The Guardians(47)

And so we wait. Rosenberg and I discuss the strategy of pushing hard for a hearing before Judge Marlowe. Our fear is that old Judge Raney might recover and take his job back, though this is unlikely. He’s in his early eighties, golden years for a federal judge but a bit long in the tooth for an elected one. However, we are faced with the obvious reality that without DNA testing we cannot prevail.

I return to Holman and death row to visit with Duke. It’s been over three months since I last saw him and delivered the news that we had found the real killer. That euphoric moment has long since passed. These days his moods swing from raw anger to deep depression. Our phone conversations have not been pleasant.

Prison is a nightmare for those who deserve it. For those who don’t, it is a daily struggle to maintain some level of sanity. For those who suddenly learn that there is proof of their innocence yet they remain locked up, the situation is literally maddening.





Chapter 25



I’m driving on a two-lane highway, headed east in either Mississippi or Alabama, it’s hard to say because these pine forests all look the same. Savannah is the destination in general. I haven’t been home in three weeks and I need a break. My cell buzzes and the ID says it’s Glenn Colacurci, the old lawyer in Seabrook.

It’s not him but rather his comely little secretary, Bea, and she wants to know when I’ll be back in the area. Glenn wants to talk but would rather meet somewhere other than Seabrook.

Three days later, I walk into The Bull, a popular bar in Gainesville. In a booth near the back, I see Bea as she waves and begins scooting out. Seated across from her and spiffed up nicely is Attorney Colacurci. Blue seersucker suit, starched white shirt, striped bow tie, suspenders.

Bea excuses herself and I take her seat. The waitress informs us that the bartender just happens to be concocting his own special recipe of sangria and we really should try it. We order two glasses.

“I love Gainesville,” Glenn says. “I spent seven years here in another lifetime. Great town. Great university. What’s your school, Post? Can’t remember.”

I don’t recall mentioning it to him. “Tennessee, undergrad. Good ole Rocky Top.”

He offers a slight grimace at this, says, “Not my favorite song.”

“And I’m not much of a Gator fan either.”

“Of course not.” We’ve managed to skip the weather, which in the South consumes at least the first five minutes of every casual conversation between two men before the subject turns to football, which goes on for an average of fifteen minutes. I am often almost rude in my desire to avoid wasting all this time.

“Let’s skip the football, Glenn. That’s not why we’re here.”

The waitress delivers two impressive glasses of pinkish sangria on ice.

When she’s gone he says, “No, it’s not. My girl found your petition online and printed me a copy. Not much of a computer man myself. Interesting reading. Well reasoned, well argued, very convincing.”

“Thank you. That’s what we do.”

“Got me to thinking back some twenty years ago. After Kenny Taft got murdered, there was some speculation that that episode did not go down like Pfitzner said. A lot of rumors that Taft got ambushed by his own men, Pfitzner’s boys. Perhaps our fine sheriff was involved in the drug trade, as you suspect. Perhaps Taft knew too much. At any rate, that case has been cold for twenty years. No sign of the killers, no evidence at all.”

I nod politely as he warms up. I hit my straw and he follows my lead.

“Taft’s partner was a boy named Brace Gilmer, who walked away with minor injuries, seems like he may have been nicked by a bullet, but nothing serious. I knew his mother, an old client from an old lawsuit. Gilmer left town not long after the killing and never came back. Years ago I bumped into his mother and we had a nice chat. She told me then, must’ve been fifteen years ago, that Brace believed that he was also a target that night and just got lucky. He and Taft were the same age, twenty-seven, and got on well. Taft was the only black deputy and didn’t have many friends. He also knew something about the Russo murder, at least according to Gilmer. Have you talked to him by chance?”

“We have not.” We can’t find him. Vicki can usually track down anyone in twenty-four hours, but so far Brace Gilmer has eluded us.

“Didn’t think so. His mother moved away sometime back. I found her last week in a retirement home near Winter Haven. She’s older than me and in bad health, but we had a nice chat on the phone. You want to talk to Gilmer.”

“Probably,” I say with restraint. Gilmer is at the top of my list these days.

Glenn slides over one of his business cards. On the back is scribbled the name: Bruce Gilmer. The address is in Sun Valley.

“Idaho?” I ask.

“He was in the Marines and met a girl from there. His mother thinks he may not be too talkative. He got scared and left town a long time ago.”

“And changed his name.”

“Looks like it.”

“Why would the guy’s mother give out his address if he doesn’t want to talk?” I ask.

He circles an index finger around his ear to indicate she’s crazy. “I suppose I caught her on a good day.” He laughs like he’s really clever and pulls long and hard on his straw. I take a sip. His big nose is red and his eyes leak like a drinker’s. I start to feel the alcohol.