The Guardians(32)

“And he’s in Savannah?”

“No. He’s across the street.” Frankie points in my direction.

The three of us walk around the corner to a family-style restaurant that Tyler’s company is building. It’s unfinished and workers are taking chairs out of boxes. The avenue beyond is choked with new buildings: car dealerships, fast-food huts and drive-throughs, strip malls, a car wash, gas stations, a couple of branch banks. Florida sprawl at its finest. We stand in a corner, away from the workers, and Tyler says, “Okay, let’s have it.”

I get the impression that this conversation may end abruptly, so I ditch the small talk with “Is it possible to prove Quincy is innocent?”

He considers this and shakes his head. “Look, I’m not getting involved in this. Years ago I tried my best to prove his innocence and I failed. That was another life. Now I have three kids, a beautiful wife, money, no worries. I’m not going back there. Sorry.”

“Where’s the danger, Tyler?”

“Oh, you’ll find out. I mean, I hope not, for your sake anyway, but you’re walking into a bad situation, Mr. Post.”

“All of my cases are bad situations.”

He grunts as if I have no idea. “Nothing like this.”

“We’re about the same age, Tyler, and we quit the law at the same time because we were disillusioned. My second career didn’t exactly work and then I found a new calling. I spend my time pounding the streets looking for a break, looking for help. Right now, Tyler, Quincy needs your help.”

He takes a deep breath and has had enough. “I suppose you have to be pushy in your line of work, but I’m not getting pushed, Mr. Post. Good day. Leave me alone and don’t come back.” He turns around and walks out the door.

Not surprisingly, Chad Falwright digs in. He will not agree to DNA testing of the other six pubic hairs. He now has them under lock and key, along with the other evidence. And, to show what a tough prosecutor he really is, he’s threatening to have me indicted for tampering. Alabama prohibits it, as do all states, though with varying penalties, and he gleefully writes that I could face up to a year in jail.

Locked up over one lousy pubic hair.

In addition, he says he plans to file ethics complaints against me with the Alabama and Georgia bar associations. I laugh at this. I’ve been threatened before, and by far more creative prosecutors.

Mazy prepares a thick petition for post-conviction relief. Procedurally, it has to be filed first in state court, in Verona. The day before we file it, I drive to Birmingham and meet with Jim Bizko, a veteran reporter who covered Duke’s trial. He followed the case as the appeals dragged on and expressed doubts about the fairness of the trial. He was especially harsh with his criticism of Duke’s defense lawyer. When the poor guy died of cirrhosis, Jim covered it and suggested that another investigation into the murder would be appropriate. He is delighted by the news that DNA testing has cleared Duke. I’m careful not to name Mark Carter as the killer. That will come later.

The day after we file the petition, Bizko runs a lengthy article that lands on the front page of the Metro section. Chad Falwright is quoted as saying: “I remain confident that we got the right man and I’m working diligently to bring about the execution of Duke Russell, a ruthless killer. DNA testing means nothing in this case.”

After two more conversations with Otis Walker, both by phone, Frankie is convinced that June Walker wants nothing to do with Quincy Miller. Obviously, their chaotic divorce left permanent scars and she is adamant in her determination not to get involved. There’s nothing in it for her except bad memories and the embarrassment of confronting old lies.

Otis warns Frankie to leave them alone.

He promises to do so. For now.





Chapter 17



There are twenty-three lawyers working in Seabrook these days and we have a thin file on each of them. About half were in town when Russo was murdered. The senior barrister is a ninety-one-year-old gentleman who still drives himself to the office every day. Two rookies showed up last year and hung out a shingle. All are white, six are female. The most prosperous appear to be a couple of brothers who’ve spent twenty years doing bankruptcies. Most of the local bar seems to be barely hanging on, same as in most small towns.

Glenn Colacurci once served in the Florida Senate. His district covered Ruiz County and two others, and he was in his third term at the time of the murder. Keith Russo was a distant relative. Both came from the same Italian neighborhood in Tampa. In his younger years Colacurci ran the biggest law firm in town and hired Keith out of law school. When he showed up in Seabrook he brought a wife with him, but Colacurci had no position for her. Keith didn’t last long, and a year later the Russo firm was founded in a two-room walk-up above a bakery on Main Street.

I select Colacurci because his file is slightly thicker, and because he’ll probably know more about Keith. Of all the active lawyers in town, he’ll have a better recollection of history. On the phone he says he can spare half an hour.

Driving through Seabrook for the first time, I feel as though I know the place. There are not that many points of interest: the office building once owned by Keith and Diana and the place where the crime occurred; the street behind it where Carrie Holland claimed to have seen a black man making his escape; the courthouse. I park across from it on Main Street and sit and watch the languid foot traffic. I wonder how many of these people remember the murder. How many knew Keith Russo? Quincy Miller? Do they know the town got it wrong and sent an innocent man to prison? Of course not.