The Guardians(28)

Buck says, “Okay, first things first. How do we know that we can trust you?” He is asking this of a man who’s secretly recording them.

Before I can respond, he says, “I mean, Carrie told me what happened back then, what she did, and obviously we’re concerned or we wouldn’t be here. But this looks like trouble to me.”

She asks, “What do you really want?”

“The truth,” I say.

“You ain’t wearing no wire or anything like that, are you?” Buck asks.

I snort at this and raise my hands as if I have nothing to hide. “Come on, I’m not a cop. You want to pat me down, go ahead.”

The waitress arrives with more coffee and we clam up. When she’s gone I take the initiative. “No, I’m not wearing a wire. I don’t operate like that. What I want is simple. Ideally, you tell me the truth, then sign an affidavit that I may one day use to help Quincy Miller. I’m also talking to the other witnesses and trying to get the same thing—the truth. I know that much of the testimony at trial was fabricated by the cops and prosecutor, and I’m just trying to piece it all together. Your statement will certainly help, but it’s just one part of the big picture.”

“What’s an affidavit?” Buck asks.

“Just a sworn statement, under oath. I’ll prepare it and you guys review it. Then I’ll keep it under wraps until it’s needed. No one around Kingsport will ever know. Seabrook is too far away.”

“Do I have to go to a courtroom?” she asks.

“Unlikely. Let’s assume I can convince a judge that Quincy did not get a fair trial. That, frankly, is a long shot. But if it happens, then there is the remote possibility that the prosecutor will decide to try him again for the murder. That could be years down the road. If so, you could be called as a witness, which is quite unlikely because you did not see a black man running from the scene, right?”

She doesn’t nod or say anything for a moment. Our plates arrive and we prepare our food. Buck likes ketchup. Neither wants salt or pepper. I sprinkle salt on my eggs and place the shaker in the center of the table.

Carrie nibbles on a French fry and avoids eye contact. Buck chomps on his burger. They’ve obviously talked about the situation at length without making a decision. She needs prodding and I ask, “Who convinced you to testify? Sheriff Pfitzner?”

She says, “Look, Mr. Post, I’ll talk to you and tell you what happened, but I’m not sold on the idea of getting involved. I’m gonna think long and hard before I sign any affidavit.”

“You can’t repeat what she says, can you?” Buck asks as he wipes his mouth with a paper napkin.

“I can’t repeat it in court, if that’s what you’re asking. I can talk to my staff about it, but that’s as far as I can go. Any judge will require an affidavit from a witness.”

“I’m worried about my boys,” she says. “They don’t know. I’d be ashamed if they found out their mother lied in court and sent a man to prison.”

I reply, “I understand that, Carrie, and you should be concerned. But there’s also the likelihood that they will be proud of the fact that you came forward to help free an innocent man. We all did bad things when we were twenty, but some mistakes can be corrected. You’re worried about your boys. Think about Quincy Miller. He has three kids he hasn’t seen in twenty-two years. And five grandchildren he’s never seen, not even in a photograph.”

They absorb this and stop eating for a moment. They are overwhelmed and frightened, but the wheels are turning. I say, “We have the records and they tell us that your drug charge was dismissed a few months after the trial. Pfitzner convinced you to take the stand, tell your story, and the prosecutor promised to lose the drug charge, right?”

She breathes deeply and looks at Buck, who shrugs and says, “Go ahead. We didn’t drive five hours for cheeseburgers.”

She tries to drink from her coffee cup but her hands are shaking. She puts it down and shoves her plate a few inches away. Staring straight ahead, she says, “I was dating a deputy named Lonnie. We were doing drugs, lots of drugs. I got caught but he kept me out of jail. Then the lawyer got murdered and a few weeks later Lonnie told me he had things worked out. If I would claim that I saw a black man running away from the lawyer’s office, then the drug charge would get dismissed. Just like that. So he took me down to Pfitzner’s office and I told my story. The next day, Lonnie and Pfitzner took me to see the prosecutor, can’t remember his name.”

“Burkhead, Forrest Burkhead.”

“That’s him. And I told the story again. He recorded me, but didn’t say a thing about the drug charge. When I asked Lonnie about it later, he said the deal had been worked out between Pfitzner and Burkhead, not to worry. Lonnie and I were fighting, mainly about the drugs. I’ve been clean and sober for fourteen years now, Mr. Post.”

“That’s wonderful. Congratulations.”

“Buck got me through it.”

Buck said, “I like my beer but always stayed away from drugs. I knew my daddy would shoot me.”

“Anyway, they took me to Butler County for the trial and I testified. I felt rotten about it but I really didn’t want to spend a lot of time in jail. I figured it was either me or Quincy Miller and I’ve always been loyal to me. Every dog for himself, you know? Over the years I’ve tried to forget about the trial. That young lawyer made a fool out of me.”