The Guardians(55)

I cannot understand the logic of Nash Cooley making the six-hour drive to watch our post-conviction hearing. If he wanted a good look at me, he could have gone to our website, simple as it is. Same for Susan Ashley. All of the petitions, motions, briefs, and rulings are public record, easily findable online. And why would he run the risk of being spotted? Granted, the risk was quite low in that backward part of the state, but nonetheless he got himself identified by us. I can assume only that Cooley was there because a client ordered him there.

Mickey Mercado is a career thug who has probably worked for a cartel his entire adult life. Which cartel, we are not certain. He and two others were charged with murdering another drug trafficker in a deal gone bad, but the Feds couldn’t make it stick.

Now he’s trailing me?

I make the point to the ladies that looking over our shoulders will not help Quincy Miller. Our job is to prove him innocent, and not necessarily to identify the guy who pulled the trigger.

I have not told the ladies everything. I seldom do. The story of Tyler and the crocodiles is one I’ll keep to myself. That image never goes away.

Our discussion about Tyler goes on throughout most of the day as we go back and forth with ideas and arguments. On the one hand I feel compelled to reach out again and at least warn him that our efforts are now being monitored. On the other hand, though, the mere act of contacting him could potentially place him in danger. The same goes for Gilmer, but he does not know as much as Tyler.

At the end of the day we decide it’s an important risk to take. I go online and return to From Under Patty’s Porch where I pay twenty bucks for another month and send a message that will erase itself in five minutes:

Nassau again—important.

Five minutes pass with no response. I send the same message four times over the next three hours and hear nothing.

After dark, I leave the office and walk a few blocks in sweltering heat. The days are long and humid, and the town is crowded with tourists. As usual, Luther Hodges is waiting on his porch, eager to get out of the house.

“Hello Padre,” I call out.

“Hello, my son.” We embrace on the sidewalk, exchange lighthearted insults about gray hair and waistlines, and start walking. After a few minutes I realize something is bothering him.

“Texas will kill another one tomorrow,” he explains.

“Sorry to hear.”

Luther is a tireless abolitionist whose simple message has always been: Since we can all agree that it’s wrong to kill, why do we allow the State to kill? When an execution appears on the horizon, he and his fellow abolitionists write the usual letters, make calls, post comments online, and occasionally go to the prison to protest. He spends hours in prayer and grieves for murderers he’s never met.

We’re not in the mood for a fancy meal so we duck into a sandwich shop. He pays for mine, as always, and as soon as we are seated he grins and says, “Now, tell me the latest on Quincy’s case.”

Since Guardian began its work, we have opened eighteen cases, eight of which resulted in exonerations. One client was executed. Six are current. Three we closed when we became convinced our clients were indeed guilty. When we make a mistake we cut our losses and move on.

With eighteen cases we have learned that, sooner or later, we’ll get a lucky break. His name is Len Duckworth and he lives at Sea Island, about an hour south of Savannah. He drove up, walked into our headquarters, saw no one at the reception desk, stuck his head into Vicki’s room, and said hello. Vicki was polite, as always, but very busy. Within minutes, though, she was calling for me. “This could be important,” she says. We eventually settle in the conference room upstairs with a fresh pot of coffee. Vicki and Mazy take notes and I just listen.

Duckworth is about seventy, tanned and trim, the epitome of a comfortable retiree with plenty of time for golf and tennis. He and his wife moved to Sea Island a few years back and are trying to stay busy. He’s from Ohio, she’s from Chicago, both prefer warm weather. He was an FBI agent in 1973 when Congress created the Drug Enforcement Agency, which sounded more exciting than his desk job. He switched agencies and spent his career with the DEA, including twelve years in charge of north Florida.

For months now we’ve been trying with no success to obtain DEA records from the 1980s. But, like the FBI and ATF, the DEA is tenacious about protecting its archives. One of Vicki’s FOIA requests came back with a letter in which every word was redacted except for the “a’s” and “the’s.”

This is indeed a lucky day. Duckworth says, “I know a lot about the drug business back then. Some things I can talk about, some I cannot.”

I say, “I’m curious about why you came here. We’ve been trying to get DEA files and notes for the past seven months, with no luck.”

“You won’t get much because DEA always hides behind the excuse that its investigations are active and ongoing. It doesn’t matter how old or inactive a case might be, the DEA’s procedure is to give you nothing. And they’ll go to court to protect their information. That’s the way we operated.”

“How much can you tell us?” I ask.

“Well, I can talk about the murder of Keith Russo because that case was closed over twenty years ago and because it wasn’t a DEA matter. I knew Keith, knew him well because we flipped him. He was one of our informants and that’s what got him killed.”