The Guardians(38)

“Oh, I don’t know, Post. It was a long time ago. Not sure I remember all the details.”

“I have the details here in an affidavit, Zeke. One I want you to sign. Remember an old pal named Shiner? Another junkie you served time with in Georgia?”

He smiles and replies, “Sure, I remember Shiner. What a loser.”

“And he remembers you. We found him near Atlanta and he’s doing okay. Much better than you. Got himself cleaned up and so far has stayed out of trouble. We have an affidavit signed by him in which he says the two of you often bragged about your careers as jailhouse informants. Says you laughed about Quincy Miller. And the Preston kid in Dothan, still serving time. And Shiner says you always got a kick out of your performance in a murder trial in Gulfport, Kelly Morris, now serving life because of you. We’ve verified these cases, Zeke, read the transcripts with your testimony. Shiner is telling the truth, for a change.”

He glares at me, flicks more ashes. “So what?”

“So, it’s time for you to come clean and help Quincy. It’s no skin off your balls, Zeke. You’re not going anywhere. As I’ve said before several times, the folks in Florida forgot about you a long time ago. They couldn’t care less if you now admit you lied about Quincy.”

He thumps the remainder of number two and asks for number three. I light it for him. He pulls hard, adds to the fog above our heads, says, sarcastically, “Gee, I don’t know, Post, I’m worried about my reputation.”

“Very funny, but I wouldn’t waste much time worrying about that. I have a deal for you, Zeke, one that will last for fifteen minutes then disappear forever. As I said, I have a friend down in Little Rock, one with some clout, otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here right now. No one in the Cave gets visits, right? So the deal goes something like this. Arkansas plans to add an additional six months to your time, punishment for the shank. That adds up to another twenty-one months in this dump. My friend can make it go away, all but three months. A year and a half can vanish into thin air. All you have to do is sign the affidavit.”

He puffs, flicks, stares at me in disbelief. “You gotta be kidding.”

“And why would I be kidding? You do what you should do anyway, as a decent human being, something you’re not and we both know it, and Quincy gets a break.”

“Ain’t no judge gonna let him out just because I come along twenty years later and say I lied, Post. Come on.”

“Let me worry about that. Every piece of evidence helps in these cases, Zeke. You probably don’t remember a witness named Carrie Holland. She lied too, but the difference is that she now has the guts to admit it. I have her affidavit if you’d like to see it. A woman with courage, Zeke. It’s time to man up, big boy, and tell the truth for a change.”

“You know, Post, I was just starting to like you.”

“Don’t bother. I’m not that likeable and really don’t care. My mission is to untangle the web of lies that convicted Quincy. You want eighteen months knocked off or not?”

“How can I trust you?”

“The word ‘trust’ doesn’t sound right coming from you, Zeke. I’m an honest man. I don’t lie. I guess you’ll just have to roll the dice.”

“Give me another.”

I light the fourth cigarette. He is calm now, calculating, says, “This deal. Can you put it in writing?”

“No, it doesn’t work that way. Every prison in Arkansas is overcrowded and the state needs some relief. The county jails are backed up, some sleeping six to a cell, and the powers that be are looking for space. They don’t care what happens to you.”

“You got that right.”

I glance at my watch. “They promised me thirty minutes, Zeke. Time’s about up. Deal or no deal?”

He thinks and smokes. “How long do I stay in the Cave?”

“You’ll get out tomorrow, I promise.”

He nods and I hand him the affidavit. Assuming he doesn’t read much, the wording is simple, nothing more than three syllables. With a cigarette screwed into the corner of his mouth, and smoke burning his eyes, he reads it carefully. Ashes fall onto his shirt and he swats them away. After the last page he tosses the butt and says, “I got no problem with this.”

I hand him a pen.

“You promise me, Post?”

“I promise.”

The leading death penalty lawyer in Arkansas is a friend I worked with on another case. His wife’s first cousin is a state senator, chairman of the Appropriations Committee, and thus in charge of funding all agencies, including Corrections. I don’t like working the favor bank because I have so little to give in return, but in this business I’m forced to network. Occasionally, something clicks and a miracle happens.

Leaving the cotton fields of northeastern Arkansas, I call Vicki with the news. She is thrilled and runs to tell Mazy.



Once the nightmare of Quincy was behind her, June married again. Her second effort, with a man named James Rhoad, was slightly less chaotic than her first but didn’t last long. She was still a mess at that point, emotionally unstable and doing drugs. Frankie found Rhoad in Pensacola. He had nothing nice to say about his ex-wife, and over a few beers delivered the story we were hoping for.

They lived together before they married, and during that brief period of romance and bliss they drank too much and smoked crack, but always away from the kids. On several occasions June laughed about Quincy, a man she would loathe forever. She confided in Rhoad that she had lied to help put him away, and that the lies were encouraged by Sheriff Pfitzner and Forrest Burkhead, the prosecutor.