The Guardians(62)

Quincy hangs on. The morning rounds start early and I meet with another doctor. There is no change and little hope. I explain to him that I think my client could be in danger. He was attacked by some people who obviously want him dead—it wasn’t a routine prison brawl—and the hospital needs to know this. I ask him to notify the staff and those in charge of security. He seems to understand but makes no promises.

At 7:00, I call Susan Ashley of the Central Florida Innocence Project and tell her about Quincy. We brainstorm for half an hour and agree that the FBI should be notified. She knows who to call. We also discuss the strategy of running to federal court and suing Florida and its Department of Corrections. We would seek an immediate injunction ordering the warden at Garvin to investigate the attack and open his files. I call Mazy and we have a similar conversation. As usual, she’s cautious but never shy about filing suit in federal court. An hour later, Mazy, Susan Ashley, and I have a conference call and decide to do nothing for a few hours. All strategies will change if Quincy dies.

I’m in the hallway on the phone when a doctor sees me and approaches. I end the call and ask what’s going on.

He says gravely, “The EEG is showing a steady decrease in brain activity. His heart rate is down, twenty beats a minute. We’re getting down to the end and we need someone to talk to.”

“About pulling the plug?”

“That’s not really a medical term but it’ll do. You say he has no family.”

“He has a brother who’s trying to get here. It’s his decision, I guess.”

“Mr. Miller is a ward of the state, correct?”

“He’s an inmate in a state prison, has been for over twenty years. Please don’t tell me the warden gets to make the decision.”

“Absent a family member, yes.”

“Shit! If the prison gets to pull the plug then no inmate is safe. Let’s wait for the brother, okay? I’m hoping he’ll be here by noon.”

“Okay. You may want to think about last rites.”

“I’m Episcopalian, not Catholic. We don’t do last rites.”

“Well, then do whatever you’re supposed to do just before death.”

“Thanks.”

As he walks away, I see the same two prison guards emerge from the elevator, and I greet them like old friends. They’re back for another day with nothing to do but sit. Yesterday I thought they were totally worthless, but now I’m glad to see them. We need more uniforms around here.

I offer to buy them breakfast in the basement cafeteria and suspect they’ve never declined food. Over waffles and sausage they manage to laugh about their problems. The warden called them in first thing this morning for an ass-chewing. He was angry because they left the prisoner without authority to do so. They are now on thirty days’ probation with demerits on file.

They’ve heard no gossip about the attack, and as long as they’re sitting around the hospital doing little they will continue to hear nothing. However, the place where Quincy was jumped is known to be one of the few areas of the prison yard unmonitored by surveillance cameras. There have been other assaults there. The black guard, Mosby, says he knew of Quincy many years back before he was assigned to another unit. The white guard, Crabtree, never heard of him, but then there are almost two thousand inmates at Garvin.

Though they know very little, they are enjoying the importance of being vaguely connected to such an exciting event. I confide in them that I believe the attack was ordered from the outside and that Quincy is now an even easier target. He must be protected.

When we return to ICU there are two uniformed hospital security guards milling about, frowning at everyone as if the President was back there on life support. There are now four young men with weapons on duty, and while none of them could sprint to first base without collapsing, their presence is comforting. I chat with a doctor who says nothing has changed, and I leave the hospital before anyone can ask me if Quincy’s machines should be turned off.

I find a cheap motel, shower, brush my teeth, do a partial change of clothing, then race away toward Garvin. Susan Ashley has been hounding the warden’s secretary without success. My plans to barge into his office and demand answers are blocked at the check-in office where I am denied entry to the prison. I hang around for an hour and threaten everyone who will listen, but it’s futile. Prisons are secure for many reasons.

Back at the hospital, I chat with a nurse I’ve been flirting with and she says his vitals have improved slightly. His brother, Marvis, can’t leave his job in Miami. No one from the prison will take or return calls.

For lunch I flip a coin and Mosby wins. Crabtree orders a ham-on-rye and stays behind to protect Quincy. Mosby and I stroll down to the cafeteria and load our trays with leftover lasagna and vegetables straight from the can. There’s a crowd and we squeeze into the last table, one that presses against his stomach. He’s only thirty, grossly overweight, and I want to ask him how large he plans to be in ten years. Or twenty? Does he realize that at the rate he’s expanding he’ll be diabetic by the age of forty? But, as always, I keep these questions to myself.

He is intrigued by our work and keeps looking at the collar. So I regale him with slightly embellished stories of the men we’ve walked out of prison. I talk about Quincy and make the case for his innocence. Mosby seems to believe me, though he really doesn’t care. He’s just a kid from the country working for twelve bucks an hour because he needs the job. He hates it—hates the fact that he works behind fencing and razor wire; hates the danger of herding criminals who constantly scheme of ways to escape; hates the bureaucracy and endless rules; hates the violence; hates the warden; hates the constant stress and pressure. All for twelve bucks an hour. His wife cleans offices while her mother keeps their three kids.