The Guardians(98)

“In this case, the recantations of three witnesses—Zeke Huffey, Carrie Holland Pruitt, and June Walker—provide clear proof that their testimonies at trial were compromised and inaccurate. The court finds them to be strong, credible witnesses now. The only physical evidence linking Quincy Miller to the murder scene was allegedly the flashlight, and it was not available at trial. Its discovery by the defense team was remarkable. The analysis of the blood spatter by experts on both sides proves that it was not at the crime scene, but probably planted in the trunk of the defendant’s car. The flashlight is exculpatory evidence of the highest order.

“Therefore, the conviction for murder is vacated and the sentence is commuted effective immediately. I suppose there is the chance that Mr. Miller could be indicted and tried again in Ruiz County, though I doubt this. If so, that will be another proceeding for another day. Mr. Miller, would you please stand with your attorneys?”

Quincy forgets about his cane and jumps to his feet. I grab his left elbow as Susan Ashley grabs his right one. His Honor continues, “Mr. Miller, the people responsible for your wrongful conviction over twenty years ago are not in this courtroom today. I’m told some are dead. Others are scattered. I doubt they will ever be held accountable for this miscarriage of justice. I don’t have the power to pursue them. Before you go, though, I’m compelled to at least acknowledge that you have been badly mistreated by our legal system, and since I’m a part of it, I apologize for what has happened to you. I will help with your formal exoneration efforts in any way possible, including the matter of compensation. Good luck to you, sir. You are free to go.”

Quincy nods and mumbles, “Thank you.”

His knees are weak and he sits and buries his face in his hands. We gather around him—Susan Ashley, Marvis, Mazy, Vicki, Frankie—and for a long time little is said as we all have a good cry. Everybody but Frankie, a guy who did not shed a tear when he walked out of prison after fourteen years.

Judge Kumar eases over without his robe and we thank him profusely. He could have waited a month, or six, or a couple of years, and he could have ruled against Quincy and sent us into the appellate orbit where nothing is certain and time means little. It is unlikely he’ll have another chance to free an innocent man after two decades in prison, so he is savoring the moment. Quincy gets to his feet for a hug. And once the hugging begins it is contagious.

This is our tenth exoneration, second in the past year, and each time I look at the cameras and reporters I struggle with what to say. Quincy goes first and talks about being grateful and so on. He says he has no plans, hasn’t had time to make any, and just wants some ribs and a beer. I decide to take the high road and not blame those at fault. I thank Judge Kumar for his courage in doing what was right and just. I’ve learned that the more questions you take the more chances you have to screw up, so after ten minutes I thank them and we leave.

Frankie has pulled his pickup to the curb on a side street. I tell Vicki and Mazy that we’ll meet in Savannah in a few hours, then get in the front passenger seat. Quincy crawls in the rear seat and asks, “What the hell is this?”

“Called a club cab,” Frankie says, easing away.

“It’s all the rage, for white boys anyway,” I say.

“I know dudes driving these,” Frankie says defensively.

“Just drive, man,” Quincy says, soaking up the freedom.

“You want to run by Garvin and get your things?” I ask.

They both laugh. “I might need a new lawyer, Post,” Quincy says.

“Go ahead. He can’t work any cheaper than me.”

Quincy leans forward on the console. “Say, Post, we ain’t talked about this yet, but how much do I get from the State, you know, for the exoneration part of this?”

“Fifty thousand a year for each year served. Over a million bucks.”

“When do I get it?”

“It’ll take a few months.”

“But it’s guaranteed, right?”

“Practically.”

“How much is your cut?”

“Zero.”

“Come on.”

Frankie says, “No, it’s true. Georgia paid me a bunch of money and Post wouldn’t take any of it.”

It dawns on me that I’m in the presence of two black millionaires, though their fortunes were earned in ways that defy description.

Quincy leans back, exhales, laughs, says, “I can’t believe this. Woke up this morning and had no idea, figured they’d haul me back to prison. Where we going, Post?”

“We’re getting out of Florida before someone changes his mind. Don’t ask who. I don’t know who or where or how or why, but let’s go hide in Savannah for a few days.”

“You mean, somebody might be looking for me?”

“I don’t think so, but let’s play it safe.”

“What about Marvis?”

“I told him to meet us in Savannah. We’re eating ribs tonight and I know just the place.”

“I want some ribs, a beer, and a woman.”

“Well, I can handle the first two,” I say. Frankie cuts his eyes at me as if he might have some ideas about the third.

After half an hour of freedom, Quincy wants to stop at a burger place along the busy highway. We go in and I pay for sodas and fries. He picks a table near the front window where he tries to explain what it’s like to sit and eat like a normal person. Free to enter and leave. Free to order anything on the menu. Free to walk to the restroom without asking for permission and not worrying about bad things in there. The poor guy’s emotions are a mess and he cries easily.