The Guardians(65)

Marvis is worried about losing his job and needs to leave. We embrace at the elevator and I promise to call if there is a change. He promises to return as soon as possible, but he’s almost five hours away.

Two heavily equipped Orlando policemen appear and I chat them up. They plan to hang around for an hour or so until a prison guard arrives.

At 7:30 I get an e-mail from the prison. The warden has a few spare minutes to grant me an audience.

I arrive at Garvin forty-five minutes before my ten o’clock appointment. I try to explain to the staff at check-in that I have a meeting with the warden, but I’m treated like every other lawyer there to see a client. Nothing is easy in a prison. Rules are entrenched, or they are amended on the fly—whatever it takes to waste more time. I’m finally fetched by a guard in a golf cart and we go for a spin toward the administration building.

The warden is a large black guy with a real swagger. Twenty years ago he played football at Florida State and was drafted into the NFL where he lasted ten games before blowing out a knee. His office is adorned with color photos of him in uniforms, and autographed footballs, and table lamps made of helmets. Looks like he played for the Packers. He sits behind a massive desk that’s covered with files and paperwork, the domain of an important man. To his left stands the prison lawyer, a pale white bureaucrat who holds a notepad and stares at me as if he just might drag me into court for some reason, or no reason at all.

“I’ve got about fifteen minutes,” the warden begins pleasantly. His name is Odell Herman. On the walls there are at least three framed jerseys of different colors with the name herman across the back. You’d think the guy made the Hall of Fame.

“Thanks for your time,” I reply like a real smartass. “I’d like to know what happened to my client, Quincy Miller.”

“We’re investigating and can’t talk about it yet. Right, Mr. Burch?”

Mr. Burch offers a lawyerly nod to confirm this.

“Do you know who attacked him?” I ask.

“We have suspects, but, again I can’t talk about it right now.”

“Okay, I’ll play along. Without divulging names, do you know who did it?”

Herman looks at Burch, who shakes his head.

“No sir, we don’t have that information yet.”

At this point the meeting is over. They are covering up and will give me nothing.

“Okay. Do you know if a guard was involved in the attack in any way?”

“Of course not,” Herman says with irritation. How dare I suggest something so outrageous.

“So, as of today, three days after the attack, you don’t know who did it and you claim that no one working for the prison was involved. Is that correct?”

“That’s what I said.”

I abruptly stand and head for the door. “There were two thugs who attacked my client. The first is Robert Earl Lane. Check him out. Right now his eyes are swollen shut, bluish in color because his nose was broken by Quincy. Lane was treated at your infirmary a few hours after the assault. We’ll subpoena the records so don’t lose them.”

Herman’s mouth opens but no words escape. Lawyer Burch frowns and looks thoroughly confused.

I open the door, pause, and conclude with “There’s more to the story. It will all come out when I bust your ass in federal court.”

I slam it behind me.





Chapter 33



The Orlando office of the FBI is located in a four-level modern building in the suburb of Maitland. Susan Ashley and I arrive early for a three o’clock meeting with the powers that be. She has spent the past two days making contacts and jockeying for the appointment. She has also sent along a short summary of our file on Quincy Miller. We have no idea which special agent we’ll meet, but we are optimistic that we’ll find someone willing to listen.

Her name is Agnes Nolton, early forties and with enough clout to have a nice corner office. Along the way we pass dozens of agents in cramped cubbyholes, so it’s readily apparent that Agent Nolton has some seniority. In her office we are joined by Special Agent Lujewski, who looks like he should still be in college. After coffee is served and the pleasantries are finished, I am invited to do the talking.

I quickly summarize Guardian’s work on behalf of Quincy Miller and give the opinion that he was framed by a drug gang, with a lot of help from the ex-sheriff of Ruiz County. Now that we’re pushing for post-conviction relief, those responsible for the murder of Keith Russo are feeling the heat. I give the names of Nash Cooley, the drug lawyer in Miami, and Mickey Mercado, one of his henchmen. I speculate that these two along with other unknowns are responsible for the rather brilliant idea of ending our investigation by eliminating our client.

“Would that work?” Nolton asks. “If your client dies, what happens to the case?”

“Yes, it would work,” I reply. “Our mission is to get innocent people out of prison. We don’t have the time or resources to litigate from the grave.”

She nods in agreement and I continue. I describe Quincy and make much of the fact that he was not involved with gang activity; thus, there should have been no reason for the Aryans to attack him.

“So, we’re talking about a contract killing?” she asks.

“Yes, murder for hire, a federal offense.”