
"He stutters and manages to say, “What the hell?”
"“You heard me, Chad. Your bogus conviction is unraveling and this is as close as you’ll ever get to Duke’s scalp, which, I must say, is pretty damned close. The Eleventh Circuit has doubts about the trivial notion of a fair trial, so they’re sending it back. It’s over, Chad. Sorry to ruin your big moment.”
"“Is this a joke, Post?”
"“Oh sure. Nothing but laughs over here on death row. You’ve had fun talking to the reporters all day, now have some fun with this.” To say I loathe this guy would be a tremendous understatement."
"Two miles down the highway I stop at a closed country store to make a call.
"His name is Mark Carter. White male, age thirty-three, lives in a small rental house in the town of Bayliss, ten miles from Verona. In my files I have photos of his house and truck and current live-in girlfriend. Eleven years ago, Carter raped and murdered Emily Broone, and now all I have to do is prove it.
"Using a burner, I call the number of his cell phone, a number I’m not supposed to have. After five rings he says, “Hello.”
"“Is this Mark Carter?”
"“Who wants to know?”
"“You don’t know me, Carter, but I’m calling from the prison. Duke Russell just got a stay, so I’m sorry to inform you that the case is still alive. Are you watching television?”
"“Who is this?”
"“I’m sure you’re watching the TV, Carter, sitting there on your fat ass with your fat girlfriend hoping and praying that the State finally kills Duke for your crime. You’re a scumbag Carter, willing to watch him die for something you did. What a coward.”
"“Say it to my face.”
"“Oh, I will Carter, one day in a courtroom. I’ll find the evidence and before long Duke will get out. You’ll take his place. I’m coming your way, Carter.”
"I end the call before he can say anything else."
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"Since gas is slightly cheaper than cheap motels, I spend a lot of time driving lonely roads at dark hours. As always, I tell myself that I will sleep later, as if a long hibernation is waiting just around the corner. The truth is that I nap a lot but rarely sleep and this is unlikely to change. I have saddled myself with the burdens of innocent people rotting away in prison while rapists and murderers roam free.
"Duke Russell was convicted in a backwater redneck town where half the jurors struggle to read and all were easily misled by two pompous and bogus experts put on the stand by Chad Falwright. The first was a retired small-town dentist from Wyoming, and how he found his way to Verona, Alabama, is another story. With grave authority, a nice suit, and an impressive vocabulary, he testified that three nicks on the arms of Emily Broone were inflicted by Duke’s teeth. This clown makes a living testifying across the country, always for the prosecution and always for nice fees, and in his twisted mind a rape is not violent enough unless the rapist somehow manages to bite the victim hard enough to leave imprints.
"Such an unfounded and ridiculous theory should have been exposed on cross-examination, but Duke’s lawyer was either drunk or napping.
"The second expert was from the state crime lab. His area of expertise was, and still is, hair analysis. Seven pubic hairs were found on Emily’s body, and this guy convinced the jury that they came from Duke. They did not. They probably came from Mark Carter but we don’t know that. Yet. The local yokels in charge of the investigation had only a passing interest in Carter as a suspect, though he was the last person seen with Emily the night she disappeared.
"Bite mark and hair analysis have been discredited in most advanced jurisdictions. Both belong to that pathetic and ever-shifting field of knowledge derisively known among defense and innocence lawyers as “junk science.” God only knows how many innocent people are serving long sentences because of unqualified experts and their unfounded theories of guilt.
"Any defense lawyer worth his salt would have had a fine time with those two experts on cross-examination, but Duke’s lawyer was not worth the $3,000 the State paid him. Indeed, he was worth nothing. He had little criminal experience, reeked of alcohol during the trial, was woefully unprepared, believed his client was guilty, got three DUIs the year after the trial, got disbarred, and eventually died of cirrhosis. And I’m supposed to pick up the pieces and find justice.
"But no one drafted me into this case.
"As always, I’m a volunteer.
"I’m on the interstate headed toward Montgomery, two and a half hours away, and I have time to plot and scheme. If I stopped at a motel I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. I’m too pumped over the last-minute miracle that I just pulled out of thin air. I send a text to the law clerk in Atlanta and say thanks. I send a text to my boss who, hopefully, is asleep by now.
"Her name is Vicki Gourley and she works in our little foundation’s office in the old section of Savannah. She founded Guardian Ministries twelve years ago with her own money. Vicki is a devout Christian who considers her work to be derived straight from the Gospels. Jesus said to remember the prisoners. She doesn’t spend much time hanging around jails but she works fifteen hours a day trying to free the innocent. Years ago she was on a jury that convicted a young man of murder and sentenced him to die. Two years later the bad conviction was exposed. The prosecutor had concealed exculpatory evidence and solicited perjured testimony from a jailhouse snitch. The police had planted evidence and lied to the jury. When the real killer was identified by DNA, Vicki sold her flooring business to her nephews, took the money and started Guardian Ministries.
"I was her first employee. Now we have one more.
"We also have a freelancer named Francois Tatum. He’s a forty-five-year-old black guy who realized as a teenager that life in rural Georgia might be easier if he called himself Frankie and not Francois. Seems his mother had some Haitian blood and gave her kids French names, none of which were common in her remote corner of the English-speaking world.
"Frankie was my first exoneree. He was serving life in Georgia for someone else’s murder when I met him. At the time, I was working as an Episcopal priest at a small church in Savannah. We ran a prison ministry and that’s how I met Frankie. He was obsessed with his innocence and talked of nothing else. He was bright and extremely well-read, and had taught himself the law inside and out. After two visits he had me convinced.
"During the first phase of my legal career I defended people who could not afford a lawyer. I had hundreds of clients and before long I reached the point where I assumed they were all guilty. I had never stopped for a moment to consider the plight of the wrongfully convicted. Frankie changed all that. I plunged into an investigation of his case and soon realized I might be able to prove his innocence. Then I met Vicki and she offered me a job that paid even less than my pastoral work. Still does.
"So Francois Tatum became the first client signed up by Guardian Ministries. After fourteen years in prison he had been completely abandoned by his family. All his friends were gone. The aforementioned mother had dumped him and his siblings at the doorstep of an aunt and was never seen again. He’s never known his father. When I met him in prison I was his first visitor in twelve years. All of this neglect sounds terrible, but there was a silver lining. Once freed and fully exonerated, Frankie got a lot of money from the State of Georgia and the locals who had put him away. And with no family or friends to hound him for cash, he managed to ease into freedom like a ghost with no trail. He keeps a small apartment in Atlanta, a post office box in Chattanooga, and spends most of his time on the road savoring the open spaces. His money is buried in various banks throughout the South so no one can find it. He avoids relationships because he has been scarred by all of them. That, and he’s always fearful that someone will try to get in his pockets.
"Frankie trusts me and no one else. When his lawsuits were settled, he offered me a generous fee. I said no. He’d earned every dime of that money surviving prison. When I signed on with Guardian I took a vow of poverty. If my clients can survive on two bucks a day for food, the least I can do is cut every corner."
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Cullen Post had had a breakdown when assigned a case while working in public defender's office in Memphis, at first court appearance for a client from a gang of five who'd generated and cut throat of a teenager and her boyfriend, both under sixteen. He walked out of court with nausea, drive himself to his grandparents home and was admitted to psychiatric care until insurance stopped. His wife left.
"Eight months after my last court appearance, I moved to Alexandria, Virginia, and entered the seminary where I spent the next three years studying diligently. To support myself, I worked twenty hours a week as a research assistant in a mammoth D.C. law firm. I hated the work but managed to mask my contempt for it. I was reminded weekly of why I had left the profession.
"I was ordained at the age of thirty-five and landed a position of associate priest at the Peace Episcopal Church on Drayton Street in Savannah’s historic district. The vicar was a wonderful man named Luther Hodges, and for years he had a prison ministry. His uncle had died behind bars and he was determined to help those who were forgotten. Three months after moving to Savannah I met Mr. Francois Tatum, a truly forgotten soul."
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Cullen Post travelled to Florida to meet Quincy at Seabrook, to take the case. Quincy had been convicted due to a conspiracy, with false witnesses. His lawyer had fought for him, exposed the testimony of several witnesses as false, but had to leave law after Quincy was convicted, due to threats.
Post met some of the witnesses. Most knew they had lied, either due to blackmail or cutting a deal.
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"The bloodstain expert who testified against Quincy was a former Denver homicide detective named Paul Norwood. After working crime scenes for a few years, he had decided to hand in his badge, buy a couple of nice suits, and become an expert witness. He had dropped out of college and did not have the time to pursue a degree in criminology or anything related to actual science, so he attended seminars and workshops on forensics, and he read books and magazine articles written by other experts. He was a smooth talker with a good vocabulary, and he found it easy to convince judges that he knew his stuff. Once qualified as a forensics expert, he found it even easier to convince unsophisticated jurors that his opinions were based on solid science.
"Norwood was far from alone. In the 1980s and 1990s, expert testimony proliferated in the criminal courts as all manner of self-anointed authorities roamed the country impressing juries with their freewheeling opinions. To make matters worse, popular television crime shows portrayed forensic investigators as brilliant sleuths able to solve complex crimes with infallible science. The famous ones could practically look at a bloodied corpse and, within an hour or two, name the killer. In real life, thousands of criminal defendants were convicted and put away by shaky theories about bloodstains, blood spatter, arson, bite marks, fabrics, glass breakage, scalp and pubic hair, boot prints, ballistics, and even fingerprints.
"Good defense lawyers challenged the credibility of these experts, but were rarely successful. Judges were often overwhelmed by the science and had little or no time to educate themselves. If a proffered witness had some training and seemed to know what he was talking about, he was allowed to testify. Over time, judges adopted the rationale that since a witness had been qualified as an expert in other trials in other states, then certainly he must be a genuine authority. Appellate courts got into the act by affirming convictions without seriously questioning the science behind the forensics, and thus bolstering the reputations of the experts. As résumés grew thicker, the opinions grew to encompass even more theories of guilt.
"The more Paul Norwood testified, the smarter he became. One year before Quincy’s trial in 1988, Norwood spent twenty-four hours in a bloodstain analysis seminar put on by a private company in Kentucky. He passed the course, was given a certificate to prove his knowledge, and added another field of expertise to his growing repertoire. He was soon impressing juries with his scientific knowledge of the many intricate ways blood is dispersed in a grisly crime. He specialized in blood, crime scene reconstruction, ballistics, and hair analysis. He advertised his services, networked with law enforcement and prosecutors, and even wrote a book on forensics. His reputation grew and he was in demand.
"Over a twenty-five-year career, Norwood testified in hundreds of criminal trials, always for the prosecution and always implicating the defendant. And always for a nice fee.
"Then DNA testing arrived and put a serious dent in his business. DNA testing not only changed the future of criminal investigations, it brought a fresh and devastating scrutiny to the junk science Norwood and his ilk had been peddling. In at least half of the DNA exonerations of innocent men and women, bad forensics have been the cornerstone of the prosecution’s evidence.
"In one year, 2005, three of Norwood’s convictions were invalidated when DNA testing exposed his faulty methods and testimony. His three victims had spent a combined fifty-nine years in prison, one on death row. He retired under pressure after a single trial in 2006. On cross-examination, after giving his standard bloodstain analysis, he was discredited like never before. The defense lawyer painfully walked him through each of the prior year’s three exonerations. The questioning was brilliant, brutal, and revealing. The defendant was found not guilty. The real killer was later identified. And Norwood called it quits.
"However, the damage was done. Quincy Miller had long since been convicted because of Norwood’s analysis of the bloody flashlight, which, of course, he had never seen. His razor-sharp analysis of the case consisted of reviewing large color photos of the crime scene and the flashlight. He never touched the most crucial piece of evidence, but rather relied on photos of it. Undaunted by this, he testified with certainty that the specks of blood on the lens were back spatter from the shotgun blasts that killed Keith Russo.
"The flashlight disappeared before the trial."
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Cullen Post met the expert, Dr Benderschmidt, at the university where he taught, to discuss his thinking. Having studied the material Cullen Post had sent, Dr Benderschmidt pointed at several absurdities, and they discussed the strong likelihood of a conspiracy. He cautioned Post under the circumstances.
Cullen Post next visited Gerald who was framed by his ex-wife using her two preteen daughters to lie about being molested, because he'd won a lottery during divorce and she'd heard. He was innocent, convicted for twenty years, his money gone before he was convicted, and in rage. Cullen Post informed him that they couldn't take his case, because he was bent on revenge.
Next, Shasta Briley, whose life was beginning to be better after her third baby, but a fire destroyed her home and her children perished; she was accused of arson because she had insurance. She was on death row.
"Muscrove is our arson expert, a genuine scientist who has thoroughly debunked the State’s investigation. He is of the firm opinion that the fire was not deliberate. In other words, there was no crime at all. But getting his report in the hands of a sympathetic judge will be difficult. Our best shot will be an eleventh-hour pardon from the Governor, another unlikely scenario."
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Cullen visited Bruno McKnatt who was police chief of Seabrook during Russo murder, but was sidelined as Pfitzner, the sheriff, took over. They discussed the case and the persons involved.
"Driving away, I’m struck by the fact that he offered no warning about Seabrook and its shady history. Though he clearly has no affection for Sheriff Pfitzner, he did not offer the slightest hint of corruption.
"There is more to his story."
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Carrie Holland contacted him, and met him with her husband Buck Pruitt, whom she'd told about the false testimony now. He'd encouraged her to tell the truth. She'd then been coerced by her paramour who was in police and did drugs with her, telling her charges against her would be dropped, but the sheriff had instead run her out of town. She wasn't sure about signing an affidavit or testifying, but Buck encouraged her. The conversation had been recorded by Frankie changing salt and pepper shakers.
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"Our hands get even dirtier. Frankie has hired an investigator out of Birmingham to stalk Mark Carter, the man who raped and murdered Emily Broone. He lives in the small town of Bayliss, ten miles from Verona, where Duke Russell was convicted. Carter sells tractors for a dealer in Verona, and he ends most workdays at a dive where he meets some buddies for a few beers and pool.
"He is at a table drinking Bud Light from a bottle when a man stumbles and crashes into the little party. Bottles fly as beer is spilled. The man gets to his feet, apologizing profusely, and the situation is tense for a moment. He scoops up the half-empty bottles, buys another round, and keeps apologizing. He sets four fresh bottles on the table and cracks a joke. Carter and his pals finally laugh. All is well as the man, our investigator, retreats to a corner and pulls out his cell phone. In a coat pocket he has the beer bottle Carter was working on.
"The next day, Frankie drives it to a lab in Durham and hands it over, along with a single pubic hair we filched from the police evidence file. Guardian pays $6,000 for an expedited test. The results are beautiful. We now have DNA proof linking Carter to the rape and murder."
"There was no semen found in or around her body. Undaunted by this, the prosecutor, Chad Falwright, simply told the jury that Duke “had probably just used a condom.” There was no proof of this, one was never found, but this made perfect sense to the jury. To get a death verdict, Falwright had to prove murder plus rape. The victim was naked and had probably been sexually assaulted, but the proof was weak. The pubic hairs became crucial evidence.
"In a sober moment, Duke’s lawyer asked the court for money to hire his own expert hair analyst. The court said no. The lawyer either knew nothing about DNA testing or didn’t want to bother with it. He may have assumed the court would not authorize it. Thus, the seven pubic hairs were never tested.
"But they were certainly analyzed. The expert testimony sent Duke to death row, and three months ago came within two hours of getting him killed.
"Now we have the truth."
Cullen Post confronted Chad Cartwright, the public prosecutor, and gave an ultimatum - either Chad have testing done or Cullen would go to press.
Frankie brought Tyler Townsend in to talk to Cullen Post, but Tyler, despite his having fought hard for Quincy Miller and despite knowing Quincy was framed, was unwilling to be further involved; he'd recovered from being threatened and thrown out of town and profession, had a wife and children and home, and didnt wish to jeopardise or endanger any of it.
Chad Cartwright refused to get DNA testing done, threatened to sue, and declared publicly that the DNA test was irrelevant.
"Mazy prepares a thick petition for post-conviction relief. Procedurally, it has to be filed first in state court, in Verona. The day before we file it, I drive to Birmingham and meet with Jim Bizko, a veteran reporter who covered Duke’s trial. He followed the case as the appeals dragged on and expressed doubts about the fairness of the trial. He was especially harsh with his criticism of Duke’s defense lawyer. When the poor guy died of cirrhosis, Jim covered it and suggested that another investigation into the murder would be appropriate. He is delighted by the news that DNA testing has cleared Duke. I’m careful not to name Mark Carter as the killer. That will come later.
"The day after we file the petition, Bizko runs a lengthy article that lands on the front page of the Metro section. Chad Falwright is quoted as saying: “I remain confident that we got the right man and I’m working diligently to bring about the execution of Duke Russell, a ruthless killer. DNA testing means nothing in this case.”
"After two more conversations with Otis Walker, both by phone, Frankie is convinced that June Walker wants nothing to do with Quincy Miller. Obviously, their chaotic divorce left permanent scars and she is adamant in her determination not to get involved. There’s nothing in it for her except bad memories and the embarrassment of confronting old lies.
"Otis warns Frankie to leave them alone.
"He promises to do so. For now."
"Our hands get even dirtier. Frankie has hired an investigator out of Birmingham to stalk Mark Carter, the man who raped and murdered Emily Broone. He lives in the small town of Bayliss, ten miles from Verona, where Duke Russell was convicted. Carter sells tractors for a dealer in Verona, and he ends most workdays at a dive where he meets some buddies for a few beers and pool.
"He is at a table drinking Bud Light from a bottle when a man stumbles and crashes into the little party. Bottles fly as beer is spilled. The man gets to his feet, apologizing profusely, and the situation is tense for a moment. He scoops up the half-empty bottles, buys another round, and keeps apologizing. He sets four fresh bottles on the table and cracks a joke. Carter and his pals finally laugh. All is well as the man, our investigator, retreats to a corner and pulls out his cell phone. In a coat pocket he has the beer bottle Carter was working on.
"The next day, Frankie drives it to a lab in Durham and hands it over, along with a single pubic hair we filched from the police evidence file. Guardian pays $6,000 for an expedited test. The results are beautiful. We now have DNA proof linking Carter to the rape and murder."
"There was no semen found in or around her body. Undaunted by this, the prosecutor, Chad Falwright, simply told the jury that Duke “had probably just used a condom.” There was no proof of this, one was never found, but this made perfect sense to the jury. To get a death verdict, Falwright had to prove murder plus rape. The victim was naked and had probably been sexually assaulted, but the proof was weak. The pubic hairs became crucial evidence.
"In a sober moment, Duke’s lawyer asked the court for money to hire his own expert hair analyst. The court said no. The lawyer either knew nothing about DNA testing or didn’t want to bother with it. He may have assumed the court would not authorize it. Thus, the seven pubic hairs were never tested.
"But they were certainly analyzed. The expert testimony sent Duke to death row, and three months ago came within two hours of getting him killed.
"Now we have the truth."
Cullen Post confronted Chad Cartwright, the public prosecutor, and gave an ultimatum - either Chad have testing done or Cullen would go to press.
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Frankie brought Tyler Townsend in to talk to Cullen Post, but Tyler, despite his having fought hard for Quincy Miller and despite knowing Quincy was framed, was unwilling to be further involved; he'd recovered from being threatened and thrown out of town and profession, had a wife and children and home, and didnt wish to jeopardise or endanger any of it.
Chad Cartwright refused to get DNA testing done, threatened to sue, and declared publicly that the DNA test was irrelevant.
"Mazy prepares a thick petition for post-conviction relief. Procedurally, it has to be filed first in state court, in Verona. The day before we file it, I drive to Birmingham and meet with Jim Bizko, a veteran reporter who covered Duke’s trial. He followed the case as the appeals dragged on and expressed doubts about the fairness of the trial. He was especially harsh with his criticism of Duke’s defense lawyer. When the poor guy died of cirrhosis, Jim covered it and suggested that another investigation into the murder would be appropriate. He is delighted by the news that DNA testing has cleared Duke. I’m careful not to name Mark Carter as the killer. That will come later.
"The day after we file the petition, Bizko runs a lengthy article that lands on the front page of the Metro section. Chad Falwright is quoted as saying: “I remain confident that we got the right man and I’m working diligently to bring about the execution of Duke Russell, a ruthless killer. DNA testing means nothing in this case.”
"After two more conversations with Otis Walker, both by phone, Frankie is convinced that June Walker wants nothing to do with Quincy Miller. Obviously, their chaotic divorce left permanent scars and she is adamant in her determination not to get involved. There’s nothing in it for her except bad memories and the embarrassment of confronting old lies.
"Otis warns Frankie to leave them alone.
"He promises to do so. For now."
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Cullen Post met Glen Colacurci, a lawyer and a cousin of Russo, at Seabrook. He was forth coming about hiring the cousin, not liking his pretty wife, and being upset because the cousin took a client when he left; little else. Post was certain Glen would call Pfitzner the moment he left.
Wink Castle, the current sheriff, was uncertain about helping.
"The fire chief is a potbellied, grizzled old veteran who goes by Lieutenant Jordan and is not nearly as friendly as the sheriff. Things are slow around the firehouse two blocks off Main Street."
"“Not much of a fire, as I recall,” he says as he places it on the table. “Help yourself.” He leaves the room.
"Back then, the sheriff’s office was several blocks away in an old building that has since been razed. In Ruiz County, as in hundreds of other places, it was not at all unusual to store crime scene evidence anywhere there happened to be an empty space or closet. I’ve crawled through courthouse attics and suffocating basements in search of old records.
""To alleviate the shortage of storage space, Pfitzner used a portable shed behind his office. In the file there is a black-and-white photo of it before the fire, and a heavy padlock on the only door is visible. There were no windows. I estimate it was thirty feet long, twelve feet wide, eight feet in height. A photo taken after the fire shows nothing but charred rubble.
"The first alarm came at 3:10 a.m. and the firemen found the shed fully engulfed. The fire was extinguished in a matter of minutes with nothing salvageable. Its cause is listed as “Unknown.”
"As Jordan said, it wasn’t much of a fire. The flashlight found in Quincy’s trunk was apparently destroyed. No trace was found. Conveniently, the autopsy reports, witness statements, diagrams, and photos were safely locked away inside Pfitzner’s desk. He had what he needed to convict Quincy Miller.
"For the moment, the fire is a dead end."
Cullen Post visited his mother, who'd inherited her parents' place.
"In spite of my unconventional lifestyle, Mom is proud of what I do, though she understands little about the criminal justice system. She finds it depressing that there is so much crime, so many people imprisoned, so many broken families. It has taken me years to convince her that there are thousands of innocent people locked away. This is our first chance to talk about Quincy Miller and she loves getting the details. A murdered lawyer, a crooked sheriff, a drug cartel, an innocent man perfectly framed. She can’t believe it at first and relishes the story. I don’t worry about telling her too much. We are, after all, sitting on a dark porch in rural Tennessee, far away from Florida, and who would she tell anyway? I can trust my mom to keep secrets.
"We go through each of my other clients: Shasta Briley on death row in North Carolina, convicted of arson that killed her three daughters; Billy Rayburn in Tennessee, convicted by the dubious science of what has become known as the Shaken Baby Syndrome after he tripped and fell while holding his girlfriend’s baby; Duke Russell, still on death row in Alabama; Curtis Wallace, convicted in Mississippi of the abduction, rape, and murder of a young woman he never met; and Little Jimmy Flagler, who was seventeen and mentally retarded when Georgia locked him away for life."
Cullen Post met Glen Colacurci, a lawyer and a cousin of Russo, at Seabrook. He was forth coming about hiring the cousin, not liking his pretty wife, and being upset because the cousin took a client when he left; little else. Post was certain Glen would call Pfitzner the moment he left.
Wink Castle, the current sheriff, was uncertain about helping.
"The fire chief is a potbellied, grizzled old veteran who goes by Lieutenant Jordan and is not nearly as friendly as the sheriff. Things are slow around the firehouse two blocks off Main Street."
"“Not much of a fire, as I recall,” he says as he places it on the table. “Help yourself.” He leaves the room.
"Back then, the sheriff’s office was several blocks away in an old building that has since been razed. In Ruiz County, as in hundreds of other places, it was not at all unusual to store crime scene evidence anywhere there happened to be an empty space or closet. I’ve crawled through courthouse attics and suffocating basements in search of old records.
""To alleviate the shortage of storage space, Pfitzner used a portable shed behind his office. In the file there is a black-and-white photo of it before the fire, and a heavy padlock on the only door is visible. There were no windows. I estimate it was thirty feet long, twelve feet wide, eight feet in height. A photo taken after the fire shows nothing but charred rubble.
"The first alarm came at 3:10 a.m. and the firemen found the shed fully engulfed. The fire was extinguished in a matter of minutes with nothing salvageable. Its cause is listed as “Unknown.”
"As Jordan said, it wasn’t much of a fire. The flashlight found in Quincy’s trunk was apparently destroyed. No trace was found. Conveniently, the autopsy reports, witness statements, diagrams, and photos were safely locked away inside Pfitzner’s desk. He had what he needed to convict Quincy Miller.
"For the moment, the fire is a dead end."
................................................................................................
Cullen Post visited his mother, who'd inherited her parents' place.
"In spite of my unconventional lifestyle, Mom is proud of what I do, though she understands little about the criminal justice system. She finds it depressing that there is so much crime, so many people imprisoned, so many broken families. It has taken me years to convince her that there are thousands of innocent people locked away. This is our first chance to talk about Quincy Miller and she loves getting the details. A murdered lawyer, a crooked sheriff, a drug cartel, an innocent man perfectly framed. She can’t believe it at first and relishes the story. I don’t worry about telling her too much. We are, after all, sitting on a dark porch in rural Tennessee, far away from Florida, and who would she tell anyway? I can trust my mom to keep secrets.
"We go through each of my other clients: Shasta Briley on death row in North Carolina, convicted of arson that killed her three daughters; Billy Rayburn in Tennessee, convicted by the dubious science of what has become known as the Shaken Baby Syndrome after he tripped and fell while holding his girlfriend’s baby; Duke Russell, still on death row in Alabama; Curtis Wallace, convicted in Mississippi of the abduction, rape, and murder of a young woman he never met; and Little Jimmy Flagler, who was seventeen and mentally retarded when Georgia locked him away for life."
................................................................................................
Zeke was searched and caught with a knife, so in solitary. He was shocked to see Cullen who explained he'd get an early release if he'd sign an affidavit that he'd lied, which he eventually did.
June Miller's second marriage too had ended badly, and she was doing well with her third. They contacted her second husband.
"Rhoad was reluctant to get involved, but Frankie knows persistence. It’s part of our culture. Ease in, get to know the witnesses, develop a level of trust, and always gently remind them that an innocent man has been wronged by the system. In this case, by white folks in a small backward town.
"Frankie assured Rhoad that he had done nothing wrong and would face no trouble. June had lied and she was unwilling to acknowledge the damage she had done. He, Rhoad, could help immeasurably.
"In another bar and over another round of beers, he agreed to sign an affidavit."
Guardians got a message on internet on a site where the message vanished after five minutes. Cullen Post was invited to Bahamas for a rendezvous. It was Tyler Townsend who had properties around, and took Cullen Post to one, and told him the horror story of how he was kidnapped and terrorised after the conviction of Quincy Miller, with a photograph that was proof it wasn't a story. He'd messaged about Kenny Taft, but wouldn't talk about him.
Chad Falwright had sued and Cullen appeared, but there was no interest from press. Instead of his friend, there was a new judge who didn't agree with chad; she dismissed the charges, and instead ordered DNA testing. Chad appealed at the last minute so the matter would likely languish and judges agree with him.
Zeke was searched and caught with a knife, so in solitary. He was shocked to see Cullen who explained he'd get an early release if he'd sign an affidavit that he'd lied, which he eventually did.
June Miller's second marriage too had ended badly, and she was doing well with her third. They contacted her second husband.
"Rhoad was reluctant to get involved, but Frankie knows persistence. It’s part of our culture. Ease in, get to know the witnesses, develop a level of trust, and always gently remind them that an innocent man has been wronged by the system. In this case, by white folks in a small backward town.
"Frankie assured Rhoad that he had done nothing wrong and would face no trouble. June had lied and she was unwilling to acknowledge the damage she had done. He, Rhoad, could help immeasurably.
"In another bar and over another round of beers, he agreed to sign an affidavit."
................................................................................................
Guardians got a message on internet on a site where the message vanished after five minutes. Cullen Post was invited to Bahamas for a rendezvous. It was Tyler Townsend who had properties around, and took Cullen Post to one, and told him the horror story of how he was kidnapped and terrorised after the conviction of Quincy Miller, with a photograph that was proof it wasn't a story. He'd messaged about Kenny Taft, but wouldn't talk about him.
Chad Falwright had sued and Cullen appeared, but there was no interest from press. Instead of his friend, there was a new judge who didn't agree with chad; she dismissed the charges, and instead ordered DNA testing. Chad appealed at the last minute so the matter would likely languish and judges agree with him.
................................................................................................
Glen called and met him, and gave the address of Brace Gilmer, the partner of Kenny Taft who'd vanished; he'd changed his name to Bruce. Cullen went to Idaho to Sun Valley to the resort where he worked. He talked to Cullen after making it clear he would get involved further.
They'd been ambushed, and Bruce was fortunate to be alive. He'd shot and killed one of the thugs, who'd cried out, and it was a Cracker, local, not Spanish.
Cullen wanted to know what Kenny knew. It was about destruction of evidence, the fire had been deliberate. Kenny had grown up wanting to be a spy, and Bruce suspected he'd tapped the phones at office, so feds could catch Pfitzner. He'd probably heard something.
Quincy Miller case was heard nowhere near the scene of crime, but Guardians were prepared, and identified two out of four guys who were there to watch them.
The had a lucky break, a retired DEA guy, Len Duckworth, who talked to them about the whole thing. Russo had turned informant for them, and murdered by cartel; Diana was having an affair with one of them, and they were still together.
Glen called and met him, and gave the address of Brace Gilmer, the partner of Kenny Taft who'd vanished; he'd changed his name to Bruce. Cullen went to Idaho to Sun Valley to the resort where he worked. He talked to Cullen after making it clear he would get involved further.
They'd been ambushed, and Bruce was fortunate to be alive. He'd shot and killed one of the thugs, who'd cried out, and it was a Cracker, local, not Spanish.
Cullen wanted to know what Kenny knew. It was about destruction of evidence, the fire had been deliberate. Kenny had grown up wanting to be a spy, and Bruce suspected he'd tapped the phones at office, so feds could catch Pfitzner. He'd probably heard something.
................................................................................................
Quincy Miller case was heard nowhere near the scene of crime, but Guardians were prepared, and identified two out of four guys who were there to watch them.
The had a lucky break, a retired DEA guy, Len Duckworth, who talked to them about the whole thing. Russo had turned informant for them, and murdered by cartel; Diana was having an affair with one of them, and they were still together.
................................................................................................
"According to Steve Rosenberg, Judge Marlowe has more clout than we gave her credit for. He suspects she lobbied the Alabama Court of Appeals to move at what could be a record pace. Barely two months after the hearing in Verona, the court unanimously affirms Judge Marlowe’s command to DNA test the seven pubic hairs. And they order the testing to be paid for by the office of the Honorable Chad Falwright. Two detectives from the state police drive the evidence to the same lab in Durham that we used to test the saliva of Mark Carter. I stare at my phone for three days until it buzzes with a call from Her Honor herself.
"With perfect unaccented diction and in the most beautiful female voice I’ve ever heard, she says, “Well, Mr. Post, it appears as though you are correct. Your client has been excluded by DNA testing. All seven pubic hairs once belonged to Mr. Carter.”
"I’m in Vicki’s office and my face says it all. I close my eyes for a moment as Vicki quietly hugs Mazy.
"Her Honor continues, “Today is Tuesday. Can you be here for a hearing on Thursday?”
"“Of course. And thank you, Judge Marlowe.”
"“Don’t thank me, Mr. Post. Our judicial system owes an enormous debt of gratitude to you.”
"These are the moments we live for. Alabama came within two hours of killing an innocent man. Duke Russell would be cold in his grave if not for us and our work and our commitment to undoing wrongful convictions.
"But we’ll celebrate later. I leave immediately and head west toward Alabama, phoning nonstop. Chad doesn’t want to talk and of course he’s far too busy at the moment. Since he’ll try to screw things up again, and since he’s incompetent to begin with, we’re worried about the apprehension of Mark Carter. To our knowledge Carter knows nothing about the DNA testing. Steve Rosenberg convinces the Attorney General to call Chad and get him in line. The AG also agrees to notify the state police and ask them to keep an eye on Carter."
Duke was brought out, met Cullen Post.
"Idiot Chad is threatening to re-file charges against not only Duke but Mark Carter as well. His bizarre new theory is that the two of them tag-teamed the rape and murder of Emily Broone.
"The two of them have never met. As outrageous as this sounds, it is not surprising. When boxed-in and bleeding, prosecutors often become wildly creative with new theories of guilt. The fact that Mark Carter’s name was never mentioned at Duke’s trial ten years ago will kill this nonsense. Judge Marlowe is on the warpath and will not listen to it. And, the Alabama Attorney General is putting pressure on Chad to back off.
"Nonetheless, he has the power to re-file charges and it is something to worry about. He could have Duke arrested not long after he’s released. As I try to explain these legal vagaries to my client, he becomes too emotional to talk. We leave him with the sheriff, who takes him to the nicest cell for his last night in captivity.
"Steve and I drive to Birmingham and have drinks with Jim Bizko of The Birmingham News. He’s rabid with the story and has circulated the gossip among his colleagues. Tomorrow, he promises us, will be a circus.
"We have a late dinner and find a cheap motel, one far away from Verona. We do not feel safe staying there. The victim’s family is large and has many friends, and we’ve had anonymous phone threats. They too are part of the business."
Duke Russell was freed by the judge with a handsome apology on behalf of the state. Mark Carter was arrested and brought in.
Cullen Post met Tyler Townsend to talk about the guys watching them in court. Tyler didn't know them, but said he never wanted to be contacted again.
"The question is: How terrified should we be of the present?
"The answer arrives within hours.
"We select our cases with great care, and once engaged we investigate and litigate with diligence. Our goal is to find the truth and exonerate our clients, something we’ve now done nine times in the past twelve years. However, it has never occurred to me that our efforts to save a client might get one killed.
"It was a prison beating with all the markings of an ambush, and as such it will be difficult to get the facts. Witnesses are unreliable if they come forward at all. Guards often see nothing. The administration has every reason to cover up and to slant its version in a way most favorable to the prison.
"Not long after I said goodbye to Quincy that morning, he was jumped by two men in a walkway between a machine shop and a gymnasium. He was stabbed by a shank and beaten severely by blunt instruments, and left for dead. A guard eventually walked by, saw him lying in a pool of blood, and called for help. He was loaded into an ambulance and taken to the nearest hospital and from there was rushed to Mercy Hospital in Orlando. Tests revealed a fractured skull, swollen brain, broken jaw, splintered shoulder and collarbone, missing teeth, and so on, and three deep stab wounds. He was given six pints of blood and put on life support. When the prison finally called our office in Savannah, Vicki was informed that he was “critical” and not expected to survive.
"I was on the Jacksonville bypass when she called me with the news. I forgot all the other clutter in my brain and turned around. Quincy has no family to speak of. Right now, he needs his lawyer."
"According to Steve Rosenberg, Judge Marlowe has more clout than we gave her credit for. He suspects she lobbied the Alabama Court of Appeals to move at what could be a record pace. Barely two months after the hearing in Verona, the court unanimously affirms Judge Marlowe’s command to DNA test the seven pubic hairs. And they order the testing to be paid for by the office of the Honorable Chad Falwright. Two detectives from the state police drive the evidence to the same lab in Durham that we used to test the saliva of Mark Carter. I stare at my phone for three days until it buzzes with a call from Her Honor herself.
"With perfect unaccented diction and in the most beautiful female voice I’ve ever heard, she says, “Well, Mr. Post, it appears as though you are correct. Your client has been excluded by DNA testing. All seven pubic hairs once belonged to Mr. Carter.”
"I’m in Vicki’s office and my face says it all. I close my eyes for a moment as Vicki quietly hugs Mazy.
"Her Honor continues, “Today is Tuesday. Can you be here for a hearing on Thursday?”
"“Of course. And thank you, Judge Marlowe.”
"“Don’t thank me, Mr. Post. Our judicial system owes an enormous debt of gratitude to you.”
"These are the moments we live for. Alabama came within two hours of killing an innocent man. Duke Russell would be cold in his grave if not for us and our work and our commitment to undoing wrongful convictions.
"But we’ll celebrate later. I leave immediately and head west toward Alabama, phoning nonstop. Chad doesn’t want to talk and of course he’s far too busy at the moment. Since he’ll try to screw things up again, and since he’s incompetent to begin with, we’re worried about the apprehension of Mark Carter. To our knowledge Carter knows nothing about the DNA testing. Steve Rosenberg convinces the Attorney General to call Chad and get him in line. The AG also agrees to notify the state police and ask them to keep an eye on Carter."
Duke was brought out, met Cullen Post.
"Idiot Chad is threatening to re-file charges against not only Duke but Mark Carter as well. His bizarre new theory is that the two of them tag-teamed the rape and murder of Emily Broone.
"The two of them have never met. As outrageous as this sounds, it is not surprising. When boxed-in and bleeding, prosecutors often become wildly creative with new theories of guilt. The fact that Mark Carter’s name was never mentioned at Duke’s trial ten years ago will kill this nonsense. Judge Marlowe is on the warpath and will not listen to it. And, the Alabama Attorney General is putting pressure on Chad to back off.
"Nonetheless, he has the power to re-file charges and it is something to worry about. He could have Duke arrested not long after he’s released. As I try to explain these legal vagaries to my client, he becomes too emotional to talk. We leave him with the sheriff, who takes him to the nicest cell for his last night in captivity.
"Steve and I drive to Birmingham and have drinks with Jim Bizko of The Birmingham News. He’s rabid with the story and has circulated the gossip among his colleagues. Tomorrow, he promises us, will be a circus.
"We have a late dinner and find a cheap motel, one far away from Verona. We do not feel safe staying there. The victim’s family is large and has many friends, and we’ve had anonymous phone threats. They too are part of the business."
Duke Russell was freed by the judge with a handsome apology on behalf of the state. Mark Carter was arrested and brought in.
................................................................................................
Cullen Post met Tyler Townsend to talk about the guys watching them in court. Tyler didn't know them, but said he never wanted to be contacted again.
"The question is: How terrified should we be of the present?
"The answer arrives within hours.
"We select our cases with great care, and once engaged we investigate and litigate with diligence. Our goal is to find the truth and exonerate our clients, something we’ve now done nine times in the past twelve years. However, it has never occurred to me that our efforts to save a client might get one killed.
"It was a prison beating with all the markings of an ambush, and as such it will be difficult to get the facts. Witnesses are unreliable if they come forward at all. Guards often see nothing. The administration has every reason to cover up and to slant its version in a way most favorable to the prison.
"Not long after I said goodbye to Quincy that morning, he was jumped by two men in a walkway between a machine shop and a gymnasium. He was stabbed by a shank and beaten severely by blunt instruments, and left for dead. A guard eventually walked by, saw him lying in a pool of blood, and called for help. He was loaded into an ambulance and taken to the nearest hospital and from there was rushed to Mercy Hospital in Orlando. Tests revealed a fractured skull, swollen brain, broken jaw, splintered shoulder and collarbone, missing teeth, and so on, and three deep stab wounds. He was given six pints of blood and put on life support. When the prison finally called our office in Savannah, Vicki was informed that he was “critical” and not expected to survive.
"I was on the Jacksonville bypass when she called me with the news. I forgot all the other clutter in my brain and turned around. Quincy has no family to speak of. Right now, he needs his lawyer."
................................................................................................
"With the FBI throwing its weight around, Quincy is moved to a corner room that is more secure. Two surveillance cameras are mounted prominently above his door. The hospital staff is on high alert and its guards are more of a presence. The prison sends one over each day for a few hours of hallway monitoring, and Orlando police officers enjoy stopping by to flirt with the nurses."
"The file on Mickey Mercado gets thicker. With warrants, his income tax returns are obtained and scoured. He lists his occupation as a security consultant, a sole proprietor as opposed to a partnership or corporation. His business address is in the same building as Varick & Valencia, Nash Cooley’s law firm. Last year’s reported gross income was slightly more than $200,000, with deductions for a mortgage and a couple of nice cars. He’s single, divorced, with no dependents. No charitable activities at all.
"The FBI has no interest in wasting its time pursuing prison guards who peddle dope or prison gangs at war with each other. But Special Agent Agnes Nolton can’t resist the scenario of a crime boss hiring the Aryan Deacons to kill an innocent man whose lawyers are trying to exonerate him. She makes the decision to roll the dice in a big way and put Skip DiLuca in a vice. It is a high-risk, high-reward strategy.
"With the cooperation of the U.S. Attorney, she appears before a federal grand jury and presents the evidence. Jon Drummik, Robert Earl Lane, Adam Stone, and Skip DiLuca are indicted for the attempted contract killing and aggravated assault of Quincy Miller. The indictments are sealed, and the FBI waits in ambush."
Skip was picked up by FBI, and took the deal.
"Mercado never mentioned his client’s name. He was my sole contact. Frankly, I didn’t inquire since I figured it’s best to know as little as possible in a deal like that. If I had asked, I’m sure Mercado would have ducked the question.
"A friend of mine in Miami, a former trafficker, says Mercado is sort of a semi-legit operator who is often hired by traffickers to fix problems. I have met with him twice since the attack on Miller but both meetings were not productive. He asked if I thought it might be possible to get to Miller in the hospital. I went there and looked around but didn’t like what I saw. Mercado wants me to monitor Miller’s recovery and find a way to finish the job.
"Skip DiLuca"
"With the FBI throwing its weight around, Quincy is moved to a corner room that is more secure. Two surveillance cameras are mounted prominently above his door. The hospital staff is on high alert and its guards are more of a presence. The prison sends one over each day for a few hours of hallway monitoring, and Orlando police officers enjoy stopping by to flirt with the nurses."
"The file on Mickey Mercado gets thicker. With warrants, his income tax returns are obtained and scoured. He lists his occupation as a security consultant, a sole proprietor as opposed to a partnership or corporation. His business address is in the same building as Varick & Valencia, Nash Cooley’s law firm. Last year’s reported gross income was slightly more than $200,000, with deductions for a mortgage and a couple of nice cars. He’s single, divorced, with no dependents. No charitable activities at all.
"The FBI has no interest in wasting its time pursuing prison guards who peddle dope or prison gangs at war with each other. But Special Agent Agnes Nolton can’t resist the scenario of a crime boss hiring the Aryan Deacons to kill an innocent man whose lawyers are trying to exonerate him. She makes the decision to roll the dice in a big way and put Skip DiLuca in a vice. It is a high-risk, high-reward strategy.
"With the cooperation of the U.S. Attorney, she appears before a federal grand jury and presents the evidence. Jon Drummik, Robert Earl Lane, Adam Stone, and Skip DiLuca are indicted for the attempted contract killing and aggravated assault of Quincy Miller. The indictments are sealed, and the FBI waits in ambush."
................................................................................................
Skip was picked up by FBI, and took the deal.
"Mercado never mentioned his client’s name. He was my sole contact. Frankly, I didn’t inquire since I figured it’s best to know as little as possible in a deal like that. If I had asked, I’m sure Mercado would have ducked the question.
"A friend of mine in Miami, a former trafficker, says Mercado is sort of a semi-legit operator who is often hired by traffickers to fix problems. I have met with him twice since the attack on Miller but both meetings were not productive. He asked if I thought it might be possible to get to Miller in the hospital. I went there and looked around but didn’t like what I saw. Mercado wants me to monitor Miller’s recovery and find a way to finish the job.
"Skip DiLuca"
................................................................................................
Frankie contacted a nephew of Kenny.
"Riley says, “You know, this is weird. Kenny’s been dead for twenty years and nobody from the outside has shown any interest. Now, in less than a week, you and two others come snooping around.”
"“Two others?”
"“Two white dudes showed up last week, asking questions about Kenny. Where did he grow up? Where did he live? Where is he buried? I didn’t like them and I played dumb, gave ’em nothing.”
"“Where were they from?”
"“I didn’t ask. I got the impression they wouldn’t tell me anyway.”"
Skip was used once more, to propose contract killing of Quincy. for Mercado.
"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."
Frankie contacted a nephew of Kenny.
"Riley says, “You know, this is weird. Kenny’s been dead for twenty years and nobody from the outside has shown any interest. Now, in less than a week, you and two others come snooping around.”
"“Two others?”
"“Two white dudes showed up last week, asking questions about Kenny. Where did he grow up? Where did he live? Where is he buried? I didn’t like them and I played dumb, gave ’em nothing.”
"“Where were they from?”
"“I didn’t ask. I got the impression they wouldn’t tell me anyway.”"
................................................................................................
Skip was used once more, to propose contract killing of Quincy. for Mercado.
"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."
................................................................................................
"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.
"I decide to hire him for other reasons. First, he believes in the cause and donates generously to Susan Ashley’s innocence group. Second, he believes in pro bono and expects his partners and associates to donate 10 percent of their time representing the less fortunate. Though he now zips around in his own jet, he grew up poor and remembers the pain of getting stepped on when his family was wrongfully evicted.
"Three days after Mercado and Pfitzner are arrested, Cannon files on behalf of Quincy a $50 million federal lawsuit against the Florida Department of Corrections, Mickey Mercado, and Bradley Pfitzner. The lawsuit also names Robert Earl Lane and Jon Drummik, the assailants, along with Adam Stone and Skip DiLuca, but they will be dismissed later. Immediately after filing the lawsuit, Cannon convinces a magistrate to freeze the bank accounts and all other assets of Mercado and Pfitzner before the money slips away and disappears into the Caribbean."
Kenny Taft's relatives were unwilling to allow the house of his parents to be checked for whether he had stored evidence there before he was murdered, but Cullen Post and Frankie got around it by leasing the house for two days for less than a thousand dollars; they found the evidence in the attic, and a skeleton in a closet.
The two met the current prosecutor and sheriff with Glen, Glen pointing out that the evidence didn't belong to the state since it was presumed destroyed and Cullen Post along with Frankie had discovered it. Plus, their experts were better, so far. Benderschmidt with his associates worked on the flashlight and bloody shirt discovered in the evidence boxes. There was a thumbprint on one of the batteries. Benderschmidt informed Cullen Post and discussed implications with him.
"The blood on the flashlight came from an animal, most likely a rabbit or a similar small mammal."
"“And the thumbprint?”
"“The good news is that it’s not Quincy’s. The bad news is that it’s not Pfitzner’s either. As of now it’s unknown, but the Florida crime lab is still digging. They ran it through their systems last night, got nothing. Which probably means the person who handled the battery does not have prints on file. So it could be anybody. Pfitzner’s wife, his housekeeper, one of his office boys. Somebody you’ve never heard of and will never find.”
"Frankie says, “But it doesn’t matter, right? If the flashlight was not at the scene, then the real killer didn’t use it.”
"“That’s correct,” Kyle says. “So what happened? I suspect Pfitzner killed a rabbit, got a blood sample, and doused the flashlight. Me, I’d use a large syringe from the drugstore and spray the lens from about five feet away. It would spatter nicely enough. He let it dry, handled it with gloves, stuck it in a pocket, got a warrant for Quincy’s car, planted it. He knew of Paul Norwood, the so-called expert, and made sure the prosecutor hired him. Norwood would say anything for a fee, and he rolled into town with a thick résumé and convinced the, shall we say, unsophisticated jurors. Mostly white, as I recall.”
"“Eleven to one,” I add.
"“Sensational murder, the thirst for justice, the perfect suspect with motive, and an ingenious frame job. Quincy barely escaped the death penalty and got sent away forever. Twenty-three years later, the truth is discovered by you, Post. You deserve a medal.”
"“Thanks, Doc, but we don’t do medals. Just exonerations.”
"“It’s been a real pleasure. A fantastic case. I’ll be there when you need me.”"
"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.
"I decide to hire him for other reasons. First, he believes in the cause and donates generously to Susan Ashley’s innocence group. Second, he believes in pro bono and expects his partners and associates to donate 10 percent of their time representing the less fortunate. Though he now zips around in his own jet, he grew up poor and remembers the pain of getting stepped on when his family was wrongfully evicted.
"Three days after Mercado and Pfitzner are arrested, Cannon files on behalf of Quincy a $50 million federal lawsuit against the Florida Department of Corrections, Mickey Mercado, and Bradley Pfitzner. The lawsuit also names Robert Earl Lane and Jon Drummik, the assailants, along with Adam Stone and Skip DiLuca, but they will be dismissed later. Immediately after filing the lawsuit, Cannon convinces a magistrate to freeze the bank accounts and all other assets of Mercado and Pfitzner before the money slips away and disappears into the Caribbean."
................................................................................................
Kenny Taft's relatives were unwilling to allow the house of his parents to be checked for whether he had stored evidence there before he was murdered, but Cullen Post and Frankie got around it by leasing the house for two days for less than a thousand dollars; they found the evidence in the attic, and a skeleton in a closet.
The two met the current prosecutor and sheriff with Glen, Glen pointing out that the evidence didn't belong to the state since it was presumed destroyed and Cullen Post along with Frankie had discovered it. Plus, their experts were better, so far. Benderschmidt with his associates worked on the flashlight and bloody shirt discovered in the evidence boxes. There was a thumbprint on one of the batteries. Benderschmidt informed Cullen Post and discussed implications with him.
"The blood on the flashlight came from an animal, most likely a rabbit or a similar small mammal."
"“And the thumbprint?”
"“The good news is that it’s not Quincy’s. The bad news is that it’s not Pfitzner’s either. As of now it’s unknown, but the Florida crime lab is still digging. They ran it through their systems last night, got nothing. Which probably means the person who handled the battery does not have prints on file. So it could be anybody. Pfitzner’s wife, his housekeeper, one of his office boys. Somebody you’ve never heard of and will never find.”
"Frankie says, “But it doesn’t matter, right? If the flashlight was not at the scene, then the real killer didn’t use it.”
"“That’s correct,” Kyle says. “So what happened? I suspect Pfitzner killed a rabbit, got a blood sample, and doused the flashlight. Me, I’d use a large syringe from the drugstore and spray the lens from about five feet away. It would spatter nicely enough. He let it dry, handled it with gloves, stuck it in a pocket, got a warrant for Quincy’s car, planted it. He knew of Paul Norwood, the so-called expert, and made sure the prosecutor hired him. Norwood would say anything for a fee, and he rolled into town with a thick résumé and convinced the, shall we say, unsophisticated jurors. Mostly white, as I recall.”
"“Eleven to one,” I add.
"“Sensational murder, the thirst for justice, the perfect suspect with motive, and an ingenious frame job. Quincy barely escaped the death penalty and got sent away forever. Twenty-three years later, the truth is discovered by you, Post. You deserve a medal.”
"“Thanks, Doc, but we don’t do medals. Just exonerations.”
"“It’s been a real pleasure. A fantastic case. I’ll be there when you need me.”"
................................................................................................
"As Frankie drives south, I have long conversations with Mazy, Susan Ashley, and Bill Cannon. There are so many ideas that Mazy patches together a conference call and the entire team brainstorms for an hour. She has the most brilliant idea of the moment, a trick play she has been contemplating for some time. Under Florida law, petitions for post-conviction relief must be filed in the county where the inmate is housed. Thus, old Judge Plank gets inundated with frivolous paperwork, because Garvin is right down the road in rural Poinsett County. He is too jaded by this to feel sympathy, and wouldn’t recognize new evidence if it bit him in the ass.
"As of today, though, Quincy is not incarcerated at Garvin. He’s hospitalized in downtown Orlando, the center of Orange County, population 1.5 million and home to forty-three different circuit judges. If we file a new petition in Orange County it will be assailed by the State, which will claim that we’re simply forum-shopping, but there is nothing to lose. If we prevail, we will present our new evidence before a new judge, one from a metropolitan area with some diversity. If we lose, we bounce back to old Plank for another go. First, though, we must dismiss our appeal of Plank’s denial of our first petition. It’s been sitting untouched in the supreme court in Tallahassee for three months.
"Mazy and I spend the next two days putting together an amended petition and dismissing the first one. We get the good news that the Florida state crime lab has reached the same conclusions as Kyle Benderschmidt.
"There is no news from the Tafts and that skeleton in their closet.
"If we kept champagne around the office, we might just pop a cork when my favorite nurse calls from Orlando and says (1) Quincy has an infection from one of the knife wounds, and (2) his jaw has not healed correctly and he needs another surgery.
"I end the conversation with “Please don’t let him out.”"
"Susan Ashley asks for an expedited hearing, and we learn that our judge is the Honorable Ansh Kumar, a thirty-eight-year-old second-generation American whose parents immigrated from India. We were praying for diversity and we got it. He grants our request for the hearing, a good sign, and I hustle down to Orlando. I’m riding with Frankie in his truck because he thinks my little Ford is not safe anymore, especially when I’m weaving while yelling into the phone. So he drives and I try not to yell."
"This issue has been briefed by both sides, and it is immediately obvious that Judge Kumar has read not only the briefs, but our thick petition as well.
"After listening patiently, he says, “Ms. Hidalgo, it appears as though the defendant has caught the State in a rather unique little loophole. The statute does not say a word about where to file this petition when the defendant is temporarily removed from the prison where he or she is housed. Looks like they gotcha!”
"“But, Your Honor . . .”
"Judge Kumar slowly raises both hands and offers a warm smile. “Please be seated, Ms. Hidalgo. Thank you. Now, first, I’m keeping this case for several reasons. First and most important, I’m not convinced that the statute requires that this petition be filed in Poinsett County. Second, I’m intrigued by the facts, especially in light of recent developments. I’ve read everything—the defendant’s first and second petitions, the State’s responses, the federal lawsuit filed against the former sheriff of Ruiz County and others, the indictments against those who allegedly conspired to carry out a contract killing in prison. I’ve read it all. And the third reason I’m keeping this case is because there seems to be a good chance that Quincy Miller has spent the past twenty-three years in prison for a murder committed by someone else. I assure you I have not made up my mind and I am looking forward to a full evidentiary hearing on this petition. Ms. Gross, when can you be ready for a full hearing?”
"Without standing, Susan Ashley says, “Tomorrow.”
"“And Ms. Hidalgo?”
"“Your Honor, please, we haven’t even filed our answer yet.”
"“Oh, I think you have. You filed one for the previous petition. It’s already in your computer. Just update it a bit and get it re-filed here immediately, Ms. Hidalgo. The hearing will be three weeks from today, in this courtroom.”
"The following day, Ms. Hidalgo sprints to the state supreme court with an expedited appeal of Kumar’s ruling. A week later, the Florida Supremes issue a two-sentence ruling that sides with us. We’re headed for a showdown, and this time it appears as though we now have a judge who will listen."
"As Frankie drives south, I have long conversations with Mazy, Susan Ashley, and Bill Cannon. There are so many ideas that Mazy patches together a conference call and the entire team brainstorms for an hour. She has the most brilliant idea of the moment, a trick play she has been contemplating for some time. Under Florida law, petitions for post-conviction relief must be filed in the county where the inmate is housed. Thus, old Judge Plank gets inundated with frivolous paperwork, because Garvin is right down the road in rural Poinsett County. He is too jaded by this to feel sympathy, and wouldn’t recognize new evidence if it bit him in the ass.
"As of today, though, Quincy is not incarcerated at Garvin. He’s hospitalized in downtown Orlando, the center of Orange County, population 1.5 million and home to forty-three different circuit judges. If we file a new petition in Orange County it will be assailed by the State, which will claim that we’re simply forum-shopping, but there is nothing to lose. If we prevail, we will present our new evidence before a new judge, one from a metropolitan area with some diversity. If we lose, we bounce back to old Plank for another go. First, though, we must dismiss our appeal of Plank’s denial of our first petition. It’s been sitting untouched in the supreme court in Tallahassee for three months.
"Mazy and I spend the next two days putting together an amended petition and dismissing the first one. We get the good news that the Florida state crime lab has reached the same conclusions as Kyle Benderschmidt.
"There is no news from the Tafts and that skeleton in their closet.
"If we kept champagne around the office, we might just pop a cork when my favorite nurse calls from Orlando and says (1) Quincy has an infection from one of the knife wounds, and (2) his jaw has not healed correctly and he needs another surgery.
"I end the conversation with “Please don’t let him out.”"
................................................................................................
"Susan Ashley asks for an expedited hearing, and we learn that our judge is the Honorable Ansh Kumar, a thirty-eight-year-old second-generation American whose parents immigrated from India. We were praying for diversity and we got it. He grants our request for the hearing, a good sign, and I hustle down to Orlando. I’m riding with Frankie in his truck because he thinks my little Ford is not safe anymore, especially when I’m weaving while yelling into the phone. So he drives and I try not to yell."
"This issue has been briefed by both sides, and it is immediately obvious that Judge Kumar has read not only the briefs, but our thick petition as well.
"After listening patiently, he says, “Ms. Hidalgo, it appears as though the defendant has caught the State in a rather unique little loophole. The statute does not say a word about where to file this petition when the defendant is temporarily removed from the prison where he or she is housed. Looks like they gotcha!”
"“But, Your Honor . . .”
"Judge Kumar slowly raises both hands and offers a warm smile. “Please be seated, Ms. Hidalgo. Thank you. Now, first, I’m keeping this case for several reasons. First and most important, I’m not convinced that the statute requires that this petition be filed in Poinsett County. Second, I’m intrigued by the facts, especially in light of recent developments. I’ve read everything—the defendant’s first and second petitions, the State’s responses, the federal lawsuit filed against the former sheriff of Ruiz County and others, the indictments against those who allegedly conspired to carry out a contract killing in prison. I’ve read it all. And the third reason I’m keeping this case is because there seems to be a good chance that Quincy Miller has spent the past twenty-three years in prison for a murder committed by someone else. I assure you I have not made up my mind and I am looking forward to a full evidentiary hearing on this petition. Ms. Gross, when can you be ready for a full hearing?”
"Without standing, Susan Ashley says, “Tomorrow.”
"“And Ms. Hidalgo?”
"“Your Honor, please, we haven’t even filed our answer yet.”
"“Oh, I think you have. You filed one for the previous petition. It’s already in your computer. Just update it a bit and get it re-filed here immediately, Ms. Hidalgo. The hearing will be three weeks from today, in this courtroom.”
"The following day, Ms. Hidalgo sprints to the state supreme court with an expedited appeal of Kumar’s ruling. A week later, the Florida Supremes issue a two-sentence ruling that sides with us. We’re headed for a showdown, and this time it appears as though we now have a judge who will listen."
................................................................................................
Judge Kumar, after the hearing, released Quincy with a full apology on behalf of the state.
Frankie and Cullen Post rushed him out of state, just in case.
"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."
Judge Kumar, after the hearing, released Quincy with a full apology on behalf of the state.
Frankie and Cullen Post rushed him out of state, just in case.
"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."
................................................................................................
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"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."
"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."
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January 16, 2020 - March 14, 2020 - March 20, 2020.
eBook ISBN 978 1 473 68445 4
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January 16, 2020 - March 14, 2020 - March 20, 2020.
eBook ISBN 978 1 473 68445 4
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