The Guardians(70)
A GPS monitor is attached to the inside of his rear bumper so the car cannot escape surveillance. At 10:00 p.m., the county sheriff enters the holding room and apologizes to DiLuca. He explains that there was a bank robbery near Naples earlier in the day and the getaway car matched DiLuca’s. They suspected him, but now realize they were wrong. He is free to go.
DiLuca is not gracious and forgiving, and leaves as quickly as possible. He is suspicious and decides not to return to Delray Beach. He is also wary of using his burner so he makes no calls. He drives two hours to Sarasota and checks into a budget motel.
The next morning, the same federal magistrate issues a warrant authorizing the search of the apartment of Mercado and the electronic surveillance of his telephones. Another warrant directs his cell phone provider to open its records. However, before the bugging is complete, DiLuca calls Mercado from a pay phone. He is then tracked from Sarasota to Coral Gables where his trail is picked up by a team of FBI agents. He finally parks at an Afghan kebob restaurant on Dolphin Avenue and goes inside. Fifteen minutes later, a young female agent saunters inside for a bite and identifies DiLuca eating with Mickey Mercado.
DiLuca’s chilling comment to Adam that they had “had a look” at Quincy in the hospital ratchets up the security there. Quincy is moved again, to another corner room, and he is never left unwatched.
Agent Agnes Nolton keeps me abreast of these developments, though I do not know everything. I caution her against using our phones, and we use encrypted e-mails. She is confident that (1) Quincy will be protected, and (2) they will soon ensnare Mercado in their conspiracy. One source of concern is that he has dual citizenship and can come and go as he pleases. If he becomes suspicious, he might simply run home and never be seen again. Nolton believes that nailing Mercado will be our ultimate prize. The conspirators above him, the real criminals, are probably not in the U.S. and virtually immune from prosecution.
With the FBI fully on board, and with our client still alive, we can return our attention to exonerating him.
Chapter 35
The sangria is calling. Glenn Colacurci is thirsty and wants to meet again at The Bull in Gainesville. After two days of trying to rest in Savannah, I head south again and the adventure continues. Quincy has been eased out of his coma and is fairly alert. His vitals improve each day and his doctors are talking about moving him out of ICU and into a private room where they can begin planning the surgeries to mend his bones. They repeatedly assure me that security is tight, so I’m not compelled to hustle down for more hours of sitting in the hall and staring at my feet.
I get to The Bull minutes after 4:00 p.m. and Glenn’s tall glass is already half empty. His large fleshy nose is turning pink, a shade that almost matches the drink. I order the same and look around for his cute little secretary who I catch myself thinking about more than I should. I don’t see Bea.
Glenn has read about Quincy’s problems and wants the inside scoop. Since I’ve known a hundred small-town windbag lawyers like him, I reveal nothing new. As with most prison beatings, details are sparse and sketchy. In a grave conspiratorial whisper he informs me that the local weekly newspaper in Ruiz County is now following Quincy’s case and our efforts to exonerate him. I absorb this in rapt attention and pass on the opportunity to tell him that Vicki is monitoring half the newspapers—weekly and daily—in the State of Florida. She keeps a running record of every word printed about the case. We live on the Internet. Glenn stumbles across it once a week.
This meeting has a purpose, other than drinking, and after half an hour I realize that the sangria is the oil of conversation. He smacks his lips, brushes his mouth with a sleeve, and finally gets down to business. “So, I gotta tell you, Post, I’ve been thinking about this case night and day. Really into it, you know. This all happened on my watch, back in my glory days when I was in the state senate and also ran the biggest law firm in the county, and, well, you know, I thought I was really in the loop. I figured Pfitzner was working both sides of the street, but we stayed in our lanes, if you know what I mean. He ran his show, got his votes, I did the same. When Keith got his head blown off and your boy got convicted for it, well, I was satisfied. I wanted the death penalty. The whole town was relieved. Looking back, though . . .”
He sees the waiter, flags him over, drains the dregs from his glass, and orders another round. I have at least six inches of liquid left in mine. With plenty of time on the clock, this could spiral into one sloppy afternoon.
He catches his breath and continues. “Looking back, though, things don’t add up. I’m kin to half the county and represented the other half. Last time I ran for reelection I got eighty percent of the vote and I was pissed about the lost twenty. There’s an old deputy, won’t give you the name, but he used to run cases for me. I’d pay him in cash and give him a cut when we settled. Did the same for ambulance drivers and tow truck operators. Had ’em all on the payroll. Anyway, the deputy is still around, lives near the Gulf, and I’ve been talking to him. He retired years ago, health’s in the tank but hell he’s pushing eighty. He worked on Pfitzner’s staff and managed to stay on his good side. He did the light stuff—traffic, football games, school events. Wasn’t much of a cop but didn’t want to be. Just enjoyed the uniform and the paycheck. Says you’re right, says Pfitzner was on the take with the drug traffickers, says it was known throughout the force. Pfitzner had these two brothers—”