The Guardians(57)

“Who would the cartel use to do the killing?” Mazy asks.

“Oh, they have plenty of gun thugs, and these guys are not always sophisticated assassins. They’re brutes who’d rather cut off a man’s head with an axe than put a bullet in it. A couple of shotgun blasts to the face is tame for these boys. Their murders are messy because they want them to be. If they leave behind clues, they don’t care. You’re never going to find them because they’re back in Mexico, or Panama. Somewhere in the jungle.”

Mazy says, “But the Russo crime scene was clean, right? No clues left behind.”

“Yes, but Pfitzner was in charge of the investigation.”

I say, “I’m not sure I understand why you couldn’t nail Pfitzner. You say you knew he was guarding the port, storing the coke, protecting the dealers, and you had informants, including Keith. Why couldn’t you bust him?”

Duckworth takes a deep breath and locks his hands behind his head. He stares at the ceiling, keeps a smile on his face, replies, “That is probably the biggest disappointment of my career. We really wanted that guy. One of us, a law enforcement man, on the take and in bed with the nastiest people you could ever meet. Pumping cocaine into Atlanta, Birmingham, Memphis, Nashville, all over the Southeast. And we could’ve done it. We had infiltrated. We had built the case. We had the evidence. It was the U.S. Attorney in Jacksonville. We just could not get him to move fast enough and take it to the grand jury. He insisted on running the show and didn’t know what he was doing. Then Russo got hit. I still think about that guy, the U.S. Attorney. He later ran for Congress and I couldn’t wait to vote against him. Last I heard, he was chasing ambulances with his smarmy face on billboards.”

Mazy asks, “And you say this cartel is still around?”

“Most of it is, or at least it was when I retired. I’ve been out of the loop for the past five years.”

Mazy says, “Okay, let’s talk about the people who ordered the hit on Russo. Where are they now?”

“Don’t know. I’m sure some are dead, some are in prison, some have retired to their mansions around the world. And some are still trafficking.”

“Are they watching us?” Vicki asks.

Duckworth leans forward and takes a sip. He thinks about this for a long moment because he appreciates our concern. Finally, he says, “I can only speculate, obviously. But, yes, they are watching at some level. They do not want Quincy Miller exonerated, to say the least. I have a question for you,” he says, looking at me. “If your client walks, will the murder case be reopened?”

“Probably not. In about half of our cases we manage to identify the real perpetrator, the other half we do not. Here, it looks highly unlikely. The case is old. The evidence is gone. The real killer is, as you say, living well somewhere far away.”

“Or he’s dead,” Duckworth says. “Gun thugs don’t last long in the cartels.”

“So why are they watching us?” Vicki asks.

“Why not? You’re easy to watch. The court filings are public. Why not keep up with things?”

I ask, “Ever hear of a Miami drug lawyer named Nash Cooley?”

“I don’t think so. Is he with a firm?”

“Varick and Valencia.”

“Oh sure. They’ve been around for years. Well known in the trade. Why do you ask?”

“Nash Cooley was in the courtroom last week when we argued our motion.”

“So you know him?”

“No, but we identified him. He was with a guy named Mickey Mercado, one of his clients.”

Being a good cop, he wants to ask how we identified the two, but he lets it go. He smiles and says, “Yes, I’d be careful if I were you. It’s safe to assume they’re watching.”





Chapter 29



According to Steve Rosenberg, Judge Marlowe has more clout than we gave her credit for. He suspects she lobbied the Alabama Court of Appeals to move at what could be a record pace. Barely two months after the hearing in Verona, the court unanimously affirms Judge Marlowe’s command to DNA test the seven pubic hairs. And they order the testing to be paid for by the office of the Honorable Chad Falwright. Two detectives from the state police drive the evidence to the same lab in Durham that we used to test the saliva of Mark Carter. I stare at my phone for three days until it buzzes with a call from Her Honor herself.

With perfect unaccented diction and in the most beautiful female voice I’ve ever heard, she says, “Well, Mr. Post, it appears as though you are correct. Your client has been excluded by DNA testing. All seven pubic hairs once belonged to Mr. Carter.”

I’m in Vicki’s office and my face says it all. I close my eyes for a moment as Vicki quietly hugs Mazy.

Her Honor continues, “Today is Tuesday. Can you be here for a hearing on Thursday?”

“Of course. And thank you, Judge Marlowe.”

“Don’t thank me, Mr. Post. Our judicial system owes an enormous debt of gratitude to you.”

These are the moments we live for. Alabama came within two hours of killing an innocent man. Duke Russell would be cold in his grave if not for us and our work and our commitment to undoing wrongful convictions.

But we’ll celebrate later. I leave immediately and head west toward Alabama, phoning nonstop. Chad doesn’t want to talk and of course he’s far too busy at the moment. Since he’ll try to screw things up again, and since he’s incompetent to begin with, we’re worried about the apprehension of Mark Carter. To our knowledge Carter knows nothing about the DNA testing. Steve Rosenberg convinces the Attorney General to call Chad and get him in line. The AG also agrees to notify the state police and ask them to keep an eye on Carter.