The Guardians(29)

“Tyler Townsend.”

“That’s him. I’ll never forget him.”

“And then you left town?”

“Yes sir. As soon as the trial was over, Pfitzner called me to his office, thanked me, gave me a thousand dollars in cash and told me to get lost. Said if I came back to Florida within five years he’d have me arrested for lying to the jury. Can you believe that? A deputy drove me to Gainesville and put me on the bus to Atlanta. Never been back and don’t want to go. I didn’t even tell my friends where I was. Didn’t have many. It was an easy place to leave.”

Buck wants some credit and says, “When she first told me about this a few weeks ago, I said, ‘You gotta tell the truth, babe. That man’s been locked up because of you.’ ”

“There’s still a drug charge on your record,” I say.

“That was the first one, a year before.”

“You should get it expunged.”

“I know, but it was a long time ago. Buck and I are doing okay these days. We both work hard and pay our bills. I don’t really want to be bothered with the past, Mr. Post.”

“If she signs the affidavit, can they get her for perjury in Florida?” Buck asks.

“No, the statute of limitations has run out. Besides, no one really cares anymore. There’s a new sheriff, new prosecutor, new judge.”

“When will all this happen?” she asks, obviously relieved now that she’s told the truth.

“It’s a slow process, could take months or years, if it happens at all. First you have to sign the affidavit.”

“She’ll sign it,” Buck says, then takes another bite. With his mouth full, he adds, “Won’t you, babe?”

“I gotta think about it,” she says.

Buck says, “Look, if we have to go to Florida, then I’ll drive you down there and punch anybody who causes trouble.”

“There will be no trouble, I can assure you. The only downside for you, Carrie, is telling your sons. The rest of your family and your friends will probably never know. If Quincy Miller walked out of prison tomorrow, who in Kingsport, Tennessee, would hear about it?”

Buck nods in agreement and takes another bite. Carrie picks up another fry. Buck says, “They’re good boys, her two. I got a couple of wild ones, but Carrie’s are fine boys. Hell, like you say, I’ll bet they’ll be proud of you, babe.”

She smiles but I’m not sure she’s convinced. Buck, my new ally, is confident.

I finish my eggs and begin prodding her about the drug scene in Seabrook back then. Cocaine and pot were the preferred choices, and Lonnie always had a supply. Their romance was on and off and she did not spend time with the other deputies, though some were known to deal in small quantities. She claims she knew nothing about Pfitzner’s alleged role in the trade.

When the table is cleared I ask for the check. I graciously thank them and offer my admiration for her courage in coming forward. I promise not to prepare the affidavit until she makes up her mind. We say goodbye in the parking lot and I watch them drive away. I return to the restaurant and walk to our table to fetch a baseball cap I deliberately left behind. When no one is looking I swap the salt and pepper shakers with two from my pocket.

Three miles down the road, I exit the interstate and pull into the parking lot of a shopping center. Seconds later, Frankie wheels in, parks next to me, and gets into the front seat, all smiles. He holds a small recorder and says, “Clear as a bell.”

This can be a dirty business. We are forced to deal with witnesses who have lied, police who have fabricated evidence, experts who have misled juries, and prosecutors who have suborned perjury. We, the good guys, often find that getting our hands dirty is the only way to save our clients.

If Carrie Holland Pruitt refuses to cooperate and sign an affidavit, then I’ll find a way to get her statements into the court record. I’ve done it before.





Chapter 15



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.

At Duke’s trial, seven pubic hairs were entered into evidence by the State of Alabama. They were supposedly collected from the crime scene, from Emily’s body. Duke submitted samples of his own. With great certainty, the State’s expert testified that they matched those found on the corpse, overwhelming proof that Duke raped Emily before he strangled her. Another expert testified that he also bit her several times during the assault.