The Guardians(59)

There are gasps and shrieks behind us as his family hears this. Duke leans forward and places both hands on the table. I stand and put an arm around him as he sobs. For some reason I notice how frail and thin he is in someone’s old sports coat.

Chad hits a side door and makes his escape, too cowardly to walk over and offer an apology of his own. He’ll probably spend the rest of his career lying about how Duke got off on one of those technicalities.

Outside the courtroom, we face the cameras and answer questions. Duke says little. He just wants to go home and eat his uncle’s barbeque ribs. I don’t have much to say either. Most lawyers dream of these moments, but to me they are bittersweet. On the one hand there is immense satisfaction in saving an innocent man. But on the other, there is anger and frustration with a system that allows wrongful convictions. Almost all can be avoided.

Why are we expected to celebrate after an innocent man is freed?

I navigate through the crowd and walk with my client to a small room where Jim Bizko is waiting. I promised him an exclusive, and Duke and I unload. Bizko starts with questions about his near miss with the executioner seven months earlier, and before long we’re laughing about Duke’s last meal and his frantic efforts to finish his steak and cake before returning to his cell. The laughter feels good and comes easily, as do the tears.

After half an hour, I leave them and return to the courtroom where the crowd is loitering and waiting for the next bit of drama. Judge Marlowe assumes the bench and everyone takes a seat. She nods and a bailiff opens a side door. Mark Carter appears in handcuffs and the standard orange jumpsuit. He glances around, sees the crowd, finds his family on the front row, then looks away. He takes a seat at the defense table and stares down as his boots catch his attention.

Judge Marlowe looks at him and asks, “Are you Mark Carter?”

He nods.

“Please stand when I address you and answer in a clear voice.”

He reluctantly gets to his feet as if he’s in control of the moment. “I am.”

“Do you have a lawyer?”

“Nope.”

“Can you afford one?”

“Depends on how much one might cost.”

“Very well. I’ll appoint one for now and he’ll meet you over in the jail. We’ll come back next week and try again. In the meantime you will be held without bail. Have a seat.”

He sits and I ease forward to the defense table. I lean down and in a low voice say, “Hey, Mark, I’m the guy who called you the night they almost killed Duke. Remember the call?”

He glares and since he’s cuffed and can’t throw a punch, he looks as though he might spit.

“Anyway, I called you a cowardly scumbag because you were willing to let another man die for your crime. And I promised I’d see you in court.”

“Who are you?” he snarls.

A bailiff is moving toward us and I back away.

In a brief ceremony, the staff at Guardian hangs a large, framed color photo of Duke Russell on the wall with the other eight exonerees. It is a handsome portrait we paid for. Our client is posing outdoors at his mother’s home, leaning on a white board fence with a fishing rod at his side. A big smile. The contented face of a man happy to be free and young enough to enjoy another life. A life we’ve given him.

We pause and pat ourselves on the back, then return to our work.





Chapter 30



Quincy thinks I’m here because I’m his lawyer and part of my job is to see my clients at every opportunity. This is my fourth visit and I bring him up to date. Of course we have heard nothing from Judge Plank just down the road, and Quincy does not understand why we can’t file a complaint and make the old fossil do something. I describe Zeke Huffey’s performance in court and pass along the guy’s apology for helping send Quincy to prison for the rest of his life. Quincy is unmoved. We kill two hours covering the same material.

Leaving the prison, I head south on a county road that soon expands to four then six lanes as Orlando looms. Watching the rearview mirror has become a habit that I hate, but I can’t make myself stop. I know there’s no one back there. If they are listening and watching they wouldn’t do it with such an antiquated method. They might hack phones and computers and who knows what else, but they wouldn’t waste their time chasing me in my little Ford SUV. I take a quick exit onto a busy thoroughfare, then another quick turn and wheel into the vast parking lot of a suburban mall. I park between two cars, walk inside like an average shopper, and hike at least half a mile to a sprawling Nike store where, at exactly 2:15, I find a rack of men’s running shirts. Tyler Townsend waits on the other side of the rack. He’s wearing a golf cap from a country club and a pair of fake tortoiseshell glasses.

Glancing around, he says softly, “This better be good.”

I examine a shirt and say, “We have seen the enemy. And I think you should know about it.”

“I’m listening,” he says without looking at me.

I tell him about the hearing in front of Judge Plank, the appearance of Nash Cooley and Mickey Mercado, and their clumsy efforts to avoid being seen together. Tyler does not recognize either name.

A kid with a big smile approaches and asks if we need help. I politely wave him off.

I give Tyler all the background we have on both Mercado and Cooley. I summarize what Len Duckworth told us about the DEA and the cartel.