The Guardians(37)
In spite of my unconventional lifestyle, Mom is proud of what I do, though she understands little about the criminal justice system. She finds it depressing that there is so much crime, so many people imprisoned, so many broken families. It has taken me years to convince her that there are thousands of innocent people locked away. This is our first chance to talk about Quincy Miller and she loves getting the details. A murdered lawyer, a crooked sheriff, a drug cartel, an innocent man perfectly framed. She can’t believe it at first and relishes the story. I don’t worry about telling her too much. We are, after all, sitting on a dark porch in rural Tennessee, far away from Florida, and who would she tell anyway? I can trust my mom to keep secrets.
We go through each of my other clients: Shasta Briley on death row in North Carolina, convicted of arson that killed her three daughters; Billy Rayburn in Tennessee, convicted by the dubious science of what has become known as the Shaken Baby Syndrome after he tripped and fell while holding his girlfriend’s baby; Duke Russell, still on death row in Alabama; Curtis Wallace, convicted in Mississippi of the abduction, rape, and murder of a young woman he never met; and Little Jimmy Flagler, who was seventeen and mentally retarded when Georgia locked him away for life.
These six cases are my life and career. I live with them every day and I often tire of thinking and talking about them. I ease the conversation back to Mom and ask how her poker game is going. She plays once a week with a group of lady friends, and though the stakes are small it’s cutthroat competition. She’s currently up $11.50. They settle their debts at Christmas with a party where they break bad and consume alcohol—cheap champagne. With another group she plays bridge twice a month, but she prefers poker. She is in two book clubs—one with church ladies and they stick to theology, and the other with looser friends who prefer popular fiction. Sometimes even trash. She teaches a Sunday School class, reads to seniors at a retirement home, and volunteers with more nonprofits than she can name. She just bought an electric car and explains in detail what makes it run.
Several times each year, Frankie Tatum stops by for dinner. They are close friends and she loves cooking for him. He was here last week and she talks about his visit. She is quite proud of the fact that he would still be locked away if not for me. This shifts the conversation back to my work. At one time she wanted me to get through this phase and move on to a more sustainable career, maybe in a real law firm, but those conversations are over. Her pensions provide a comfortable life, she does not do debt, and she sends Guardian a small check each month.
She goes to bed promptly at ten o’clock and sleeps for eight uninterrupted hours. She leaves me on the porch, with a kiss on the head, and I sit wide-eyed for hours on this cool, quiet night and think of my clients sleeping on cramped bunks and cots behind bars.
Innocent people.
Chapter 20
Acting on a tip, the guards raided Zeke Huffey’s cell a month ago and found a shank, a homemade knife. Drugs are routinely found in raids and are dealt with casually. But a weapon is a serious offense because it is such a threat to the guards. Zeke is spending time in the Cave, an underground unit used to punish offenders with solitary confinement. His dreams of being paroled early are gone. Instead, he’ll serve additional time.
I’m met at a front office by a man in a suit, a deputy warden of some variety, and, along with a guard, I’m whisked through security and led to a building away from the prisoners’ units. The deputy warden nods and frowns and doors open immediately. The right strings are being pulled. I walk down some concrete stairs and into a square, damp, windowless room. Zeke is waiting, in a metal chair with leg irons locked to the floor. There is no partition between us. His hands are free, and after a momentary shock of seeing me, he offers a limp handshake.
When the guard leaves and slams the door, Zeke asks, “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here for a visit, Zeke. I’ve missed you.”
He grunts and can’t think of a response. Residents of the Cave are not allowed visitors. I pull out a pack of cigarettes and ask, “Want a smoke?”
“Hell yes!” he says, suddenly the addict again. I hand him one and notice his shaking hands. I light it with a match. He closes his eyes and sucks hard in a mighty effort to consume it with one fierce pull. He blows a cloud at the ceiling and hits it again. After three, he flicks ashes on the floor and manages a smile.
“How’d you get in here, Post? This hole is off-limits.”
“I know. Got a friend down in Little Rock.”
He burns it down to the filter, thumps the butt against the wall, says, “How ’bout another one?”
I light another cigarette. He is pale and gaunt, even thinner than the last time I saw him, and he has a new tattoo across his throat. The nicotine calms him and most of the shaking stops. I say, “They plan to add a few months to your time here, Zeke. Pretty stupid, hiding a shank like that.”
“Most of what I do can be classified as stupid, Post. You know that. Smart people don’t live like this.”
“True. Quincy Miller is a smart guy, Zeke, and he’s been locked away for a long time because of you. It’s time to set the boy free, don’t you think?”
We’ve swapped a few letters since my last visit, and Guardian sent another small check. However, from the tone of his correspondence he is not ready to admit he lied. He considers himself to be in charge of our fragile relationship and will manipulate it from every angle.