The Guardians(52)

Chapter 27



Under Florida law, petitions for post-conviction relief must be filed in the county where the defendant is incarcerated instead of where he was convicted. Since Quincy is staying these days at the Garvin Correctional Institute, which is half an hour away from the small town of Peckham, which is at least an hour from civilization, his case comes under the jurisdiction of a rural circuit court ruled by a judge with a dim view of post-conviction relief. I really can’t blame him. His docket is packed with all manner of junk claims filed by jailhouse lawyers toiling away inside the prison just down the road.

The Poinsett County courthouse is a tacky, modern creation designed by someone who didn’t get paid much. The main courtroom is dark, windowless, and with low ceilings that create a sense of claustrophobia. The worn carpet is a dark maroon. The wood panels and furniture are stained a dark brown. I’ve been in at least a hundred courtrooms in a dozen states, and this is by far the most depressing and dungeon-like.

The State is represented by the Attorney General, a man I’ll never meet because he has about a thousand underlings between him and me. Poor Carmen Hidalgo drew the short straw and got stuck with Quincy’s petition. Five years ago she was in law school at Stetson, ranked in the middle of her class. Our file on her is thin because we don’t need to know much. Her response to our petition was nothing more than a stock answer with some boilerplate and all the names changed.

She fully expects to win, especially given the attitude of the guy on the bench. The Honorable Jerry Plank has been mailing it in for years and dreaming of retirement. He generously set aside one full day for our hearing, but it’s not eight hours of work. Because no one cares about a case that is now twenty-three years old, the courtroom is empty. Even the two clerks look bored.

However, we are watching and waiting. Frankie Tatum sits alone six rows back, behind us, and Vicki Gourley sits alone five rows back, behind the State. Both are wearing tiny video cameras that can be activated with their phones. There is no security at the door. Again, no one in this town or county has ever heard of Quincy Miller. If our efforts are being monitored by the bad guys, whoever “they” may be, this could be their first chance to see us in action. Courtrooms are public areas. Anyone can come and go at will.

My co-counsel is Susan Ashley Gross, the warrior from the Central Florida Innocence Project. Seven years ago, Susan Ashley was with me when we walked Larry Dale Kline out of prison in Miami. He was Guardian’s second exoneree, her first. I would ask Susan Ashley to marry me today but she’s fifteen years younger and happily engaged at the moment.

Last week I filed a motion asking that the defendant be allowed to sit through the hearing. Quincy’s presence is not necessary but I thought he might enjoy a day in the sun. Not surprisingly, Judge Plank said no. He has ruled against us on every pre-hearing matter, and we fully expect him to deny any post-conviction relief. Mazy is already working on our appeal.

It’s almost ten when Judge Plank finally emerges from a hidden door behind the bench and assumes his perch. A bailiff recites his standard admonitions as we stand awkwardly. I glance around and count heads. In addition to Vicki and Frankie, there are four other spectators, and I ask myself how they could possibly care about this hearing. No one in Quincy’s family knows about it. Except for one brother, no family member has contacted Quincy in years. Keith Russo has been dead for twenty-three years, and as far as his family is concerned the killer was locked away a long time ago.

One white male is about fifty and wears an expensive suit. One white male is about forty and wears a black denim shirt. One white male is about seventy and has the look of the bored courthouse regular who’ll sit through anything. The fourth is a white female on the front row behind us and is holding a notepad, as if reporting. We filed our petition weeks ago and have not received a single inquiry from the press. I can’t imagine who would be covering a hearing in a forgotten case in East Nowhere, Florida.

Susan Ashley Gross calls to the stand Dr. Kyle Benderschmidt from VCU. His opinions and findings are memorialized in a thick affidavit we filed with our petition, but we decided to spend the money and produce him live. His credentials are impeccable, and as Susan Ashley is walking him through his résumé, Judge Plank looks at Carmen Hidalgo and says, “Do you have any serious objections to this man’s credentials?”

She stands and says simply, “No.”

“Good. Then he is accepted as an expert in the field of bloodstain analysis. Proceed.”

Using four of the 8x10 color enlargements that were used at trial, Susan Ashley leads our witness through an examination of the flashlight and the tiny specks of red matter on its lens.

Judge Plank interrupts with “And what happened to this flashlight? It was not presented at trial, right?”

The witness shrugs because he can’t testify about it. Susan Ashley says, “Your Honor, according to the trial transcript, the sheriff testified that it was destroyed in a fire about a month after the murder, along with other evidence the police kept in storage.”

“There’s no trace of it?”

“Not to our knowledge, Your Honor. The State’s expert, Mr. Norwood, examined these very photographs and gave the opinion that the lens of the flashlight was spattered with the blood from the victim. By then, the flashlight was long gone.”

“So, if I understand your position, the flashlight was the only real link between Mr. Miller and the crime scene, and when the flashlight was found in the trunk of his car he became the prime suspect. And when the jury was presented with this evidence, it deemed it sufficient for a guilty verdict.”