The Guardians(90)
Frankie says, “But it doesn’t matter, right? If the flashlight was not at the scene, then the real killer didn’t use it.”
“That’s correct,” Kyle says. “So what happened? I suspect Pfitzner killed a rabbit, got a blood sample, and doused the flashlight. Me, I’d use a large syringe from the drugstore and spray the lens from about five feet away. It would spatter nicely enough. He let it dry, handled it with gloves, stuck it in a pocket, got a warrant for Quincy’s car, planted it. He knew of Paul Norwood, the so-called expert, and made sure the prosecutor hired him. Norwood would say anything for a fee, and he rolled into town with a thick résumé and convinced the, shall we say, unsophisticated jurors. Mostly white, as I recall.”
“Eleven to one,” I add.
“Sensational murder, the thirst for justice, the perfect suspect with motive, and an ingenious frame job. Quincy barely escaped the death penalty and got sent away forever. Twenty-three years later, the truth is discovered by you, Post. You deserve a medal.”
“Thanks, Doc, but we don’t do medals. Just exonerations.”
“It’s been a real pleasure. A fantastic case. I’ll be there when you need me.”
Leaving Richmond, I call my favorite nurse, who hands the phone to Quincy. I keep it simple and explain that we now have valuable evidence that will one day exonerate him. I downplay our chances of a quick release and caution that the next few months will see a lot of legal maneuvering to get him out. He is pleased, grateful, and subdued.
He was attacked thirteen weeks ago and makes progress every day. He comprehends more and his words come quicker, his vocabulary expands. One major problem we’re having with him is that he does not understand that his rehab should go as slowly as possible. For him, getting well enough to be discharged means returning to prison. I have repeatedly tried to impress upon his medical team the importance of taking their time. But the patient is tired of going slow, tired of the hospital, tired of surgeries and needles and tubes. He wants to get up and run.
As Frankie drives south, I have long conversations with Mazy, Susan Ashley, and Bill Cannon. There are so many ideas that Mazy patches together a conference call and the entire team brainstorms for an hour. She has the most brilliant idea of the moment, a trick play she has been contemplating for some time. Under Florida law, petitions for post-conviction relief must be filed in the county where the inmate is housed. Thus, old Judge Plank gets inundated with frivolous paperwork, because Garvin is right down the road in rural Poinsett County. He is too jaded by this to feel sympathy, and wouldn’t recognize new evidence if it bit him in the ass.
As of today, though, Quincy is not incarcerated at Garvin. He’s hospitalized in downtown Orlando, the center of Orange County, population 1.5 million and home to forty-three different circuit judges. If we file a new petition in Orange County it will be assailed by the State, which will claim that we’re simply forum-shopping, but there is nothing to lose. If we prevail, we will present our new evidence before a new judge, one from a metropolitan area with some diversity. If we lose, we bounce back to old Plank for another go. First, though, we must dismiss our appeal of Plank’s denial of our first petition. It’s been sitting untouched in the supreme court in Tallahassee for three months.
Mazy and I spend the next two days putting together an amended petition and dismissing the first one. We get the good news that the Florida state crime lab has reached the same conclusions as Kyle Benderschmidt.
There is no news from the Tafts and that skeleton in their closet.
If we kept champagne around the office, we might just pop a cork when my favorite nurse calls from Orlando and says (1) Quincy has an infection from one of the knife wounds, and (2) his jaw has not healed correctly and he needs another surgery.
I end the conversation with “Please don’t let him out.”
We file immediately in circuit court in Orange County, Susan Ashley’s backyard. The court is secretive about how cases are assigned among the judges, so we do not know who we’ll draw. The State of Florida takes two weeks to respond, and does so with a rather terse little motion to dismiss that’s hardly worth the effort.
Susan Ashley asks for an expedited hearing, and we learn that our judge is the Honorable Ansh Kumar, a thirty-eight-year-old second-generation American whose parents immigrated from India. We were praying for diversity and we got it. He grants our request for the hearing, a good sign, and I hustle down to Orlando. I’m riding with Frankie in his truck because he thinks my little Ford is not safe anymore, especially when I’m weaving while yelling into the phone. So he drives and I try not to yell.
Frankie is crucial these days for another reason. Not surprisingly, he’s become close to Quincy and spends hours with him at the hospital. Together they watch ballgames, eat fast food, and in general terrorize the staff. The nurses know that both men have served long sentences for crimes they did not commit, so they let them by with some good-natured sexual bantering. Frankie tells me that some of the nurses can dish it out as fast as the boys.
Once again, the State of Florida sends down Carmen Hidalgo to carry the ball. She’s one of a thousand lawyers in the Attorney General’s office, and again drew the short straw. Old innocence cases are not highly sought-after by the State’s top litigators.
We gather for what should be a brief hearing in a modern courtroom on the third floor of a downtown high-rise, the new judicial building that Orange County is quite proud of. Judge Kumar welcomes the lawyers with a warm smile and orders us to get on with it.