The Guardians(63)

Vicki has found three newspaper stories about corrupt guards at Garvin. Two years ago, eight were fired for selling drugs, vodka, porn, and the favorite—cell phones. One inmate was caught with four phones and was retailing them to his customers. He confessed that his cousin stole them on the outside and bribed a guard to sneak them in. One of the sacked guards was quoted: “We can’t live on twelve dollars an hour so we gotta do something.”

Over dessert—chocolate pie for him, coffee for me—I say, “Look, Mosby, I’ve been inside about a hundred prisons, so I’ve learned a few things. And I know that someone saw Quincy get jumped. Right?”

He nods and says, “More than likely.”

“For something really bad, a rape or a knifing, you have to find the right guard who’ll look the other way, right?”

He smiles and keeps nodding. I push on, “Last year there were two murders at Garvin. Either on your watch?”

“Nope.”

“They catch the guys?”

“First one they did. Second guy got his throat cut while he was asleep. Still unsolved, probably stay that way.”

“Look, Mosby, it’s important for me to find out who jumped Quincy. You and I know damned well that there’s a guard or two involved. I’ll bet one was looking out during the attack. Right?”

“Probably.” He takes a bite of pie and looks away. After he swallows he says, “Everything’s for sale in prison, Post. You know that.”

“I want names, Mosby. The names of the men who beat Quincy. How much will it cost?”

He leans in lower and tries to adjust his stomach. “I don’t have the names, I swear. So I’ll have to get them and I’ll have to pay the guy. He might have to pay another guy. See what I mean. I’d like a few bucks too.”

“Sure, but can I please remind you that we’re a nonprofit with no money?”

“You got five thousand dollars?”

I frown as if he’s asked for a million, but five is the right figure. Some of the men in the gossip chain are prisoners who think in terms of the basics: better food, drugs, a new color television, some condoms, softer toilet paper. Some are guards who need a thousand dollars for auto repairs.

“Maybe,” I say. “This needs to happen fast.”

“What will you do with the names?” he asks as he shovels in the last chunk of pie.

“Why do you care? It’s probably a couple of lifers who’ll just get more time.”

“Probably so,” he says with his mouth full.

“So, we have a deal? You start digging and I’ll find some money.”

“Deal.”

“And let’s keep it quiet, Mosby. I don’t want Crabtree poking around. Besides, he’ll probably want some of the fee, right?”

“Right. Not sure I trust him.”

“I’m not sure I do either.”

We return to ICU and give Crabtree his sandwich. He’s sitting with an Orlando city policeman, a big talker who tells us that he has been ordered to hang around for a few days. There are plenty of uniforms milling around, and I begin to feel better about Quincy’s safety.





Chapter 32



Twenty-eight hours have passed since the beating, and after five or six flatlining episodes, Quincy’s monitors have begun to stabilize. Though he certainly doesn’t know it, there is slightly more activity in his brain, and his heart is a bit stronger. However, this does not inspire optimism among his doctors.

I’m sick of the hospital and need to escape, but I can’t get too far from the patient. I spend hours on my sofa in the lounge, on the phone, online, anything to kill time. Mazy and I decide to wait another day before contacting the FBI. The federal lawsuit can wait too, though we’re having second thoughts about it. There is still no word from the warden, no contact with the prison.

Mosby and Crabtree are instructed to leave at 5:00 p.m. They are replaced by a gray-haired veteran named Holloway, who isn’t very friendly. He seems perturbed at being relegated to hallway monitoring and doesn’t say much. Whatever. At least we have another armed guard on duty. I’m tired of talking to people anyway.

Marvis Miller arrives early in the evening and I walk him to the room to see his brother. He is immediately emotional and I back away. He stands at the foot of the bed, afraid to touch anything, and stares at the mountain of gauze that is Quincy’s face. A nurse needs some information from him and I return to the lounge to kill more time.

I have dinner with Marvis, my third meal of the day in the cafeteria. He is six years younger than Quincy and has always idolized his big brother. They have two sisters but don’t speak to them. The family split after Quincy’s conviction when the sisters assumed he was guilty, the jury said so, and they cut all ties. This upset Marvis, who has always believed his brother was framed and who felt strongly that he needed the family’s support more than ever.

After we choke down the food, we choose to sit and drink coffee rather than to reenter the stultifying dreariness of the visitors’ lounge. I explain my fears about Quincy’s safety. I offer my rather speculative theory that the attack was ordered by someone connected to his conviction, someone who’s afraid of our investigation. I offer a lame apology for what has happened, but he will have none of it. He is grateful for our efforts and says so repeatedly. He has always dreamed of his big brother walking victoriously out of prison, an innocent man. Marvis is a lot like Quincy, easygoing, likeable, believable, a decent man trying to survive a tough life. There are flashes of bitterness at a system that robbed his brother, but there is also a lot of hope that a grievous wrong will someday be made right.