The Guardians(60)

“You suspected Russo was an informant, didn’t you?” I ask.

“Well, he was killed for a reason. Either his wife had him knocked off for the life insurance, which no one really ever believed, or he got in too thick with some of his shady clients. I’ve always figured it was the work of the drug gang. That’s how they handle informants, like those two boys I described down in Belize, or wherever it was. Remember the photo, Post? Me on the zip line?”

“I think about it all the time.”

“And so do I. Look, Post, if they’re watching you then we ain’t gonna be pals no more. I don’t want to see you again.” He takes a step back, glaring at me. “Nothing, Post, you hear? No contact whatsoever.”

I nod and say, “Got it.”

At the door he scans the mall, as if he might see a couple of thugs with large guns, then walks away as nonchalantly as possible. He quickens his pace and is soon out of sight, and I realize how utterly terrified he is by the past.

The question is: How terrified should we be of the present?

The answer arrives within hours.

We select our cases with great care, and once engaged we investigate and litigate with diligence. Our goal is to find the truth and exonerate our clients, something we’ve now done nine times in the past twelve years. However, it has never occurred to me that our efforts to save a client might get one killed.

It was a prison beating with all the markings of an ambush, and as such it will be difficult to get the facts. Witnesses are unreliable if they come forward at all. Guards often see nothing. The administration has every reason to cover up and to slant its version in a way most favorable to the prison.

Not long after I said goodbye to Quincy that morning, he was jumped by two men in a walkway between a machine shop and a gymnasium. He was stabbed by a shank and beaten severely by blunt instruments, and left for dead. A guard eventually walked by, saw him lying in a pool of blood, and called for help. He was loaded into an ambulance and taken to the nearest hospital and from there was rushed to Mercy Hospital in Orlando. Tests revealed a fractured skull, swollen brain, broken jaw, splintered shoulder and collarbone, missing teeth, and so on, and three deep stab wounds. He was given six pints of blood and put on life support. When the prison finally called our office in Savannah, Vicki was informed that he was “critical” and not expected to survive.

I was on the Jacksonville bypass when she called me with the news. I forgot all the other clutter in my brain and turned around. Quincy has no family to speak of. Right now, he needs his lawyer.

I have spent half of my career hanging around prisons, and I’ve become accustomed to the violent culture but not calloused by it, because caged men will always invent new ways to harm one another.

But I’ve never considered the possibility of an innocence case being derailed from inside the prison by rubbing out the prospective exoneree. It’s a brilliant move!

If Quincy dies, we close the file and move on. This is not an established policy at Guardian because we’ve never been confronted with such a death, but with an endless supply of cases to choose from, we cannot justify our time in trying to exonerate anyone posthumously. I’m sure they know that. Whoever “they” might be. For purposes of my own lengthy monologues behind the wheel, I suppose I could refer to them as the Saltillo gang, or something like that. But “they” works better.

So they are watching our court filings. Perhaps they are trailing us occasionally, maybe hacking a bit and eavesdropping. And they certainly know about us and our recent victory in Alabama. They know we have a track record, that we can litigate, that we are tenacious. They also know that Quincy did not kill Keith Russo and they don’t like us digging for the truth. They do not want to openly confront us, or frighten or intimidate, not now anyway, because that would verify their existence, and it would probably require them to commit another crime, something they would like to avoid. A fire, or a bomb, or a bullet could make for a mess and leave clues.

The easiest way to stop the investigation is to simply take out Quincy. Order a hit from inside the prison where they already have friends or know some tough guys who will work cheap for cash or favors. Killings there are so routine anyway.

I rarely spend time reviewing the prison records of my clients. Since they are innocent, they tend to behave themselves, avoid gangs and drugs, take whatever educational courses are available, work, read, and help other inmates. Quincy finished high school in Seabrook in 1978 but could not afford college. In prison, he has accumulated over a hundred hours of credits. He has no serious disciplinary violations. He helps younger inmates avoid gangs. I can’t imagine Quincy making enemies. He lifts weights, has learned karate, and in general can take care of himself. It would require more than one healthy young man to bring him down, and I’ll bet he inflicted some damage of his own before he fell.

Sitting in Orlando traffic, I call the prison for the fourth time and ask to speak to the warden. There is no way he’ll take my call, but I want him to know I’ll be there soon enough. I make a dozen calls. Vicki is hounding the hospital for information, of which there is little, and she relays this to me. I call Frankie and tell him to head south. I finally get Quincy’s brother, Marvis, who is working construction in Miami and can’t get away. He is the only relative who cares about Quincy and has visited him regularly for the past twenty-three years. He is shaken and wants to know who would do this to Quincy. I have no answers.