The Guardians(20)

Norwood refuses to discuss the case with me. I’ve written him twice. He responded once and said he would not talk about it, not even on the phone. He claims he’s in bad health; the case was a long time ago; his memory is failing; and so on. Not that a conversation would be that productive. As of now, at least seven of his convictions have been exposed as frauds and he is regularly used as the poster boy for junk science gone awry. Death penalty lawyers attack regularly. He’s even been sued. Bloggers excoriate him for the misery he created. Appellate judges detail his wretched career. An innocence group is trying to raise a fortune in funds to review all of his cases, but that kind of money is hard to find. If given an audience, I would ask him to repudiate his work and try to help Quincy, but so far he has shown no sign of remorse.

With or without Norwood, we have no choice but to hire our own forensic scientists, and the best ones are expensive.

I’m in Savannah for a couple of days putting out fires. Vicki, Mazy, and I are in the conference room discussing forensics. On the table in front of us are four résumés, our final four. All are top criminologists with impeccable credentials. We’ll start with two and send them the case. The cheapest wants $15,000 for a review and consultation. The most expensive gets $30,000 and there’s no negotiating. As innocence work has intensified over the past decade, these guys have become highly sought-after by groups advocating for the wrongfully convicted.

Our top man is Dr. Kyle Benderschmidt at Virginia Commonwealth University in Richmond. He has taught for decades and has built one of the leading forensic science departments in the country. I’ve talked to other lawyers and they rave about him.

We try to keep $75,000 in a war chest to pay experts, private investigators, and lawyers when necessary. We don’t like to pay lawyers, and over the years we have become quite convincing at begging sympathetic litigators to go pro bono. We have a loose network of them around the country. And some scientists will reduce their fees to help an innocent person, but that’s rare.

Benderschmidt’s standard rate is $30,000. “Do we have it?” I ask Vicki.

“Of course,” she says with a smile, always the optimist. If we don’t have it, she’ll get on the phone and fire up some donors.

“Then let’s hire him,” I say. Mazy agrees. We move on to the second expert.

Mazy says, “Looks like you’re off to another slow start on this one, Post. I mean, you’ve struck out with June Walker, Zeke Huffey, and Carrie Holland. So far nobody wants to talk to you.”

As with any office, there is a fair amount of good-natured ribbing within Guardian. Vicki and Mazy get along well enough, though each gives the other a wide berth. When I’m in town I become an easy target. If we didn’t love each other we would be throwing rocks.

I laugh and say, “No kidding. And please remind me of the last case where we got off to a fast start.”

“We’re a tortoise not a rabbit,” Vicki says, offering one of her favorites.

I say, “Yep. It took us three years before we signed on. You want an exoneration in a month?”

“Just show us some progress,” Mazy says.

“I haven’t hit the charm button yet,” I say.

Mazy smiles along. “When are you going to Seabrook?”

“Don’t know. I’m putting it off as long as I can. No one there knows we’re involved and I’d like to stay in the shadows.”

“What’s the level of fear?” Vicki asks.

“Hard to say but it’s definitely a factor. If Russo got himself rubbed out by a drug gang, then those guys are still around. The killer is among them. When I show up, they’ll probably know it.”

“It sounds awfully risky, Post,” Mazy says.

“It is, but there’s risk in most of our cases, right? Our clients are in prison because someone else pulled the trigger. They’re still out there, laughing because the cops nailed the wrong guy. The last thing they want is an innocence lawyer digging through the old case.”

“Just be careful,” Vicki says. It’s obvious these two have worried at length behind my back.

“I’m always careful. Are you cooking tonight?”

“Sorry. Bridge.”

“We’re having frozen pizza,” Mazy says. She dislikes cooking, and with four kids at home she relies heavily on the frozen food section.

“Is James around?” I ask. Mazy and her husband separated a few years back and attempted a divorce. It didn’t work, but living together is not working either. She knows I truly care and I’m not being nosy.

“He comes and goes, spends some time with the kids.”

“I pray for you guys.”

“I know you do, Post. And we pray for you.”



I don’t keep food in my penthouse because it tends to rot from neglect. Since I can’t squeeze a meal out of either of my colleagues, I work until after dark then go for a long walk through the old section of town. Christmas is two weeks away and the air is cool. I’ve been in Savannah for a dozen years but don’t really know the city. I’m away too much to enjoy its charm and history, and it’s difficult to foster friendships with a nomadic lifestyle. But my first friend is at home and looking for company.

Luther Hodges hired me out of seminary and enticed me to Savannah. He’s retired now and his wife died a few years ago. He lives in a small cottage owned by the diocese, two blocks from Chippewa Square. He’s waiting on the porch, eager to get out of the house.