The Guardians Read online

  “I’m ashamed to say it happens all the time, Quincy. Jailhouse snitches testify every day in this country. Other civilized countries prohibit them, but not here.”

  Quincy closes his eyes and shakes his head. He says, “Well, when you see that sack-a-shit tell him I’m still thinking about him.”

  “Thinking about revenge is not helpful here, Quincy. It’s wasted energy.”

  “Maybe so, but I have plenty of time to think about everything. You gonna talk to June?”

  “If she’ll talk.”

  “I bet she won’t.”

  His ex-wife remarried three years after his trial, then divorced, then remarried again. Frankie found her in Tallahassee living as June Walker. Evidently, she eventually found some stability and is the second wife of Otis Walker, an electrician on the campus at Florida State. They live in a middle-class neighborhood that is predominantly black and have one child together. She has five grandchildren from her first marriage, grandchildren that Quincy has never seen even in a photo. Nor has he seen their three children since his trial. For him, they exist only as toddlers, frozen in time.

  “Why shouldn’t she talk to me?” I ask.

  “Because she lied too. Come on, Post, they all lied, right? Even the experts.”

  “I’m not sure the experts thought they were lying. They just didn’t understand the science and they gave bad opinions.”

  “Whatever. You figure that out. I know damned well June lied. She lied about the shotgun and the flashlight, and she lied when she told the jury I was somewhere around town the night of the murder.”

  “And why did she lie, Quincy?”

  He shakes his head as if my question is foolish. He puts the phone down, rubs his eyes, then picks it up again. “We were at war, Post. Should’ve never got married and damned sure needed a divorce. Russo screwed me big-time in the divorce and suddenly I couldn’t pay all that child support and alimony. She was out of work and in a bad way. When I got behind, she sued me again and again. The divorce was bad but not nearly as bad as what came after. We grew to thoroughly hate each other. When they arrested me for murder I owed something like forty thousand bucks in payments. Guess I still do. Hell, sue me again.”

  “So it was revenge?”

  “More like hatred. I ain’t never owned a shotgun, Post. Check the records.”

  “We have. Nothing.”

  “See.”

  “But records mean little, especially in this state. There are a hundred ways to get a gun.”

  “Who you believe, Post, me or that lying woman?”

  “If I didn’t believe you, Quincy, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “I know, I know. I can almost understand the shotgun, but why would she lie about that flashlight? I never saw it before. Hell, they couldn’t even produce it at trial.”

  “Well, if we are assuming that your arrest, prosecution, and conviction were carefully planned to frame an innocent man, then we must assume the police leaned on June to say the flashlight belonged to you. And hatred was her motive.”

  “But how was I supposed to pay all that money from death row?”

  “Great question, and you’re asking me to get inside her mind.”

  “Oh, please don’t go there. She’s crazy as hell.”

  We both have a good laugh. He stands and stretches and asks, “How long you staying today, Post?”

  “Three hours.”

  “Hallelujah. You know something, Post? My cell is six feet by ten, just about the same size as this little shithole we’re in now. My cellie is a white boy from downstate. Drugs. Not a bad kid, not a bad cellie, but can you imagine spending ten hours a day living with another human in a cage?”

  “No.”

  “ ’Course, we ain’t said a word to each other in over a year.”

  “Why not?”

  “Can’t stand each other. Nothing against white folks, Post, but there are a lot of differences, you know? I listen to Motown, he likes that country crap. My bunk is neat as a pin. He’s a slob. I don’t touch drugs. He’s stoned half the time. Enough of this, Post. Sorry to bring it up. I hate whiners. I’m so glad you’re here, Post. You have no idea.”

  “I’m honored to be your lawyer, Quincy.”

  “But why? You don’t make much money, do you? I mean, you can’t make much representing people like me.”

  “We haven’t really discussed fees, have we?”

  “Send me a bill. Then you can sue me.”

  We laugh and he sits down, the phone cradled in his neck. “Seriously, who pays you?”

  “I work for a nonprofit and, no, I don’t make much. But I’m not in it for the money.”

  “God bless you, Post.”

  “Diana Russo testified that on at least two occasions you went to their office and threatened Keith. True?”

  “No. I was in his office several times during my divorce but stopped going when the case was over. When he wouldn’t talk to me on the phone, I went to the office one time, and, hell yes, I was thinking about taking a baseball bat and beating his brains out. But the little receptionist out front said he wasn’t in, said he was in court. It was a lie because his car, a fancy black Jaguar, was parked behind the office. I knew she was lying and I started to make a scene, but didn’t. I bit my tongue and left, never went back. I swear that’s the truth, Post. I swear. Diana lied, like everybody else.”

  “She testified that you called their home several times and threatened him.”

  “More lies. Phone calls leave a trail, Post. I ain’t that stupid. My lawyer, Tyler Townsend, tried to get the records from the phone company, but Diana blocked him. He tried to get a subpoena but we ran out of time during the trial. After I was convicted, the judge wouldn’t approve a subpoena. We never got those records. By the way, have you talked to Tyler?”

  “No, but he’s on the list. We know where he is.”

  “Good dude, Post, a real good dude. That young man believed me and fought like hell, a real bulldog. I know you lawyers get a bad rap, but he was a good one.”

  “Any contact with him?”

  “Not anymore, it’s been too long. We wrote letters for years, even after he quit the law. He told me once in a letter that my case broke his spirit. He knew I was innocent, and when he lost my case he lost faith in the system. Said he couldn’t be a part of it. He stopped by about ten years ago and it was a blessing to see him, but it also brought back bad memories. He actually cried when he saw me, Post.”

  “Did he have a theory about the real killer?”

  He lowers the phone and looks at the ceiling, as if the question is too involved. He raises it again and asks, “You trust these phones, Post?”

  It’s against the law for the prison to eavesdrop on confidential talks between a lawyer and his client, but it happens. I shake my head. No.

  “Neither do I,” he says. “But my letters to you are safe, right?”

  “Right.” A prison cannot open mail related to legal matters, and it has been my experience that they don’t try. It’s too easy to notice if mail has been tampered with.

  Quincy uses sign language to indicate he will put it in writing. I nod.

  The fact that he has spent twenty-two years inside a prison where he is presumably safe from the outside, and is still worried, is revealing. Keith Russo was murdered for a reason. Someone other than Quincy Miller planned the killing, pulled it off with precision, then got away. What followed was a thorough framing that involved several conspirators. Smart guys, whoever they were, and are. Finding them may be impossible, but if I didn’t think we could prove Quincy’s innocence I wouldn’t be sitting here.

  They’re still out there, and Quincy is still thinking about them.

  The three hours pass quickly as we cover many topics: books—he reads two or three a week; my exonerees—he’s fascinated by the ones we’ve freed; politics—he stays abreast with newspapers and magazines; music—he loves the 1960s stuff from Detroit; corrections—he rails against a system that does so little to rehabilitate; sports—he has a small color television and lives for the games, even hockey. When the guard taps on my door I say goodbye and promise to be back. We touch fists at the window and he thanks me again.

  7

  The Chevrolet Impala owned by Otis Walker is parked in an employees’ lot behind a physical plant at the edge of campus. Frankie is parked nearby, waiting. It’s a 2006 model, purchased used by Otis and financed through a credit union. Vicki has the records. His second wife, June, drives a Toyota sedan with no liens. Their sixteen-year-old son doesn’t have his license yet.

  At five minutes after 5:00 p.m., Otis emerges from the building with two coworkers and heads for the parking lot. Frankie gets out and checks a tire. The coworkers scatter and yell goodbye. As Otis is about to open his driver’s door, Frankie materializes from nowhere and says, “Say, Mr. Walker, you got a second?”

  Otis is immediately suspicious, but Frankie is a black guy with a pleasant smile and Otis is not the first stranger he’s approached. “Maybe,” he says.

  Frankie offers his hand and says, “My name’s Frankie Tatum and I’m an investigator for a lawyer out of Savannah.”

  Now Otis is even more suspicious. He opens the door, tosses in his lunch pail, closes the door and says, “Okay.”

  Frankie raises both hands in mock surrender and says, “I come in peace. I’m just looking for information about an old case.”

  At this point a white man would have been rebuffed, but Frankie appears harmless. “I’m listening,” Otis says.

  “I’m sure your wife has talked about her first husband, Quincy Miller.”

  The name causes a slight sag of the shoulders, but Otis is curious enough to continue for a moment. “Not much,” he says. “A long time ago. Why are you involved with Quincy?”

  “The lawyer I work for represents him. We’re convinced Quincy got framed for that murder and we’re trying to prove it.”

  “Good luck with that one. Quincy got what he deserved.”

  “Not really, Mr. Walker. Quincy is an innocent man who’s served twenty-two years for somebody else’s crime.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “I do. So does the lawyer I work for.”

  Otis considers this for a moment. He has no record, has never been to prison, but his cousin is doing hard time for assaulting a police officer. In white America, prisons are good places where bad men pay for their crimes. In black America, they are too often used as warehouses to keep minorities off the streets.

  Otis asks, “So who killed that lawyer?”

  “We don’t know, and may never know. But we’re just trying to find the truth and get Quincy out.”

  “I’m not sure I can help you.”

  “But your wife can. She testified against him. I’m sure she’s told you all about it.”

  Otis shrugs and glances around. “Maybe, but it was a long time ago. She hasn’t mentioned Quincy’s name in years.”

  “Can I talk to her?”

  “Talk about what?”

  “Her testimony. She didn’t tell the truth, Mr. Walker. She told the jury that Quincy owned a 12-gauge shotgun. That was the murder weapon, and it was owned by somebody else.”

  “Look, I met June years after the murder. In fact, she had another husband before she met me. I’m number three, you understand? I know she had a rough time when she was younger but our life is pretty good right now. The last thing she wants is any trouble related to Quincy Miller.”

  “I’m asking for help, Otis. That’s all. We got a brother wasting away in prison not two hours from here. The white cops and white prosecutor and white jury said he killed a white lawyer. Didn’t happen that way.”

  Otis spits, leans on his door, and crosses his arms over his chest.

  Frankie gently presses on. “Look, I served fourteen years in Georgia for somebody else’s murder. I know what it’s like, okay? I got lucky and got out, but I left some innocent guys behind. Guys like me and you. There’s a lot of us in prison. The system’s rigged against us, Otis. We’re only trying to help Quincy.”

  “So what’s June got to do with this?”

  “Has she ever told you about the flashlight?”

  Otis thinks for a second and shakes his head. Frankie doesn’t want a gap in the conversation. “There was a flashlight with some blood on it. Cops said it came from the crime scene. Quincy never saw it, never touched it. June told the jury he had one very similar to it. Not true, Otis. Not true. She also told the jury that Quincy was somewhere around Seabrook the night of the killing. Not true. He was with a girlfriend an hour away.”

  Otis has been married to June for seventeen years. Frankie is assuming he is quite aware of her struggles with the truth, so why beat around the bush?

  “You’re calling her a liar?” Otis said.

  “No, not now. But you said yourself she was a different woman back then. She and Quincy were at war. He owed her a bunch of money that he couldn’t pay. The cops leaned on her to take the stand and point the finger.”

  “A long time ago, man.”

  “Damned right. Ask Quincy about it. He’s spent twenty-two years in prison.”

  “Well, let’s say she didn’t tell the truth back then. You expect her to admit it now? Come on.”

  “I just want to talk to her. I know where she works. I could’ve gone there, but we don’t operate that way. This is not an ambush, Otis. I respect your privacy and I’m asking you to run it by June. That’s all.”

  “Feels like an ambush.”

  “What else could I do? Send an e-mail? Look, I’m leaving town. You talk to her and see what she says.”

  “I know what she’ll say. She ain’t got nothing to do with Quincy Miller.”

  “I’m afraid she does.” Frankie hands him a Guardian Ministries business card. “Here’s my phone number. I’m just asking for a favor, Otis.”

  Otis takes it and reads the front and back. “You with some kinda church?”

  “No. The guy who runs it is the lawyer who got me out of prison. He’s a preacher too. Good guy. This is all he does, gets innocent folk out.”

  “White guy?”

  “Yep.”

  “Must be a bad dude.”

  “You’d like him. So would June. Give us a chance, Otis.”

  “Don’t bet on it.”

  “Thanks for your time.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  8

  At Guardian, we have a collection of brochures we use for a variety of purposes. If our target is a white guy, I use the one with my smiling face front and center. With the collar. If we need to approach a white woman, we’ll use Vicki’s. Blacks get the one with Mazy arm-in-arm with a black exoneree. We like to say that skin color doesn’t matter, but that’s not always true. We often use it to open doors.

  Since Zeke Huffey is white, I sent him my brochure with a chatty letter informing him that his plight has come to the attention of our little foundation and we’re reaching out. Two weeks later, I received a handwritten letter on ruled notebook paper thanking me for my interest. I responded with my usual follow-up and asked if he needed anything. Not surprisingly, his next letter asked for money. I sent him a $200 MoneyGram with another letter asking if it’s okay to visit him. Of course it’s okay.

  Zeke is a career criminal who has done time in three states. He is originally from the Tampa area but we have found no trace of his family. When he was twenty-five he married a woman who quickly divorced him when he was convicted of drug trafficking. As far as we know, he has no children, and we’re assuming his visitors are scarce. Three years ago he got busted in Little Rock, Arkansas, and is currently doing five years in the Land of Opportunity.

  His career as a snitch began with the trial of Quincy Miller. He was eighteen when he testified, and a month after the trial his drug charges were reduced and he walked. That deal worked so beautifully that he did it again and again. Every jail has a druggie facing more time and eager to avoid it. With the proper coaching from cops and prosecutors, a snitch can be quite effective with his perjury. Jurors simply cannot believe that a witness, any witness, will take the oath, swear to tell the truth, then tell them an outlandish story of pure fiction.

  These days Zeke is doing time at a satellite prison in the middle of the cotton fields of northeastern Arkansas. I’m not sure why it is referred to as a satellite. It’s a prison, with all the usual dreary architecture and fencing. Unfortunately, the facility is operated for profit by an out-of-state corporation, which means the guards earn even less and there are fewer of them, the terrible food is even worse, the commissary gouges the men on everything from peanut butter to toilet paper, and the medical care is almost nonexistent. I suppose that in America everything, including education and corrections, is fair game for profiteers.

  I am led to a room with a row of enclosed booths for ATTORNEY VISITS. A guard locks me inside. I take a seat and stare at a thick plastic divider. Minutes pass, then half an hour, but I’m in no hurry. The door on the other side opens and Zeke Huffey steps in. He offers me a smile as the guard removes the handcuffs. When we’re alone he says, “Why are we in a lawyer’s room?” He’s looking at my collar.

  “Nice to meet you, Zeke. Thanks for taking the time.”

  “Oh, I got plenty of time. Didn’t know you were a lawyer.”

  “I’m a lawyer and a priest. How are they treating you here?”

  He laughs and lights a cigarette. Of course the room has no ventilation. “I’ve seen my share of prisons and this has to be the worst,” he says. “Owned by the state but leased to an outfit called Atlantic Corrections Corporation. Ever heard of them?”

  “Yes. I’ve been a guest in several of their units. Seriously bad stuff, right?”