The Guardians, page 11
Otis warns Frankie to leave them alone.
He promises to do so. For now.
17
There are twenty-three lawyers working in Seabrook these days and we have a thin file on each of them. About half were in town when Russo was murdered. The senior barrister is a ninety-one-year-old gentleman who still drives himself to the office every day. Two rookies showed up last year and hung out a shingle. All are white, six are female. The most prosperous appear to be a couple of brothers who’ve spent twenty years doing bankruptcies. Most of the local bar seems to be barely hanging on, same as in most small towns.
Glenn Colacurci once served in the Florida Senate. His district covered Ruiz County and two others, and he was in his third term at the time of the murder. Keith Russo was a distant relative. Both came from the same Italian neighborhood in Tampa. In his younger years Colacurci ran the biggest law firm in town and hired Keith out of law school. When he showed up in Seabrook he brought a wife with him, but Colacurci had no position for her. Keith didn’t last long, and a year later the Russo firm was founded in a two-room walk-up above a bakery on Main Street.
I select Colacurci because his file is slightly thicker, and because he’ll probably know more about Keith. Of all the active lawyers in town, he’ll have a better recollection of history. On the phone he says he can spare half an hour.
Driving through Seabrook for the first time, I feel as though I know the place. There are not that many points of interest: the office building once owned by Keith and Diana and the place where the crime occurred; the street behind it where Carrie Holland claimed to have seen a black man making his escape; the courthouse. I park across from it on Main Street and sit and watch the languid foot traffic. I wonder how many of these people remember the murder. How many knew Keith Russo? Quincy Miller? Do they know the town got it wrong and sent an innocent man to prison? Of course not.
When it’s time, I join them on the sidewalk and go half a block to the office. In thick black letters of peeling paint, the sign on the windows says: COLACURCI LAW FIRM. An old bell jingles on the door as I step inside. An ancient tabby cat slides off a sofa and disturbs a layer of dust. To my right is a rolltop desk with a manual Underwood typewriter, as if just waiting for a gray-haired secretary to return and resume pecking away. The smell is of old leather and stale tobacco, not altogether unpleasant but begging for a good cleaning.
Remarkably, though, in the midst of an earlier century, a stunning young Asian woman in a short skirt appears with a smile and says, “Good morning. May I help you?”
I return the smile and say, “Yes, I’m Cullen Post. I talked to Mr. Colacurci yesterday and we agreed to meet this morning.”
She manages to grin and frown at the same time as she steps to a slightly more modern desk. Quietly, she says, “He didn’t tell me. Sorry. My name is Bea.”
“Is he here?” I ask.
“Sure. I’ll get him. He’s not that busy.” She smiles again and glides away. A moment later she waves me back and I enter the big office where Glenn has held court for decades. He is standing by his desk as if pleased to have a visitor, and we go through quick introductions. He motions to a leather sofa and says to Bea, “Fetch us some coffee, please.” He hobbles on a cane to a chair that would hold two people. He’s almost eighty and certainly looks it, with extra weight and white beard and a mass of unkempt white hair in bad need of a trimming. At the same time, he looks sort of dapper with a pink bow tie and red suspenders.
“Are you a priest or something?” he asks, staring at my collar.
“Yes. Episcopal.” I give him the quick version of Guardian Ministries. As I talk he rests his fuzzy chin on the grip of his cane and absorbs every word with piercing green, though apparently bloodshot, eyes. Bea brings the coffee and I take a sip. Lukewarm, probably instant.
When she leaves and closes the door, he asks, “What exactly is a priest doing sticking his nose into an old case like Quincy Miller?”
“Great question. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think he is innocent.”
This amuses him. “Interesting,” he mumbles. “I’ve never had a problem with Miller’s conviction. There was an eyewitness, as I remember.”
“There were no witnesses. A young woman named Carrie Holland testified she saw a black man running away from the scene carrying what was implied to have been a shotgun. She lied. She was a druggie who cut a deal with the authorities to avoid jail. She has now admitted she lied. And she wasn’t the only liar at trial.”
He takes his fingers and sweeps back his long hair. It’s oily and appears to be unwashed. “Interesting.”
“Were you close to Keith?”
A grunt in frustration and half a smile. “What do you want from me?”
“Just background. Did you watch the trial?”
“Naw. Wanted to, but they moved it next door to Butler County. I was in the senate back then and pretty busy. Had seven lawyers working around here, biggest firm in these parts, and I couldn’t exactly spend my time sitting in a courtroom watching other lawyers.”
“Keith was a relative, right?”
“Sort of. Quite distant. I knew his people down in Tampa. He pestered me for a job and I gave him one, but he never fit. He wanted me to hire his wife too, but I didn’t want to. He hung around here for a year or so, then struck out on his own. I didn’t like that. Italians place a premium on loyalty.”
“Was he a good lawyer?”
“Why is that important now?”
“Just curious. Quincy says that Keith did a terrible job handling his divorce, and the court file tends to support this. The prosecutor played up their conflict to prove motive, which is kind of a stretch. I mean, a client is so disgruntled he blows off his lawyer’s face?”
“Never happened to me,” he says and roars with laughter. I gamely laugh along. “But I’ve had my share of crazy clients. Had a guy show up one time with a gun, years ago. Pissed off over a divorce. At least he said he had a gun. Every lawyer in the building had a weapon and it could’ve been ugly, but a cute little secretary calmed him down. I’ve always believed in cute secretaries.”
Old lawyers would rather tell war stories than eat lunch, and I would like nothing better than to get him cranked up. I say, “You had a big firm back then.”
“Big for this part of the state. Seven, eight, sometimes ten lawyers, a dozen secretaries, offices upstairs, clients lined up out the front door. It was pretty crazy back in those days, but I got tired of all the drama. I spent half my time refereeing my employees. You ever practiced?”
“I’m practicing now, just a different specialty. Years ago I worked as a public defender but burned out. I found God and he led me to the seminary. I became a minister and through an outreach program met an innocent man in prison. That changed my life.”
“You get him out?”
“I did. Then seven more. I’m working on six cases now, including Quincy’s.”
“I read somewhere that maybe ten percent of all people locked up are innocent. You believe that?”
“Ten percent might be on the high side, but there are thousands of innocent people in prison.”
“I’m not sure I believe that.”
“Most white folks don’t, but go to the black community and you’ll find plenty of believers.”
In his eighteen years in the state senate, Colacurci voted consistently on the side of law and order. Pro death penalty, pro gun rights, a real drug warrior and big spender for whatever the state police and prosecutors wanted.
He says, “I never had the stomach for criminal law. Can’t make any money there.”
“But Keith made money on the criminal side, didn’t he?”
He glares at me with a frown, as if I’ve stepped out of bounds. Eventually he says, “Keith’s been dead for over twenty years. Why are you so interested in his law practice?”
“Because my client didn’t kill him. Someone else did, someone with a different motive. We know Keith and Diana were representing drug dealers in the late eighties, had some clients in the Tampa area. Those guys make good suspects.”
“Maybe, but I doubt if they’ll do much talking after all these years.”
“Were you close to Sheriff Pfitzner?”
He glares at me again. In a not so subtle way, I’ve just linked Pfitzner to the drug dealers, and Colacurci knows where I’m fishing. He takes a deep breath, exhales loudly, says, “Bradley and I were never close. He ran his show, I ran mine. We were both after the same votes but we dodged each other. I didn’t mess with the criminal side so our paths seldom crossed.”
“Where is he now?” I ask.
“Dead, I presume. He left here years back.”
He’s not dead but living a good life in the Florida Keys. He retired after thirty-two years as sheriff and moved away. His three-bedroom condo in Marathon is assessed at $1.6 million. Not a bad retirement for a public servant who never earned more than $60,000 a year.
“You’re thinking Pfitzner was somehow involved with Keith?” he asks.
“Oh no. Didn’t mean to imply that.”
Oh yes. But Colacurci is not taking the bait. He narrows his eyes and says, “This eyewitness, she says Pfitzner convinced her to lie on the stand?”
If and when Carrie Holland recants her false testimony, it will be included in a court filing for everyone to see. However, I’m not ready to reveal anything to this guy. I say, “Look, Mr. Colacurci, this is all confidential, right?”
“Of course, of course,” he readily agrees. He was a stranger until about fifteen minutes ago and he’ll probably be on the phone before I get to my vehicle.
“She didn’t name Pfitzner, just said it was the cops and prosecutor. I have no reason to suspect Pfitzner of anything.”
“That’s good. This murder was solved twenty years ago. You’re spinning your wheels, Mr. Post.”
“Maybe. How well did you know Diana Russo?”
He rolls his eyes as if she is the last subject he wants to discuss. “Not well at all. I kept my distance from the beginning. She wanted a job but back then we didn’t hire girls. She took it as an insult and never liked me. She soured Keith on me and we never got along. I was relieved when he left, though I wasn’t finished with him. He became a real pain in the ass.”
“In what way?”
He gazes at the ceiling as if debating whether or not to tell me a story. Being an old lawyer, he can’t help himself. “Well, this is what happened,” he begins as he shifts weight and settles in for the narrative. “Back in the day, I had all the tort business sewed up in Ruiz County. All the good car wrecks, bad products, med-mal, bad faith, everything. If a person got injured, they showed up here, or sometimes I went to see them in the hospital. Keith wanted some of the action because it’s no secret that injuries are the only way to make money out there on the streets. Big-firm guys in Tampa do okay, but nothing like big tort lawyers. When Keith left my office he stole a case, took it with him, and we had one helluva fight. He was broke and needed the cash but the case belonged to my firm. I threatened to sue him and we fought for two years. He eventually agreed to give me half the fee, but there was bad blood. Diana was in the middle of it too.”
Law firms blow up every week and it’s always over money.
“Did you and Keith ever reconcile?”
“Sort of, I guess, but it took years. It’s a small town and the lawyers generally get along. We had lunch the week before he was murdered and had a laugh or two. Keith was a good boy who worked hard. Maybe a bit too ambitious. I never warmed up to her, though. But you had to feel sorry for her. Poor girl found her husband with his face blown off. Handsome guy too. She took it hard, never recovered, sold the building and eventually left town.”
“No contact since then?”
“None whatsoever.” He glances at his watch as if he’s facing another hectic day and the hint is clear. We wind down the conversation, and after thirty minutes I thank him and leave.
18
Bradley Pfitzner ruled the county for thirty-two years before retiring. During his career he avoided scandal and ran a tight operation. Every four years he was either unopposed or faced light opposition. He was succeeded by a deputy who served seven years before bad health forced him out.
The current sheriff is Wink Castle, and his office is in a modern metal building that houses all local law enforcement—sheriff, city police, and jail. A dozen brightly painted patrol cars are parked in front of the building at the edge of town. The lobby is busy with cops and clerks and sad relatives checking on inmates.
I’m led to Castle’s office and he greets me with a smile and firm handshake. He’s about forty and has the easy manner of a rural politician. He did not live in the county at the time of the Russo murder, so hopefully he carries no baggage from those days.
After a few minutes of weather talk, he says, “Quincy Miller, huh? I looked through the file last night to get up to speed. Are you a priest or something?”
“A lawyer and a minister,” I say, and spend a moment talking about Guardian. “I take old cases that involve the innocent.”
“Good luck with this one.”
I smile and say, “They’re all difficult, Sheriff.”
“Got it. So how do you plan to prove that your client did not kill Keith Russo?”
“Well, as always, I go back to the scene and start digging. I know that most of the State’s witnesses lied at trial. The evidence is shaky at best.”
“Zeke Huffey?”
“Typical jailhouse snitch. I found him in prison in Arkansas and I expect him to recant. He’s made a career out of lying and recanting, not unusual for those guys. Carrie Holland has already told me the truth—she lied under pressure from Pfitzner and Burkhead, the prosecutor. They gave her a good deal on a pending drug charge. After the trial, Pfitzner gave her a thousand bucks and ran her out of town. She hasn’t been back. June Walker, Quincy’s ex-wife, lives in Tallahassee but so far has refused to cooperate. She testified against Quincy and lied because she was angry over their divorce. Lots of lies, Sheriff.”
This is all new to him and he absorbs it with interest. Then he shakes his head and says, “Still a long way to go. There’s no murder weapon.”
“Right. Quincy never owned a shotgun. The key, obviously, is the blood-spattered flashlight that mysteriously disappeared not long after the murder.”
“What happened to it?” he asks. He’s the sheriff. I should be asking him.
“You tell me. The official version, according to Pfitzner, is that it was destroyed in a fire where they kept evidence.”
“You doubt that?”
“I doubt everything, Sheriff. The expert for the State, a Mr. Norwood, never saw the flashlight. His testimony was pretty outrageous.” I reach into my briefcase, pull out some papers, and place them on his desk. “This is our summary of the evidence. In there you’ll see a report from a Dr. Kyle Benderschmidt, a renowned criminologist, that raises serious doubts about Norwood’s testimony. Have you looked at the photographs of the flashlight?”
“Yes.”
“Dr. Benderschmidt believes that the specks, or flecks, on the lens are probably not even human blood. And the flashlight was not found at the scene. We’re not sure where it came from and Quincy swears he had never seen it.”
He takes the report and takes his time flipping through it. When he gets bored he tosses it onto his desk and says, “I’ll spend some time with it tonight. What, exactly, do you want me to do here?”
“Help me. I’ll file a petition for post-conviction relief based on new evidence. It will have reports from our experts and statements from the witnesses who lied. I need for you to reopen the investigation into the murder. It will be a tremendous help if the court knows that the locals believe the wrong man was convicted.”
“Come on, Mr. Post. This case was closed over twenty years ago, long before I came to town.”
“They’re all old cases, Sheriff, old and cold. That’s the nature of our work. Most of the actors are gone—Pfitzner, Burkhead, even the judge is dead. You can look at the case with a fresh perspective and help get an innocent man out of prison.”
He’s shaking his head. “I don’t think so. I can’t see getting involved in this. Hell, I never thought about the case until you called yesterday.”
“All the more reason to get involved. You can’t be blamed for anything that went wrong twenty years ago. You’ll be seen as the good guy trying to do the right thing.”
“Do you have to find the real killer to get Miller out?”
“No. I have to prove him innocent, that’s all. In about half of our cases we manage to nail the real criminal, but not always.”
He keeps shaking his head. The smiles are gone. “I can’t see it, Mr. Post. I mean, you expect me to pull one of my overworked detectives off his active cases and start digging through a twenty-year-old murder that folks around here have forgotten about. Come on, man.”
“I’ll do the heavy lifting, Sheriff. That’s my job.”
“So what’s my job?”
“Cooperate. Don’t get in the way.”
He leans back in his chair and locks his hands behind his head. He stares at the ceiling as minutes pass. Finally, he asks, “In your cases, what do the locals normally do?”
“Cover up. Stonewall. Hide evidence. Fight me like hell. Contest everything I file in court. You see, Sheriff, in these cases the stakes are too high and the mistakes are too egregious for anyone to admit they were wrong. Innocent men and women serve decades while the real killers roam free, and often kill again. These are enormous injustices, and I’ve yet to find a cop or a prosecutor with the spine to admit they blew it. This case is a bit different because those responsible for Quincy’s wrongful conviction are gone. You can be the hero.”
