The Guardians, page 31
He says, “Every lawsuit we file has to be screened by a committee made up of the managing partners of the six offices. We see a lot of crap and we also see a lot of good cases that are either unwinnable or too expensive. For us to take a case there has to be a good chance of recovery of at least ten million bucks. That simple. If we don’t see the potential for ten million, then we pass. Quincy, he’s looking at more than that. You have the complicity of the State of Florida, with no caps on damages. You have four million already frozen in the sheriff’s bank accounts, with more parked offshore. And you have the cartel.”
“The cartel?” I ask.
Mr. All-Whites returns with a silver tray and hands down our drinks. Beer for me. White wine for Mazy. And white wine for Vicki as well, which is probably the second time she has not said no since I’ve known her.
Bill says, “It’s not a new angle, but it’s something we haven’t tried before. We’ve associated a firm out of Mexico City that stalks the assets of narco-traffickers. It’s dicey work, as you might guess, but they’ve had some success in attaching bank accounts and freezing property. The Saltillo Cartel has some new faces, primarily because the old ones got blown away, but some of the principals are still known. Our plans are to get a big judgment here and enforce it anywhere we can find the assets.”
“Seems like suing a cartel would be somewhat dangerous,” I say.
Cordell laughs and says, “Probably not as bad as suing tobacco companies, gun makers, or big pharma. Not to mention crooked doctors and their insurance companies.”
Mazy says, “Are you saying that Quincy Miller will get at least ten million dollars?” She asks this slowly, as if in disbelief.
Cannon laughs and says, “No, we never make guarantees. Too many things can go wrong. It’s litigation and so it’s always a roll of the dice. The State will want to settle but Pfitzner will not. He’ll go down swinging and trying like hell to protect his money. He has good lawyers, but he’ll be fighting from inside of a prison. I’m saying that Quincy’s case has that much potential, minus, of course, the matter of our fees.”
“Hear, hear,” Cordell says as he drains his bottle.
“How long will it take?” Vicki asks.
Bill and Cordell look at each other and shrug. Bill says, “Two, maybe three years. Nash Cooley’s firm knows how to litigate so it will be a fair fistfight.”
I watch Susan Ashley as she follows this closely. Like Guardian, her nonprofit cannot split attorneys’ fees with real law firms, but she told me in confidence that Bill Cannon promised to donate 10 percent of the legal fees to the Central Florida Innocence Project. She, in turn, promised me half of whatever they get. For a second my mind goes crazy as our Mexican lawyers garnish Caribbean bank accounts filled with huge sums of money that gets whacked as it trickles down, but at the very end there is little Guardian Ministries waiting with its hand out for a few thousand bucks.
There is a direct correlation between the amount of money we raise and the number of innocent people we exonerate. If we were to catch a windfall, we would probably restructure and add personnel. Maybe I can buy a new set of tires, or better yet, upgrade to a nicer used vehicle.
The alcohol helps and we are able to relax and forget about our poverty as drinks are freshened and dinner preparations are made. Litigators on booze can spin fascinating yarns, and Cordell entertains us with one about an ex-CIA spy he hired and planted deep inside a medical malpractice insurance company. The guy was responsible for three exorbitant verdicts and retired without getting caught.
Cannon tells one about getting his first million-dollar verdict at the age of twenty-eight, still a record in Florida.
Back to Cordell, who’s reminded of his first airplane crash.
It’s a relief when Mr. All-Whites informs us dinner is served. We move to one of the dining rooms inside the mansion where the temperature is much cooler.
48
The Honorable Ansh Kumar takes the bench with another smile and says good morning. We’re all in our proper places, eager for the day to begin and anxious about what might happen next. He looks down at Bill Cannon and says, “After we adjourned yesterday, I contacted the state crime lab in Tallahassee and spoke with the director. He said the analyst, a Mr. Tasca, would be here at ten a.m. Mr. Cannon, do you have another witness?”
Bill stands and says, “Maybe, Your Honor. Agnes Nolton is a special agent with the FBI office here in Orlando and she is in charge of the investigation into the brutal attack on Quincy Miller almost five months ago. She is prepared to testify about that investigation and its relevance to this case.”
I had an early breakfast with Agnes and she is willing to help in any way. However, we are doubtful Judge Kumar will see the need for her testimony, restricted as it would be.
He knows this is coming because I mentioned it during a recess yesterday. He thinks about it for a long moment. Carmen Hidalgo rises slowly and says, “Your Honor, may it please the court, I’m having trouble understanding why this testimony can help us here. The FBI had nothing to do with the investigation into the murder of Keith Russo, nor the prosecution of Quincy Miller. Seems like a waste of time to me.”
“I tend to agree. I’ve read the indictments, the lawsuit, the press coverage, so I know something about the conspiracy to murder Mr. Miller. Thank you, Agent Nolton, for your willingness to testify, but you will not be needed.”
I glance back at Agnes and she is smiling.
His Honor taps the gavel and calls for a recess until 10:00.
* * *
—
MR. TASCA HAS been studying blood for the State of Florida for thirty-one years. Both sides stipulate to his credentials. Carmen does so because he is the State’s expert. We do so because we want his testimony. Carmen refuses to question him on direct examination. She says this is our petition, not hers. No problem, says Bill Cannon, as he jumps into the testimony.
It’s over in a matter of minutes. Bill asks, “Mr. Tasca, you have tested the blood taken from the shirt and you have analyzed the blood sample from the flashlight lens, correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“And have you read the report prepared by Dr. Kyle Benderschmidt?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Do you know Dr. Benderschmidt?”
“I do. He’s quite well known in our field.”
“Do you agree with his conclusion that the blood on the shirt came from a human and the blood on the flashlight lens came from an animal?”
“Yes, there’s no doubt about it.”
Cannon then does something that I do not recall seeing before in a courtroom. He starts laughing. Laughing at the absurdity of eliciting further testimony. Laughing at the paucity of the evidence against our client. Laughing at the State of Florida and its pathetic efforts to uphold a bad conviction. He waves his arms and asks, “What are we doing here, Judge? The only physical evidence linking our client to the crime scene is that flashlight. Now we know it wasn’t there. It was never owned by our client. It wasn’t recovered from the crime scene.”
“Any more witnesses, Mr. Cannon?”
Still amused, Bill shakes his head and walks from the podium.
The Judge asks, “Ms. Hidalgo, any witnesses?”
She waves him off and is ready to sprint to the nearest door.
“Closing remarks from the attorneys?”
Bill stops at our table and says, “No, Your Honor, we believe enough has been said and we urge the court to rule quickly. Quincy Miller has been released by his doctors and is scheduled to be returned to prison tomorrow. That is a travesty. He has no business in prison, now or twenty years ago. He was wrongfully convicted by the State of Florida and he should be set free. Justice delayed is justice denied.”
How many times have I heard that? Waiting is one of the hazards in this business. I’ve seen a dozen courts sit on cases involving innocent men as if time doesn’t matter, and I’ve wished a hundred times that some pompous judge could be forced to spend a weekend in jail. Just three nights, and it would do wonders for his work ethic.
“We’ll adjourn until one p.m.,” His Honor says with a smile.
* * *
—
CANNON HOPS INTO a limousine and races away to the airport where his private jet is waiting to whisk him to a settlement conference in Houston, where he and his gang will carve up a drug company they caught fudging its R&D. He’s almost giddy in anticipation.
The rest of our team huddles in a café somewhere in the depths of the judicial building. Luther Hodges joins us for the first round of coffee. A large clock on one wall gives the time as 10:20 and it appears as though the second hand has stopped. A reporter butts in and asks if Quincy will answer some questions. I say no, then step into the hallway and chat with her.
During the second round, Mazy asks, “So what can go wrong?”
Lots of things. We are convinced Judge Kumar is about to vacate the conviction and sentence. There is no other reason for him to reconvene court at 1:00 p.m. If he planned to rule against Quincy, he would simply wait a few days and mail it in. The hearing clearly went our way. The proof is on our side. The judge is friendly, or has been so far. The State has all but given up. I suspect that Kumar wants some of the glory.
However, he could remand Quincy back to prison for processing. Or send the case back to Ruiz County and order Quincy held there until the locals screw it up again. He could order Quincy back to jail in Orlando pending the appeal of his order by the State. I do not anticipate walking him out the front door as the cameras roll.
The clock barely moves and I try to avoid looking at it. We nibble on sandwiches at noon just to pass the time. At 12:45 we return to the courtroom and wait some more.
At 1:15 Judge Kumar assumes the bench and calls for order. He nods at the court reporter and asks, “Anything from counsel?”
Susan Ashley shakes her head no for our side as Carmen does the same.
He begins reading: “We are here on a petition for post-conviction relief filed under Rule 3.850 by the defendant, Quincy Miller, asking this court to vacate his conviction for murder many years ago in the 22nd Judicial District. Florida law is clear that relief can only be granted if new evidence is shown to the court, evidence that could not have been obtained by due diligence in the original proceedings. And it is not sufficient to make an allegation that there is new evidence, but it must also be proven that the new evidence would have altered the outcome. Examples of new evidence can be recantations of witnesses, discovery of exculpatory evidence, or the finding of new witnesses who were unknown at the time of the trial.
“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.
Back in the truck, we join the crush on Interstate 95 and slog our way up the East Coast. We allow Quincy to select the music and he likes early Motown. Fine with me. He’s fascinated with Frankie’s life and wants to know how he survived the first few months out of prison. Frankie warns him about the money and all the new friends he is likely to attract. Then Quincy dozes off and there is nothing but music. We navigate around Jacksonville and are within twenty miles of the Georgia line when Frankie mumbles, “Dammit.”
I turn around and see blue lights. My heart sinks as Quincy wakes up and sees the lights. “Were you speeding?” I ask.
“I guess so. Wasn’t paying much attention.”
A second car with lights joins the first but, oddly, the troopers remain in their cars. This cannot be good. I reach into my briefcase, remove a collar, and put it on.
“Oh, so you’re a preacher now,” Quincy says. “Better start praying.”
Frankie asks, “Got another one of those?”
“Sure.” I hand him a collar, and since he’s never worn one before I help get it adjusted properly around his neck.
Finally, the cop in the first car gets out and approaches on the driver’s side. He’s black, with aviator shades, Smokey’s hat, the works. Fit and trim and unsmiling, a real hard-ass. Frankie lowers his window and the cop stares at him, sort of startled.
“Why are you driving this?” he asks.
Frankie shrugs, says nothing.
“I was expecting some Georgia cracker. Now I got a black reverend.” He looks across at me, takes in my collar. “And a white one too.”
