The Guardians(92)
We’re in a brawl with the Department of Corrections over what to do with him. His doctors are finished for now and ready to discharge, which means a one-way ticket back to Garvin. Susan Ashley has requested a transfer to a minimum security unit near Fort Myers with rehab facilities. His doctors have generously provided letters and memos supporting his needs for more rehab. We are vehemently arguing that Garvin is a dangerous place for all prisoners in general but for Quincy in particular. Bill Cannon is barking away at the bureaucrats in Corrections in Tallahassee. However, since he currently has them all on the ropes with his $50 million lawsuit, they are not being cooperative. Odell Herman, the warden at Garvin, says that Quincy will be placed in PC—protective custody—like this is really something generous. PC is nothing more than solitary confinement.
What Quincy needs is another infection, but since the last one almost killed him I keep this to myself. He’s been in the hospital for nineteen weeks, and he’s said to Frankie several times that at this point he prefers prison.
We prefer nothing less than freedom, and it will happen. The timing is not clear.
Bill Cannon rises and walks to the podium to address the court. He’s fifty-four years old, with thick and styled gray hair, a black suit, and the confidence of a courtroom master who can extract anything he wants from a jury, or a judge. His voice is a rich baritone that I’m sure he worked on decades ago. His elocution is perfect. He begins by saying that we are on the brink of finding the truth, the foundation of the greatest legal system in the world. The truth about who did or did not kill Keith Russo. The truth that was covered up long ago in a small corrupt town in north Florida. The truth that was deliberately buried by bad men. But now, after decades, after putting an innocent man away for twenty-three years, the truth is at hand.
Cannon doesn’t need notes, doesn’t stop to look down at a yellow legal pad. There are no gaps, no “uh’s” or “ah’s” or fragmented sentences. The man speaks off the cuff in polished prose! And he’s mastered a strategy learned by few lawyers, even the most skilled advocates: he is succinct, does not repeat himself, and is brief. He lays out our case and tells Judge Kumar what we are about to prove. In less than ten minutes he sets the tone and leaves little doubt that he is on a mission and will not be denied.
Carmen Hidalgo responds by reminding the court that the jury has spoken. Quincy Miller was given a fair trial many years ago and the jury unanimously convicted him. He came within one vote of getting the death penalty. Why should we relitigate old cases? Our system is strained and overworked and not designed to keep cases alive for decades. If we allow all convicted murderers to create new facts and allege new evidence, then what good is the first trial anyway?
She is even briefer.
Cannon decides to begin with drama and calls to the stand Wink Castle, Sheriff of Ruiz County. Wink brings with him a small cardboard box. After he’s sworn, Cannon takes him through the process of describing what’s in it. A clear plastic bag holds the flashlight, and it’s laid on the table next to the court reporter. Wink describes how it came into his possession. Cannon rolls a video of us in Glenn’s office opening the boxes. It’s a fun story and we all enjoy it, especially His Honor. Castle gives what little he knows of the history, including the mysterious fire. He is proud to inform the court that things have been modernized in Ruiz County under his watch.
In other words, the drug dealers are gone. We’re all clean now!
On cross-examination, Carmen Hidalgo scores a few minor points by forcing Castle to admit that the evidence boxes were missing for many years; thus, there is a huge gap in the chain of custody. This could be crucial if the flashlight is used in a subsequent criminal trial, but it’s useless now. When she’s finished, Judge Kumar inserts himself into the action by asking Wink, “Has this flashlight been examined by the state crime lab?”
Wink says yes.
“Do you have a copy of their report?”
“No sir. Not yet.”
“Do you know the name of the criminologist in charge of this evidence?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good. I want you to call him right now and tell him that I expect him here tomorrow morning.”
“Will do, sir.”
I’m called as the second witness and sworn to tell the truth. This is the fourth time in my career that I’ve taken the stand, and courtrooms look far different from the inside of the witness box. All eyes are on the witness, who tries to focus and relax as his heart hammers away. Instantly, there is the hesitation to speak because the wrong words might tumble out. Be truthful. Be convincing. Be clear. All the standard advice I give to my witnesses is distant, at least for the moment. Thankfully, I have a brilliant trial lawyer on my side and we’ve rehearsed my little routine. I can’t imagine sitting up here trying to sell some half-baked tale with a guy like Cannon throwing grenades at me.
I tell a highly amended story of finding the flashlight, leaving out huge chapters along the way. Nothing about Tyler Townsend in Nassau, or Bruce Gilmer in Idaho; nothing about e-mails that evaporated in five minutes; nothing about African voodoo or a real skeleton in a closet. I rely on a rumor passed along by an old lawyer who’d heard that perhaps Kenny Taft knew too much and got himself killed. So I went to the Taft family and started digging. Got lucky. On a big screen, Cannon produces photos of the dilapidated house, and some of the dark ones I took in the attic, and another video of Frankie hauling the boxes out of the haunted house. I recount our trip to Richmond with the evidence and the meeting with Dr. Benderschmidt.