The Guardians(17)
“Look, Mr. Post, I get out in seventeen months, and I’m not doing anything to screw that up.”
“Arkansas doesn’t care what you did in a Florida courtroom twenty-two years ago. You didn’t perjure yourself here. These guys couldn’t care less. Once you’re paroled, their only concern is filling your cell with the next man. You know how it all works, Zeke. You’re a pro at this game.”
He’s stupid enough to smile at this compliment. He likes the idea of being in control. He sips his Coke, lights another cigarette, finally says, “I don’t know, Mr. Post, it sounds awfully risky to me. Why should I get involved?”
“Why not? You have no loyalty to the cops and prosecutors. They don’t care what happens to you, Zeke. You’re on the other side of the street. Do something good for one of your own.”
There is a long gap in the conversation. Time means nothing. He finishes one pack of peanuts and opens the second. He says, “Never knew of lawyers who do what you do. How many innocent people have you sprung?”
“Eight, in the past ten years. All innocent. We have six clients now, including Quincy.”
“Can you get me out?” he says, and it strikes both of us as funny.
“Well, Zeke, if I thought you were innocent I might give it a shot.”
“Probably a waste of your time.”
“Probably so. Can you help us, Zeke?”
“When’s all this going down?”
“Well, we’re hard at work now. We investigate everything and build a case for innocence. But it’s slow work, as you might guess. There’s no real rush on your part, but I would like to keep in touch.”
“You do that, Mr. Post, and if you find a few extra bucks pass them along. Peanuts and a Coke mean fine dining in this dump.”
“I’ll send some money, Zeke. And if you find a few extra minutes of time, think about Quincy. You owe him one.”
“That I do.”
Chapter 9
Carrie Holland was nineteen years old when she told Quincy’s jury that she saw a black man running down a dark street at the time of the murder. He was of the same height and build as Quincy and was carrying what appeared to be a stick, or something. She said she had just parked her car in front of an apartment building, heard two loud noises coming from the direction of the Russos’ law office three blocks away, and saw a man running. On cross-examination, Tyler Townsend attacked. She didn’t live in the apartment building but said she was there to visit a friend. The friend’s name? When she hesitated, Tyler reacted with disbelief and mocked her. When he said, “Give me the friend’s name and I’ll call her as a witness,” the prosecutor objected and the judge sustained. From the transcript, it appeared as though she couldn’t remember a name.
Tyler zeroed in on the dark street, one without lighting. Using a map, he pinpointed the buildings and the distance from her car to the Russos’ office and raised questions about her ability to see what she claimed she saw. He argued with her until the judge intervened and made him stop.
She had a drug charge from the year before and Tyler assaulted her with it. He asked her if she was under the influence on the witness stand and suggested that she was still struggling with addiction. He demanded to know if it was true that she had been dating a deputy on the Ruiz County police force. She denied this. When his cross-examination dragged on, the judge asked him to speed things along. When he protested that the prosecutor seemed to be taking his time, the judge threatened him with contempt, and not for the first time. When Tyler was finished with Carrie Holland he had raised doubts about her credibility, but he had also verbally abused her to the point of making her sympathetic to the jury.
Not long after the trial, Carrie left the area. She lived for a while near Columbus, Georgia, married a man there, had two kids, got a divorce and dropped out of sight. It took Vicki a year in one of her many desktop investigations to find the witness living as Carrie Pruitt in a remote part of western Tennessee. She works in a furniture factory near Kingsport, and lives off a county road in a mobile home she shares with a man called Buck.
To her credit, she has managed to stay out of trouble. Her rap sheet has only the drug conviction from Seabrook, one that was never expunged. We’re assuming that Carrie is clean and sober, and in our business that’s always a plus.
A month ago, Frankie eased into the area and did his usual reconnaissance. He has photos of her mobile home and the acreage around it, and of the factory where she is employed. Working with an investigator from Kingsport, he has learned that she has one son in the army and another living in Knoxville. Buck drives a truck and has no criminal record. Oddly enough, his father once pastored a small rural church twenty miles from where they live. There could be an element of stability in the family.
There is also an excellent chance that neither Buck nor anyone else within five hundred miles knows much about her past. This complicates matters. Why should she revisit her brief encounter with Quincy Miller two decades earlier and upset her life now?
I meet Frankie at a pancake house in Kingsport, and over waffles we discuss the photos. The mobile home is remote with a fenced dog-run out back where Buck keeps some hounds. He drives the obligatory pickup. She has a Honda. Vicki has run the tag numbers and verified ownership. Neither is registered to vote. A nice bass boat sits under a shelter beside the trailer. Buck is obviously serious about his hunting and fishing.